By Michael Owen
Last time, we determined I had a problem with blood in my urine. So I went to my GP, who sent me to a urologist, who arranged for an abdominal CAT scan, which indicated there was a problem, which I could have told him.
Pissing blood = problem.
The next step would be a visual examination of the inside of my bladder, a view that can be accessed via only one path, of course — right up the ol’ Urethra Franklin Highway.
That involves snaking a long, thin instrument up into the bladder. The instrument has a little light and camera and allows the urologist an up-close look at what’s going on in another of those places where the sun doesn’t shine.
“No, it’s not called a weinerscope,” the doctor said.
I was prepped for this procedure by a nurse, a black woman. Now, at the risk of fomenting a racial stereotype, this concerned me at first. But when she didn’t take one look and exclaim, “It’s twue! It’s twue!” I relaxed. (See Saddles, Blazing.)
So she took a long tube and shot something like lidocaine all up in there to deaden the pain. There’s a good side and a bad side to that. Yes, it mostly killed the pain, which was great. But afterward? You know what your mouth feels like when you leave the dentist’s office? Yeah. A total power outage in greater metropolitan Johnsonville.
Anyway, the urologist didn’t like what he saw, so he scheduled me for biopsy surgery during which he would snip a few tissue samples from the interior bladder wall for pathological evaluation.
Here the exact number of intrusions upon my anatomy grows foggy. I have no idea exactly what they did while I was under general anesthesia, and I’m just fine with that. I say I’m fine with that because the instrument they use to gain the access they need is apparently pretty scary.
They use the same Urethra Franklin Highway of course, but it apparently gets four-laned for this procedure.
The instrument has to be of sufficient diameter to allow the surgeon room to feed tiny surgical instruments up there to snip what they need and pull it out, then go back in and cauterize the wounds.
I had a mental image of him poking one of those plastic butane wands up in there and clicking away.
(Tomorrow: A real-life pissing match)