A Day in the Life: Part the First

BUT FIRST, SOME FRIENDLY WARNINGS

Before embarking on the Transplant Trib's first-ever three-part extended blog, local, state, national, international and intergalactic regulations require us to inform you of a few consumer-oriented items provided "sanitized, for your protection" like it says on that strip of paper wrapped around the toilet seat in a cheap-ass motel.

* Keep out of reach of children
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* Phenynelketonurics: contains phenylalanine
* And most importantly, not available in Sector R. (Damn, they never deliver in the hills!)

OK, we cool? Then let's get started, shall we?

"WOKE UP, GOT OUT OF BED, DRAGGED A COMB ACROSS MY HEAD"

It started out like most other Thursdays, the ones when we gotta be at UCSF at the (butt) Crack of Don (you know, Don the Plumber) for an appointment "scheduled" in the Urology Faculty Practice. My only previous experience with urology had been their successful involvement in a coup[e of friendly reunions with Mr. Foley. My prime purpose this fine day was to end my current relationship with him. Further diagnosis/treatment was probable, and yes, I was trippin' a bit. We thought we were pretty smart by packing the Fit with everything needed in the anticipation of admittance, which is always a looming possibility.

Our appointment was an early-morning add-on for 8:00 am. After I noticed several other arriving patients start to badly rag on a very nice employee who appeared to be a sort of concierge of sorts ("I'm very sorry for the wait, Mr. Moss. Thank you so much for your patience."). I got called, and could not help but notice the rather unfamiliar and frightening set of stirrups attached to the end of the exam table. I was gently assured they were not intended for use in my case, and they were promptly removed to avoid further freaking on my part. I then returned to the waiting area after being weighed and checked for blood pressure, pulse, mulch level, etc.

The very knowledgeable nurse had outlined today's agenda, to include removal of Mr. F., then a cystoscopy. This was described as a "tiny scope on the end of a piece of thin spaghetti" that is placed gently in the, er, um, y'know...where Mr. Foley used to be. I was greatly relieved to learn it was thin spaghetti, and not like maybe gnocchi or worse yet, a stuffed canneloni or something. This provides a lookie-see at what may be preventing complete emptying and subsequent nasty little infections that bring me running back for more sheet time on 10 Long. The urology fellow, Dr. S. gave me a few of the possible causes (heredity, old age, excessive consumption of pepperoni pizza), and our nurse outlined possible treatment plans. Once again, "self-catheterization" was mentioned and once again "I went into a dream....". Cherie asked how often this torture is usually performed. The answer was a cheerful "Oh, usually about every three or four hours". Three or four HOURS!!!! Hot Dayem! How would I be able to go anywhere or do anything? We were assured it is not as bad as it sounds, lotsa people do it...I wasn't buying any of that for a second.

Things had become worse in the waiting area, and one guy was bitching to nobody in particular in a loud voice that he had travelled for six hours to get here for his 8:00 am appointment, and here it was, after 10:00 already and blah blah. We did get summoned again (before the nutcase guy) and got handed the usual fashionable gown. I then hopped up on the ol' table, got "prepped", and began prepping my OWN self mentally for whatever would come next. After a draping to ensure cleanliness and modesty (remember "Most Likely to be Modest' in Jr. High?) , the flat screen near my head was pointed out, and I was generously invited to view the proceedings while in progress. I looked up at it, and the image resembled a lunar landscape. "What's that?"I nervously inquired. "Oh, that's just gauze. We haven't done anything yet. Chill out, dood".

No matter how long you've been married to someone, there is still a certain, I dunno, weirdness factor in having your spouse spectating at a (hopefully not nationally) televised view of the inside of your, well, er,... weenie. OK, there, now I've said it. Sorry, everyone. So after a bit of local pain deadener, a couple of Public Service Announcements, the usual pitch for the Snack Bar ("You Can't Beat Our All-Meat Frankfurters") and a few Previews of Coming Attractions, it was time for Today's Feature Presentation, Journey to the Center of the Bladder aka 20,000 Leagues Under the Pee.

The mini-mini cam is introduced, rather painlessly, and I am practicing my best relaxation techniques when, all of a sudden, the chief urology doc bursts in with an enthusiastic effort to distract me. "Hey, how are yah? Just flew in from the coast, and boy, are my arms tired (rim shot). Is that a spaghetti in there, or are you just glad to see me?" (rim shot)? So, what are the plans for the summer? This your wife? Well, take my wife...please" (rim shot). After more Rodney Dangerfield schtick, he gets serious and the two docs start talking in hushed tones in Medicalese about the images. "Would you lookit that prostate! It's bigger than North Dakota! Damn!" and so forth. I am just looking for the exit, I'm all done with this nonsense.

Finally, it's over and in retrospect, the worst part was the comedy. Dr. S. reports back soon afterward that yes, in fact, the villain is the prostate. That, along with long-term muscular effects of diabetes are preventing complete contraction of the bladder. Since I am already at the maximum effective dosage of Flomax, riding down a rural highway in that '66 Mustang convertible with those other geezers drinking gallons of liquids (see Older Posts, 5/1/10) probably won't happen. What will happen will be my return in a month for what is called a TURP (not to confused with a TURD, another serious medical predicament), a treatment that attempts to reduce the size of the prostate. Transurethral Resection of the Prostate is the official moniker, which sounds like surgery to me but is now possibly treated with laser technology. I hope. So we gratefully exit, hoping this can succeed and prevent the Mr. Foley-Approved Urology Game Home Edition. As you know, I am not much of a do-it-yourselfer.

By now the waiting area is a total zoo with all sorts of people SRO, rug rats galore, strollers, small barnyard livestock, mothers-in-law wearing babushkas... you get the scene. I quickly affixed my trusty face mask and googly free scratched plastic shades, and it was off Stage Left headed for the kidney transplant clinic, only about two hours late for our scheduled arrival time.

Heard enough? OK, I'll give you a short comfort break (down the hall to the left, second door past the elevators) while I dream up the next episode, which I will name A Day in the Life: Part the Second. But for now, it's nonny-noonies for you AND me.

Suspensefully,

Bob/Irv