24

The following takes place on the day of the Californian Presidential Primary.  Events occur in real time.

21.01

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?

21.51

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.

23.55

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.

00.24

I attempt to sleep, restlessly tossing and turning whilst protectively cupping my nether regions.  Damn it, why won’t sleep come to me?

03.14

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.

06.21

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.

06.49

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.

07.14

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.

08.42

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.

10.04

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.

10.27

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.

11.26

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.

11.44

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. 

12.31

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.

13.27

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.

13.45

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.

14.16

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.

15.18

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.

15.32

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.

17.14

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.

17.19

OK, now I’m panicking.

18.42

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?

19.14

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.

19.22

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.

20.45

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.

21.01

Damn it, I’m going to be up peeing all night.

There's something wrong with my wee

(And I'm not talking about the one made in Japan)

OK, for all those of weak stomachs and lily livers stop reading right now.  The following story is not going to reaffirm your belief in God or all things nice and normal.  This story is all about The Good, The Bad and the WTF - continue at your peril.  Can I please also make a personal point (D'oh, this is a blog, it's all personal.)  I'm not writing this for sympathy or empathy or any of those other pathys that I can't spell.  If after reading this you feel the need to add a message of support or condolence then just STOP RIGHT NOW.  I appreciate where you're coming from, I just don't want to hear it, and hopefully I'm not in a position to need it.

A few weeks ago I went to the toilet and peed blood.

I tried to think of a way to ease you into the situation, but I didn't get one so why should you?  I have to admit that it shit the life out of me at the time (luckily I was in the right place for that little event.)  I've spent 39 years peeing yellow, so whilst red was a nice change in scenery, the implications of it weren't.  I considered keeping it to myself, but the Rorschach patterns I was leaving in the bowl were bound to give the game away eventually so I told my wife the following day and agreed that I would book an urgent appointment with my GP. 

Unfortunately it seems that he doesn't work mornings at the moment, and mornings were the only time that I could do this in secret, so I made an appointment with his Spanish colleague Manuel, and hoped for the best.

I'm not sure I could do the appointment justice to be honest.  Just imagine the episode of Fawlty Towers where Basil couldn't mention the war, except it was "Don't mention the Penis."  Then times the embarrassment by 10 and include a prostrate exam in front of your kids, and then you may be somewhere close.  They are still asking me if the Doctor has found his watch yet.

So it was decided by my Doctor that I should undergo a few tests at the Hospital, better to be safe than sorry he said.  What he didn't mention until I was safely out of his office and unable to seek retribution, was that one of the tests would be a cockovisionogram.   For the uninitiated, this is when they stick a camera down your Japs eye and start looking for intelligent life, or something like that.

I entered the room to find the whole camera crew were there, and I have to be honest, I think the need for a guy with a boom mike was a tad over the top.  Ironically the director of this epic movie was blonde, female and Swedish.  I started to worry about standing to attention at an inappropriate moment (I blame my early teen porn usage for that), but upon seeing the size of the camera, and the nurse holding it, all worries disappeared, well shrunk actually.

I asked the Doc if she could Sky+ the proceedings as it wasn’t something I was expecting to watch, and it may make great viewing when paired with my vasectomy DVD, a classic double bill, but she just continued to slap iodine on my knackers and ignored me.

Without a trace of a smile and with ruthless efficiency, the camera was inserted and the feature movie appeared on the screen.  The first thing I saw was two perfect circular shapes on the upper wall of my bladder.  My first thought that was that some microscopic beings had set up a lunar base on their way to Uranus, but apparently they were just air bubbles.

I also got a good view of my prostrate during the proceedings.  It looked nice, pink and healthy to me, but unfortunately the Doctor so enjoyed her view of it that she decided to have a hands on visit - at least it felt like her whole hand anyway.

And just to make matters worse, as it feels like I have been pissing razor blades since the whole experience, I rather fear that she has left one of her false nails behind.  I mean, how am I going to explain that one away when I am standing in a public convenience and I pee out a bright pink fingernail?  She could have at least painted her fingernails blue, then I could have pretended it was one of those plasters they make the Barmaids wear when they cut themselves.

So now I sit here and wait.  For all their explorations, deep sea drilling and other ventures best left to BP employees, all they found was a red patch on the wall of my bladder.  They say it probably means nothing, but what it does mean is that they are going to repeat the procedure again - but this time they're bringing a cutting crew.

I shall endeavour to keep you updated, if you so wish, during these exploratory procedures.  But don't panic, I shall keep the prostate porn pics to myself.  I wouldn't wish that viewing on anyone.

Just a Snip

I saw a picture today on the blog of another Dad I follow, that made me laugh; wince; smile ruefully and then cross my legs, all in the space of seconds. It is a rare thing that can encapsulate all of these emotions at one time, but this did.



It is a real life merit badge for those of us that have 'taken one for the team', and ensured that we can no longer over-populate this ever shrinking planet of ours. Don’t get me wrong, population density of the planet was not the reason for this drastic decision. Over-population of our house, however, was a major factor. Our house is a 3 bed semi-detached Victorian cottage, quaint, previously tranquil, and a bit kooky. I loved this place from the first time we saw it 7, 8 or 9 years ago.

Incidentally have you noticed that the older you get, the less sure about dates you are. I must have foreseen this coming, as I had our wedding date engraved on the inside of my wedding ring. Anytime I am unsure, I just slip it off, take a sneaky peek, and another night on the couch is avoided. Anyway I digress (another thing that seems to be happening more and more), the house always seemed the right size until No3, Mate, turned up.

At the moment Dawn has her own room at the end of the hall. Initially this was to spare her all the tears and tantrums from No2 baby Katy, but since she turned 15 and has discovered boys, it is to spare us from all her tears and tantrums. Katy and Mate share the bedroom next to ours, which has resulted in a fair set of adventures in itself, and a subject worthy of its own blog. Our room is just one thin wall away, so no more TV in bed, well actually no more anything in bed. Any declaration of our love happens downstairs, lest we wake the little buggers up.

Don’t be too impressed by our al dente approach to matrimonials, the loudest thing is normally me falling over trying to get my trousers off before removing my trainers. Foreplay is taking my socks off first, or whispering sweet nothings like “they must be asleep by now”, or “Ok, whose turn is it?” Another plus point of being downstairs is that you are only 4 steps from the fridge for the post-match beer (and a glass of wine for the laydee), but on the downside we have laminate floors, so it can be a bit tough on the old knees.

So the decision was made, we didn’t want to move, so I was packed off to be neutered. Scant regard was given to my feelings on this matter, once her mind is made up there is never any turning back (unless she has forgotten her mobile, then we always have to turn back). So callous and cavalier was her treatment of me, that I was actually grateful that she has not made an appointment with a Vet for the procedure. I could just imagine me in a room of tight lipped, steadfast women holding onto leash’s, with their husbands on the other end, lolling on the floor with hound-dog expressions.

So off I went to the pre-procedure appointment, where they sit you down and try to talk you out of it and explain how serious it is. I mean honestly, you are going to grab hold of my Crown Jewels, and then attack them with either a sharp knife or some laser-burny-thingy, and you feel the need to tell me it’s serious - no shit Sherlock. I had come prepared with a video clip on my phone of the kids hitting each other with plastic golf clubs from a BBQ brawl to convince him. When he still looked dubious, I explained that my Wife was from Irish-Catholic stock, and that sealed the deal.

I had to return in 2 weeks, with someone to drive me home, and 2 pairs of clean and tight fitted boxer shorts. That was the one thing that stood out, 2 pairs of pants, why? Was there going to be so much blood that the second pair would be needed to soak it all up, lest the next victim (I mean patient) would be scared off? I just could not figure it out.

V-day arrived, 6th January to be precise, and by God it was cold that winter. Now I started to panic. As all men know the cold is never kind to us, and here I was about to get my tackle out for an audience, and it was bloody freezing. I didn't know what to do for the best . Do I walk into the room all cold and diminished, or do I involve myself in a bit of self-manipulation just before hand (boom boom) just to give a good showing? What if I went too far though, would it be sending the wrong signals to the Doctor? I must have been insane to be worrying about such an inconsequential thing, but it must have been self-denial’s way of keeping me off the real issue of becoming a semi-eunuch. I solved the dilemma by making sure the heating in the car was on full blast all the way there. That just meant that I looked really red cheeked and embarrassed by the time I got there, but that seemed to be the lesser of two evils.

I’m not sure I can bring myself to describe the operation (which you are awake for) in any detail. I just don’t think it would be fair to all those who are going to follow in my pantsteps, but needless to say it is not something I would ever like to repeat. There was a lot of fumbling and tugging, but without the usual outcome, in fact the exact opposite.

The Wife drove me home, and to her credit she did well to hide the “No balls now, we’ll just see who’s boss” look. I was told I had to stay in bed for two days, wearing the two pairs of pants, and not drive or lift anything. I managed to substitute upstairs for downstairs (no X-Box or DVD upstairs), and turn two days into four. The only plus point, was being able to shout for anything I needed. Every time I asked for a beer, my wife would be all “are you sure that is wise?” to which I would reply “I became a gelding so you could stay in this house, the least I deserve is a beer!”

It was a tender couple of weeks to say the least, with me walking like John Wayne behind a smirking Wife every time we went to Tesco’s. Another thing they had warned me about was that there might be some blood left in the tubes. A piece of information I had stored in the furthest reaches of my mind, until when following the Doctors orders, and emptying said tubes, everything had turned a day-glo pink! A memory, I am sure, that will haunt me till my grave.

I recovered eventually, and I don’t care what any Doctor tells you, it does feel a bit different now, not as full up I guess. So I guess the moral of this story is, buy a big house from the off, as you never know what life is going to throw at you, or snip off you!

I must thank Russ, who posted the badge on the blog site he runs with his mate Jasper, “Dad’s who mock the world”. You can find it at http://dadswhomocktheworld.blogspot.com/ well worth a read. You can also see more badges at http://www.worth1000.com/emailthis.asp?entry=296335 Credit where credits due as my Dad always says.