Apologies

Dear friends, I didn't abandon you. I merely had a two-week period wherein finding time to write was very difficult. Now, it's a Wednesday evening, I have a few hours to myself, and it's so stinking hot I want to crawl under a rock like an insect, not write. Sure, I could pack up the laptop and head out to an air-conditioned café, of which there are two within metres of my doorstep. But that would require putting on pants. So, rather than blinding you with my brilliance, I shall blind you with my dear, dear friend Ted Finchley's brilliance. Here's the second-to-last instalment of Dick's Surgery! Check out the last post here if you need to catch up.

DICK’S SURGERY 

Instalment Five, a New Day and More Stress

Much of the next day was spent training my bladder. The approach was simple:  Nurse Laura pinches off the tube from the catheter so the bladder can’t drain; this reminds the bladder what it’s like not to void freely. Open, then pinch off the tube a couple of times more and the bladder should be ready to handle urinating on its own. Laura then reminded me of the 200 mL peeing rule and its deadline. And the pain in my crotch and the pull on little Dick increased. Could things get any worse? 

Mrs. Dick headed off to carry out her daily errands; I was left alone; and the shift changed. I quickly found out that things could get worse.

I’m Gillian. “I’ll be giving you your first fragmin* injection.”

“Where does it go?” I asked.

“Below your belly button.”  To illustrate, she innocently raised her tunic to expose a very pleasant tanned plumpness, crowned by a shiny trinket dangling from her navel. “Just clutch a handful, like so, and stick it in. By the way, before you leave, as part of the sign-out procedure, you’ll sign that you’ve administered the injection yourself.” 

“Not gonna happen, nurse Gillian,” I boasted. Without stopping to argue, that merciless caregiver grabbed my belly with one hand and jabbed the needle in with the other. No sooner in, than it was out; not so bad after all. “Next time, you’ll do it!” 

With false bravado, I muttered under my breath:  “In your dreams, nurse Gillian.” 

What Dick saw

What Dick thought he saw

Great, now I have to try to get some sleep with the thought of that needle hanging over my mid-section. As well, the increased pressure on me to poop is tying my anus into knots, and a fate worse than death awaits me if I can’t pee 200 mL in three hours. Sleep could have been a relief, but Nurse Fanny had other plans for me.

Shift change.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do,” said Fanny. “First I attach this syringe to the secondary arm of your catheter. Then I use the syringe to deflate the balloon that’s inside your bladder.” 

“Inside my ... bladder,” I repeated.

“Then, I pull the tube out.” 

“O-h-h, that doesn’t sound good,” I thought.

“Then, you’ll be free to pee. Are you ready?”

 “No,” I thought. “Yes,” I said.

I put aside all my horrid imaginings and, with one hand tenderly embracing little Dick and the other grasping one of the bed bars, I nodded. Fanny pulled steadily and quickly. Blip, blip, blip I felt, and out it came. With trepidation I looked down:  everything was intact, no blood, no stinging, no more fear; only relief.

“200 mL before morning or I re-insert.” 

“Until morning,” I thought, “not a few hours.”  Finally, the break I needed.

“And I expect a full bowel movement,” I heard as Fanny left the room.

“Oh great, I’d forgotten about the poop.” 

More to come! What will happen to poor Mr. Dick in the stunning conclusion to this epic tale of heartache, woe, and human triumph? Will it even be, in the end, a tale of human triumph?!