I have to be quick. The sands of time drift away from me. My surgery is tomorrow. There is still a lot to do. We have booked an apartment across the road from the hospital. I have to be there at 06.00am. It just sounds easier, for getting there, for visiting and for coming home afterwards. Wifey and kids would be on the motorway for three hours a day, fighting traffic and finding somewhere to park, in an unfamiliar area. So the four of them can all skip school have a day out in the city, while I lay on the slab and enjoy my emasculation, and maybe even embark on another psychedelic trip, depending on the anaesthetists choice of poison. Stuie can go on holiday to our friends place and hang out with their German Shepherd and have fun running around their acreage. All set and ready to go, apart from the list of things to do. Things I must do before I am not allowed to lift more than 5kg for 4-6 weeks. Replace the gas canister, mow the lawns, that sort of thing. However, having loaded the car with the canister, I find myself seated in a cafe, iPad on the table, once again lost in the blog, over sharing my private life with the world, in the name of therapy.
The education session. All men having a radical prostatectomy at Super Hospital, are invited to attend a session, led by a nurse practitioner, in which we are to learn our fate. I arrived, fresh from the skirmish with Mrs Mephistopheles, the German Devil Woman, who had just accused me of being someone she thought she knew, and then shouted “see you next Tuesday”, or at least called me one. I sit. A few lost souls join the party. We are ushered into a, not very welcoming TBH, dimly lit room with a projector. The group leader is fresh and happy, and clearly knows what she is talking about. The session, however, is delivered very clinically, which is clearly very appropriate, but if I did it we would piss about a bit more. Inject some humour into proceedings, bring people out of their shells, letting them open up and ask what they really want. And, I’m a bloke. Gender equality is fine, and I support it wholeheartedly, but sometimes, it just feels a bit easier to have someone deliver the session who actually has the parts in question. Gorgeous wifey was a midwife for 20 years, and to the best of my memory, during those 20 years, there were no male midwives helping ladies push out their babies. Why? I don’t know. Probably because a large proportion of the men of Northern England were of the opinion that “no bloke is looking at my missus fanny”, unless A) they were a doctor, or B) they were doing it in a pre-arranged meeting, in a car park in Rotherham, in the dead of night. That actual quote was uttered to me when I was a student nurse on my maternity placement, and to this day, I have never seen a baby born. My own were plopped out behind a curtain, as I, the loving hubby, stroked wifeys face, and kept her hair out of her sick bucket. Anyway, back to the recent past. It is just my humble opinion that if you have the parts, you must have a little more understanding of how they work. The feeling of a morning glory, in all it’s glory, not just a speculative prod in the back, on the half chance you may fancy a swift one before work. The difference between fully up and half mast, as it were.
Joke time. A man is perusing the white wine in the off license / bottle shop, unsure of what to choose. An attractive woman comes in, wearing short dress, and bends over to pick up a bottle from the bottom shelf. Choice made, he gets a Semillon. Sorry. At least it’s on topic.
Ladies, how do you feel? Wifey had a mammogram the other day, and she informs me that there’s a fair bit of packing going on. As in juggling your boobies to load them into the scanner. Apparently, it was pretty hands on. Now this may sound like the ideal job for some blokes, but it seems a bit alien to me, and surely the females amongst us would like this performed by a empathetic lady, not a heavy handed geezer having the time of his life.
There were five of us in the session. Of course, I was the youngest. Only one took his partner. He was the oldest, and would appear to have a long history of association with the urology department. An expert patient, if you like. He must have been in his late 70s I would guess. There were two fellas who were in their late 50s or early 60s and one bloke who was in his early 50s I would guess. The nurse went through everything, all the boxes were ticked, and the information delivered. It was an anticlimax if anything. Just a sentences or two on all the topics that I listed a couple of entries go. Sorry. One thing that I did learn was that, judging by some of the questions, the average person in the street in so blissfully unaware of what is about to happen to them, that they literally have no clue. No fucking idea. One fella, bless him, asked what the catheter was for. It makes you wonder why the doctors tell them sometimes. The expert patient, and his wife, were happy to share his experience with a physiotherapist in which apparently, he discovered his pelvic floor was so tight, it hurt her fingers. Crikey! In your twenties, it’s all about how big and hard your dick is, and how many towels you can hang on it. In your thirties and forties, about how virile you may be, then, by our fifties and sixties, all we have left is the potential to break a few digits following a bit of internal body building. Joy. I quickly made a note to myself to judge the quality of my pelvic floor by the size of the puddle around me, rather than pay $100 for a young ladies finger up my arse. The nurse, rather than go into detail of the rigorous penile rehabilitation process, issued us with the contact details of GPs who had a special interest in that field. Cock docs. Experts in welding willies, nailing knobs, and doctoring dicks. One eyed trouser snake charmers. Working mysterious magic transmuting torpid to torpedo. Apparently, they find it better to see you before, in all your former glory. Again, that ship has sailed. Out of time. I took some measurements yesterday for posterity, and am considering a video. Maybe I could show the cock doc that.
We made it to the apartment. I enjoyed a final meal of souvlaki from a spit. Wifey enjoying her off dry Rose, whilst me enjoying a nice cold water from an oversized Victorian era style poison bottle. Can’t drink the day before surgery. Potentially it could affect my clotting, hydration or anaesthetic. A couple of nights off will probably do me good. I lie, in a rented bed, drifting off to a fitful sleep, a tiny bit hesitant, with a fair slice of anxiety, before my morning of barbarism with the butcher of Brisbane.
I will update again, subject to my continued existence, as soon as I am able.
Hasta la vista, or is it adios?