We had a little cancer scare at our house this summer. Because it turned out to be benign (my new favorite word) I can look back at the absurdity of some of the events with some humor. Over the next few days, I’ll try to share the experience, which in hindsight got to be pretty funny at times. I hope to keep the posts small and easily digestible.
As the attractive young woman sat on a low stool between my bare, spread and supine legs, on the verge of delivering yet another catheterization, I felt compelled to say something.
“Nurse, I can remember back when that was a one-way street.”
She smiled sweetly and gently suggested that this probably wasn’t the smartest time to make a young lady laugh. She was right of course, for at least two reasons. You figure them out.
It all started in late July when I noticed blood in my urine. I did what you do when you’re pissing blood. I went to my doctor. And he did what doctors do when faced with troubles in what we’ll call greater metropolitan Johnsonville.
“I don’t think that’s the way to the bladder, Doc,” I said over my shoulder.
He didn’t smile sweetly. (Would you?) He was checking the prostate, of course, and said everything felt fine there. It didn’t feel fine to me, but the position I was in could hardly be described as a position from which to argue.
Since everything felt fine, he decided “we” needed to have a closer look. So he arranged for an abdominal CAT scan and an appointment with a urologist.
The urologist would promptly repeat the prostate check. Come on, Docs. Can’t y’all just compare notes?
(A side note here to the ladies: I learned years ago that men should not complain about any medical indignities to, or even in the presence of, women. We’re pikers and posers in that department. We should just shut up.)
But if I did that, this would end here and you’d miss all the fun.
Besides, as it turned out, the finger(s) up the butt were just a mild preview of what was to come.
(Tomorrow: “No, it’s not called a weinerscope.”)