G’day! Sitting for more than 10 minutes is sore. I can’t lie down and balance a laptop or even Ipad on my gut, as that’s sore. Consequently, I’m reduced to holding an Ipad in one hand and typing, one finger, with the other. This has resulted in an environment not conducive to writing, and so I haven’t. Today, I will type through the pain barrier for your reading pleasure.
This pic may illustrate why it hurts to sit. It just seems to squish on the missing parts…
Life goes on though. On balance, I think having the catheter in situ was not too bad. There was a constant nagging pain akin the latter stages of a UTI, but it was manageable. I am very happy for it to be removed, and anyone who has to have one for any period of time, you have my sincere sympathy. Obviously, keeping it clean was a challenge in our house hold. On more than one occasion was I made aware of a gentle tugging on the leg bag, and looked down to see the dog merrily licking away at the spout. In fact, it’s a wonder that I’m still alive, when you consider the cavalier attitude to infection control and adversarial techniques employed by gorgeous wifey, which I can only assume, was to hasten my demise, and spend the subsequent life insurance payout. A bit far, you say? Here’s my evidence.
I appear to have survived, and she was gracious enough to take me to the hospital for my cystogram and catheter removal. We arrive in super hospital and back to the angiography department for the cystogram. After negotiating the admin desk, we are ushered through to the waiting room. This was a segregated area with patients having different tests requested to sit in several areas. A bit like the sorting hat from Harry Potter.
“Mmmmm…….catheter bag….sore lower abdomen…….ANGIO!”
“Now let me see……waddling….obese…..moaning…..back pain…….MRI”
“I see………hopping…..swollen foot……history of accident……..XRAY”
So having been sorted I sit in the angiography waiting area, which happens to be adjacent to MRI. I have a choice of hard plastic seat, or, suggesting a modicum of enhanced comfort, a hard plastic padded double seat, reminiscent of an anorexic chaise lounge. I opt for the latter, gladly sinking down in the centimetre or so of luxurious padding. Wifey sits nearby. We wait.
More people drift in to share my waiting area. A lady needs an MRI. She is the waddling, obese, moaning person. She, believe it or not, waddled in moaning, accompanied by her daughter, who was simply mammoth. Another level in big. No words can describe the enormity of this colossus of a lady. She was as wide as she was high, and she must have been nearly six feet tall. A sudden moment of realisation occurred, as I understood the real purpose of my plastic chaise lounge, was to prevent the morbidly obese amongst us from becoming trapped in a chair with two arms. It was a bariatric seat. Ever the English gentleman, I was up like a shot to offer my seat to avoid her embarrassment, but not before the leviathan lady attempted to negotiate her voluminous cheeks between the arms. It didn’t end well. Luckily, her mother was called in at that time, and that provided just enough distraction in order for her to liberate her incarcerated arse, and switch seats with me.
Shortly afterwards, I myself was called, and left her to her extra grande and bag of jelly babies. The nurse was great. She introduced me to her colleagues, a doctor and a radiographer. They were planning on instilling my bladder with contrast and scanning me. Sounds fair enough. I lie on the bed. They fill my bladder. Bearing in mind that I have had the feeling of needing a piss constantly since the catheter was inserted, filling my bladder with even more was a bit uncomfortable. I did have a little laugh to myself as I remembered my Dad, bouncing about between healthcare providers when he had his urinary retention in entry one. So, absolutely desperate for a piss, but with no way of voiding, they tell me they are going to stand me up. Whoah! The bed does it. From lying to standing in 10 seconds. They take a few snaps of my nether regions. What’s a bit more radiation? I had the equivalent of 500-1000 chest x’rays last week. I conclude I am probably more suntanned on the inside than the outside these days. By the pressure in my bladder I decide that the chance of a leak must be minute. The nurse rushes in and drains it out. Oh my word. Bursting for a piss and not being able to go, and then some angel of mercy flicks a little roller switch on a IV line and cures it is blissful. Sweet relief. It must be up there with the rush of parachuting, iv drug abuse and when you’re wrapping Christmas presents and the scissors glide through the paper.
I’m done, and it’s off upstairs to see about getting the catheter out. Which you will have to wait for, as my own arse is now hurting.