Tuesday, November 1, 2011


The following takes place on the day of the Californian Presidential Primary.  Events occur in real time.
Tomorrow morning’s the date set for the op, a cockovisionogram with claws.  I’m looking forward to that, not.  Damn it, bloody kids and their bloody Lego.  How can something so brightly coloured blend into the carpet so well and why do I always manage to tread on it?
No eating or drinking after midnight so I had best stock up now.  I try to decide which would be the most appropriate pre-op drink.  I settle for a bottle of Pinot Noir but keep the Jack Daniels in the emergency standby position.  Damn it, somebody has broken the last big wine glass.  I get ready to shout at someone then remember that someone was me.
I wash down a handful of peanuts with a large JD and Coke.  We’ve run out of ice but I care not a jot.
I attempt to sleep, restlessly tossing and turning whilst protectively cupping my nether regions.  Damn it, why won’t sleep come to me?
Some inconsiderate arsehole has left his car running outside the bedroom window, with Barry Manilow blaring from the car stereo.  Another middle aged lothario dropping off the Widow Twankey from across the street no doubt.
Wake up from a dream where the cast of Monty Python perform my op with chainsaws whilst singing the ‘Lumberjack’ song.  Damn it, I’m never going to be able to watch Monty Python again.
On the way to the hospital now, traffic is light which is good as for some reason I’m eager to get there now.  Damn it, stuck behind a learner.  Seriously, at this time of the morning?  Send them back to the side roads where they belong.
Arrive at the hospital and it’s a pay and display car park.  Don’t we pay enough in taxes to avoid having to pay to park?  “Bloody NHS” gets uttered for the first time today.  I have a sneaking suspicion that it won’t be the last.
I’ve been sitting in the holding pen on the ward for over an hour now.  Damn it, the bloke sitting opposite me is eating chocolate and drinking an ice cold bottle of water.  I could cheerfully kill him for his booty.
Have finally been moved to the ward, I’m the youngest there by about 30 years.  The bloke in the bed next to me has his wife sitting with him and she is one of those loud complaining types.  I swear she just complained about the view.
A nurse turns up to take my blood pressure and the like.  I always worry that I’m going to fail these tests, so I hold my breath.  I don’t know why I think this will make a difference but I do it every time anyway.  My blood pressure is high, but on the basis that a camera crew are about to go on an expedition down my urethra, it’s hardly a surprise.
Despite being promised I would be the first person seen at 7.30, I am now the only person left on the ward as my fellow victims have already been prepped and taken.  Damn it, I would normally find being asked to take of my pants and put on some stockings quite a kinky request, unfortunately the person asking me is a sixty year old Asian bloke.
Great, I now look like a trussed up turkey wearing a gown that Mary Quant would find too short.  There is no possible way of sitting comfortably without giving the Crown Jewells a public airing. 
They are finally wheeling me into the operating theatre.  I meet the surgeon, who is one of those over-confident laughing types with an entourage bigger than any rappers, except his consist of student doctors and nurses.  He runs through what’s going to happen and then opens my gown and laughs.  Damn it, just damn it.
The first thing I hear as I start to come round is Maria McKee singing ‘Show me Heaven’ and I start to panic.  Am I in heavens waiting room, although considering the music maybe I’ve landed downstairs?  I open my eyes and with a huge sense of relief, realise I’m still in the hospital.  I have not shuffled off this mortal coil, at least not yet.
I’m wheeled back to the ward and told I can’t leave the hospital until I have passed water, a phrase so quaint even my gran found it old-fashioned.  I start drinking pints of water like my life depends on it, or maybe just my sanity.
I finally feel the urge to pee and gingerly shuffle to the toilet.  I stand there and wait and wait, and wait a bit more.  Damn it, come on, get on with it.  The ol’ chap has obviously gone on strike in protest of the treatment meted out to it today.  A bright red liquid eventually dribbles out, probably not enough for hospital purposes but I don’t care.  I want out and I want it now.  I go back and tell the nurse I’ve just turned their toilet into the Niagara Falls from hell and can I please go home now.
Doctor eventually arrives and gives me the preliminary results.  The results, that in my urge to get out of here, I had forgotten to worry about.  They found nothing wrong, so fingers (and legs) crossed, all is well.  After some slight exaggeration on my part, he agrees to let me go home.  I ring Mum and ask her to come and pick me up.  Apparently having a metal rod shoved into you can affect your ability to drive, go figure.
Mum arrives suspiciously quickly and after a brief interrogation she admits that she had been sitting in the car park waiting for the call.  I let it pass and allow myself to be led out of the hospital like a sick little boy being picked up from the school nurse.  I manage to convince her that I will be fine left on my own and she reluctantly drops me home and leaves.  The mother in law has the kids, so I just lie on the couch and let the silence wash over me.
Everyone is home now and either fussing over me, or ignoring me and I’m not sure which one is pissing me off the most.  Talking of which, I still haven’t been to the toilet so I escape them all and take myself to the loo.  Damn it, I still can’t go but it really feels like I need to, especially as I’ve drunk 4 pints of water and one can of lager.  I push until my eyes nearly pop out, yet nothing happens.  I’m not panicking yet.  I am, however, doing a lot of lying to myself to stave off that panic.
OK, now I’m panicking.
I am now seriously considering poking a hole in my belly button just to relieve the pressure.  I wonder how long it would take to cry out all the excess fluid in my body, but decide to try to pee whilst jumping up and down instead.  I realise it will make a hell of a mess if it works but am past caring right now.  Catch a sight of myself in the mirror doing a crazy piss pogo and begin to think that maybe I didn’t actually come round from the anaesthetic.  Maybe this is my version of hell?
I have now been in the bathroom for half an hour now and I’ve run out of ideas.  I’ve tried standing, sitting, pogoing, shaking my bladder, pressing my bladder, standing on my head (nope, I don’t know where that one came from either), doing the twist and staring and willing it out – nada, nowt, nothing.  Have also realised that despite being in here for over half an hour, nobody has sent a search party looking for me.  I guess that’s my fault for hiding in here so often, damn it.
Oh My God, the pain, the release.  I have somehow just passed a blood clot the size of a golf ball, I would be freaking out if I wasn’t so relieved.  The ‘Me Man, me make fire’ part of me takes over and I seriously consider taking a picture of it to boast about - and as I flush the toilet I instantly regret that I didn’t.
Normal service has been resumed, in fact I can’t stop going.  That may have something to do with all the beer I consumed to celebrate the end of a long day.  Feeling tired, time for an early night methinks.
Damn it, I’m going to be up peeing all night.


Alex said...

I'm glad your penis is okay. Glad, in an abstract bloke way of course. whilst I wish no ill will on your penis, I don't particularly ever want to hear about it again. If I could spell capiche I would end this comment with it. Capiche?


At least nobody lost their watch inside you this time.
BTW, I kinda read that hearing Jack Bauer's voice in my head. He would've cut open his own penis to get the clot out, just sayin.

Bolton Bulls said...

Loved it, I may have to write our next match report in a 24 stylee.

Reluctant Housedad said...

Superb read. Your pain, our pleasure. Hope the Old Man's going to be right as rain asap.

Debra Snider said...

Oh, Jamie. So glad you're well. The combo Jack Bauer/you writing style is great. Perhaps you should have tried some sort of hoodie/PDA approach to the ...er... difficulty. It always worked for Jack in tight spots.