28) The Mer-cock

Hello.  It’s been a week since “the thing” was removed.  A bittersweet week.  More bitter than sweet.  Let me inform you.  Monday morning, Wifey and I arrived in urology for a TOV.   This stands for a trial of void.  To me, there were certainly a few elements of sorcery in there.  Trial sounds sinister.  Void sounds unsavoury.    In my imaginative mind, Trial of Void depicts  medieval England, witches, chairs, significant water courses. and death by drowning or burning.  It took a little away from the potential relief of the removal of “the thing”.

I worked in Urology as a student nurse 20 years ago.  I did a fair stint there in my final year- two placements, a 20 week and a 12 week.  Enough to learn some of the basics.  The TOV in the UK as called a “TWOC”.  Trial with out Catheter, which also shares it’s name with ”taking without consent”, a more common policing term for stealing cars, thus enabling some puerile fun for student me.  The premise behind this event, the trial, is to remove “the thing” and then prove you can piss, not once but twice, before you are let loose in the big wide world, sans pissy handbag.   If you were to go home having not proved yourself via trial, you could potentially be about to join my dad in the exploding bladder car trip episode, and need “the thing” back in.  Waterworks could become waterwontworks.

Having visited the two young pseudo hipster gents on the admin desk, who run the department with an efficient and empathetic manner, seemingly at odds with their millennialist birth dates, we sit.   These fellows do a grand job.  They are polite, know what they are doing, they deal with emergent problems with pragmatism, maturity and compassion.  Highly commended by me, and at some point, I will write to the hospital to mention this.

Usually the waiting room is full.  Today it is empty.  Wifey and I have the place to ourselves.  Unfortunately, the absence of patients appears to be accompanied by an absence of staff also.  It’s around midday, they must be having lunch.  I am able to watch the TV, and, unusually, hear it, the room missing it’s usual inhabitants.  I find myself longing for the carnival that normally plays for us.  The interaction of the super old and the super new.  Octogenarians on Iphones.  If you ever wondered why Apple includes so many shite ring tones, then wonder no more.  Most of them are reserved for the aging or socially inept amongst us.  The usual hum of waiting room chatter broken by an electronic rendition of “Greensleeves” at a decibel level akin to a pneumatic drill, followed by an inane conversation that could be described as either too private to be discussed in public or so unimportant that it could actually be conducted via the postal service.  If you were that way inclined, I reckon one could discover so much about the waiting room associates, that I could telephone any of them and have at least a 20 minute conversation whilst purporting to be a family member with an upper respiratory infection.  Address and phone number acquired by loitering a little too close to the desk when they check in.  DOB from the nurse as they are called in.  Rest of the info from their inane gossip.  For example:

“Frank, how are you?  It’s your son in law Dave.”

“Dave…you sound different”

“I’ve got a terrible sore throat”

“Ahh I see, I’m doing ok” says Frank.

“That’s good, I’m just checking your train journey went OK, after I dropped you at the station”

“Yes, fine” says Frank.

“And you got back in time to watch the football?”

“Yes, it was good”

“And you fed Boris and Clive? I was reading about some Staffy pups earlier.”

Frank “oh yes, they enjoyed their tea”

“What do you want to do for your birthday next month?”

Frank “not sure yet…..”

“And the plumber’s still coming tomorrow?”

Frank “yes, 9am”

“Great, I had a chat to him, and I can sort out the payment if you give me your card details……He said he may need to move the caravan and boat a little bit to access the manhole, so if you just leave the keys in for him…….”

Frank “no worries, thanks Dave.”

Could happen!  Unlikely, but could.  Be careful what you share.  And a note to us nurses, be careful what we shout out and check in public.

Our waiting room loneliness is rectified by the arrival of another TWOCcer.  He is in the same position as me, having just had surgery for the same cancer.  A double trial- Australian Catheter Warrior.  Me versus him.  Wazz War.  Who will fail?  I get a head start, as I’m called in first.  Wifey and I go and see the nurse.  She’s great.  Seen it all before.  Asks me how I’m going, gets me on the bed, and off with the Stat-Lock, which is a device that is super glued to my leg and stops the catheter from being yanked upon and the children from learning new words.   A very good invention.  I’ve never seen one before.  It’s been on my thigh for 10 days and is still very much in place.  She uses some alcohol and teases it off, little by little, like a big sticking plaster.  Then she says she is going to give me a head start and injects a few syringes of saline into my bladder so I don’t have to drink as much before I piss.  This raises my anxiety levels slightly.  They just performed the same in imaging and it hurt.  I go with it, and end up with the feeling of being desperate for a leak.

A lady, younger than myself, is about to get her hands on my todger.  This raises my anxiety levels a little more.  My wife is watching.  Most men would now be having a slight panic that this activity could initiate an embarrassing moment.  It could raise the flag of fun.  The Shish of love.  The snake of desire.  Stiffy, boner, wood.   Whatever is the opposite of erotic, that’s what I’m thinking.  I catch wifeys eye, she smiles slightly.  It reminds me of the sideways glance of Susanna Hoffs from the Bangles in Manic Monday.   A wall poster I had when a teenager.

susanna_hoffs_earrings

It’s a sympathetic smile of course, but part of me finds it sensuous, salacious even.  The wrong part of me.  WTF is wrong with me?   I’m lying down with my post surgical shrivelled up cock out, air con blasting, making small smaller, essentially neutered, at least temporarily, and I’m worried about getting an erection whilst a nurse handles my cock, and my wife spectates.   Oh my.

The nurse deflates the balloon in “the thing”.  I have a marginal improvement in the constant irritating feeling in my bladder.  She tells me she is going to remove the catheter.  I would like to say that pre-operation she put her hand on my cock, but it takes no more than a couple of fingers for her to get a good grasp on the aforementioned organ.  I brace.  Nothing happens from both perspectives.  No groan, no bone.  I am momentarily elated.

Then it happens. The pink acorn erupts.  I lie there trying to disassociate myself from my knob, that’s spewing  like a miniature Singaporean Merlion.  Nursey deftly dodges the piss stream, I shriek at wifey to hand me a nappy, but it’s too late.  My Tradies are done for.  I have as much control as Charlie Sheen in a pharmacy.   Nursey hands me some big boy nappy pants and I eagerly hoik them up to cover up the sorry mess in my undercarriage.  She says that doesn’t count as a piss.

If I’m honest, life is not going too well at this point.

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3 thoughts on “28) The Mer-cock

  1. Rather appropriately, this blog triggered in me an episode of something akin to PBA.

    According to Wikipedia, the rather brilliantly named Pseudobulbar affect (PBA), or emotional incontinence, is “a type of emotional disturbance characterized by uncontrollable episodes of crying and/or laughing, or other emotional displays.

    In other words, I really didn’t want to laugh, but I couldn’t help pissing myself.

    You write too well, brother.

    And you’ve left us on a cliffhanger too.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I have absolutely no idea what to say but that doesn’t seem a reason not to say it. Thinking of you …. aided as always by your superb observations .. and hoping that you catch a break pretty soon

    Liked by 1 person

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