It’s just a few tests…..

I’ve started writing this three or four times now. At one point I was over 1800 words and had still not got to the part I wanted to write about. Exposition, I think it’s called. Filling in the obvious blanks of who, when, why and how. (The four W’s??)

I’ve decided to ditch all that and save for an essay that may or may not be complete someday. If it is, I will make it available. I just do not believe anyone wants to read a 5000-word blog post.

Following that line of thinking, the tales of the last few months of doctor visits and results to date will be presented in at least three parts.

Today’s part: ‘The prostate and the penis‘ or ‘Yes, you can get there from here but, it’s really fucking uncomfortable‘.

Some symptoms of an enlarged prostate are:

Waking at night to urinate

Sudden and strong urge to urinate

A frequent need to go, sometimes every 2 hours or less

Pushing or straining to begin

A weak stream

Dribbling after finishing

Feeling the bladder has not completely emptied after finishing

Pain or burning while urinating

At some point, one or more of these symptoms got to be annoying enough that I went to my doctor and said, “Hey, this is what’ happening.”  Her response was, “Take your pants down, turn around and relax.”

The results of her Digital Rectal Exam led her to refer me to a urologist for further testing.

A few weeks later (referrals and authorizations rant will be its own post) I show up to see the specialist. I fill out paperwork and I go into a small exam room to wait. I’m standing up and reading some poster diagraming the male and female urinary system and marveling at the ‘actual size’ drawings of kidney stones when the door opens.

I turn around and there is a six and a half foot tall man with a Christopher Lloyd looking hairdo, with hands about at large as Tony Robbins. My first thought was Ichabod Crane. He was being shadowed by a very average looking young man also in a white coat.

Recalling the DRE from my smaller female doctor, the handshake with this Ichabod was unsettling.

He introduced himself and also his ‘student.’ He, they, we, review my chart, ask and answer a few questions and then, “take down your pants, turn around, relax.” This time I was tag-teamed for the purposes of someone else’s higher education.

Off I am sent for an ultra-sound. This sounds easy. However, it is not so much. Since there is some kind of an issue with urination, the bladder must be investigated. In order to see just what is what with the ultra-sound, they want a full and empty view. Easy, right?

Drink 32 oz of water 90 minutes before the test and hold it. Not any different than having a couple pints and hangin’ at the bar right? Weellllllll, no. At the bar, you can go relieve your discomfort at any time. You know that so you don’t think about it.

When you can’t just let it go, you think about it. A lot. You think about it while you wait to leave for the appointment. You think about it quite a bit while driving to the appointment. You think about it when you walk and they tell you to have a seat! You THINK about it while pacing around the waiting room wondering why you were on time when you know they never are!

Finally, you are led into a room, told to lay on a table and a woman squirts cold lube on your belly and begins to PUSH DOWN ON YOUR BELLY with something that looks like an electric razor but makes no sound.

What. The. Fuck? You take someone that is experiencing bladder control problems, make them drink a large quantity of water, make them HOLD that water in, then PUSH all over their full bladder for ten minutes!?!?!?!?!?!

The after-emptying-bladder portion of the test was much more pleasant. Seemed much shorter as well.

Results of all this fun and excitement, BHP.

Better than prostate cancer, treatable with medication.

Fast Forward Five Years.

Some of the symptoms from above are again becoming bothersome. So, I return to my doctor, take down my pants, turn around and relax all the while chit chatting and catching up. How are the kids? How are the cats? How is the theater? Oh, Italy, I’ve always wanted to go!

We talk about changing medication since the current one does not seem to be working as well anymore. She also refers me to a urologist.

Not Ichabod this time, but a guy that reminded me of Gimli. Shorter fingers, twice as thick.

He didn’t bother to do the DRE, he just read the chart, said my PSA was good so, let’s move on to more intrusive testing. Let’s schedule a Cystoscopy!

There are some things you never really think about until you are having to deal with them. I could list a dozen and I am sure you could as well. I can absolutely assure you, a cystoscopy never crossed my mind. Even five years previous, I just didn’t think it was bad enough for THAT!!! So, I didn’t think about it. This time – not so lucky.

I made the mistake of reading about this procedure before going in to have it. I should have kept the blinders on, that silly misconception that it must be easy if it took less than ten minutes. It takes less than a second to be beheaded. Ten minutes can be an eternity!

I know you followed the link and read all about what a cystoscopy consists of so I will leave out an explanation. Just jump right into the details and descriptions of one of the top ten worst mornings of my life.

As always, I am early and the doctor is late. (Someday I want to try billing them for my time spent sitting and waiting). This, of course, is only a problem because it allows me time to think. This is not a good time for such activity. Not at all.

A very attractive young Mexican girl comes out from their side of the room, the side with the exam rooms and, speaking loudly, calls my name into our side, the waiting room. I jump up and towards her almost as if I am looking forward to this.

In the tiny room, she says, “take off your pants and boxers” and hands me a paper sheet to cover up with. I do this and lay back on the table, staring into the fluorescent lights. I pondered why she assumed I was wearing boxers.

She returns quickly and speaks just as quickly, “I’m going to prep you now…” She had already removed the paper cover, grabbed little Anthony like she was angry at a sock puppet and “just cleaning with a little alcohol before I apply the antithetic. This will help with any discomfort or pain….”

Somewhere between man-handling my manhood, she had put down the swabs and picked up a syringe. Not a tiny one nor really too big of one either. There was no needle attached, just the pointing end where the needle is usually attached. The tip.
 This tip is inserted in the urethra and the plunger plunged with complete disregard for the fact that this puppet was attached to a person. The clear, cold, thick lube/anesthetic is forced from the tip of my penis to what felt like the back of my left eye.

The irony of her telling me this should help with the pain as it was creating so much at the same time was not lost on me. However, she needs to work on her comedic timing,

This was the first time I sat up enough to see what was happening to me. Bad, bad, bad idea.
I focused on little Anthony just in time to watch the cute Mexican girl put to use something that looked like a stainless steel pretzel made from 10 gauge wire. It had a blue tip and a red tip. When these tips were squeezed together the center of the pretzel opened up enough to slip down over the head of my penis. When tips were released, the hole close and viola – penis roach clip firmly in place to keep all of that thick, clear, lube, anesthetic in where it really wanted to come out from.

Before I could even think to breathe, let alone think of something to say, I was alone. I quickly lay back down and closed my eyes. I did not want to look at anything. Not one damn thing. I did begin to wonder if this was the same stuff the dentist used and if it would have the same effect, that thick, larger than normal and not quite moving right feeling my lips and cheeks get. Some very small, deeply buried part of me was amused.

Before I could find the composure to laugh, Gimili and Mexican elf burst in to ruin the moment.
It took seconds for them to be fast at work. The doctor took into his hand this object that looked a lot like my Dremel tool with the extended, flexible tool holder end. It did, luckily, taper to a much smaller tip. In this tip is the camera.  His other hand was on the flex end. This meant the elf was in control of little Anthony!!

The entertaining thought of just a moment ago was gone in an instant when Gimli insert the camera end of the scope. If the stuff the elf so unceremoniously shot into me was helping with the pain, I cannot fathom the “discomfort and pain” that would have come without it.

There was no conversation, only a couple of guttural sounds from the doctor.

Then came the part where they actually added water through the scope into the bladder. Yes, you do feel an overwhelming urge to urinate but, considering the situation, cannot. What seemed a long time later, but was actually only about one minute, that all changed. The extremely fast removable of the scope, plus the now obvious effects the antithetic made not urinating impossible.

The doctor is gone and the elf hands me a paper towel, “you can clean up with this and the paper sheet. There’s a bathroom just out the door to your right. And she is gone as well.

I sit up onto the wet paper sheet, into a puddle of urine, water, lube, and god knows what else, get up quickly and quickly go about getting dry, clean. I feel completely out of sorts. It was just too fast, too aggressive, too – I dunno – just too much.

I certainly no longer feel like I need to a bathroom but, she mentioned it for a reason. I finish dressing my nether regions and head to the restroom. The anesthetic has worn off!

I recall the paper I signed and only partially read before coming back to the inquisition had something about ‘discomfort’ when urinating for a couple of days. The reckless use of the word discomfort by these people was really beginning to piss me off. This was not discomfort. This was flat out freaking pain! Add to that the first in a 50 year lifetime the experience of air escaping through my urethra. This freakish bubbling-like sensation. This added to the physical and mental discomfort.

The elf comes back and takes me into a small conference-like room. A small round table with four big comfortable looking chairs. A credenza with several holders full of collateral. A nice painting of some peaceful meadow and stream.  “Fuck me. This is the room they break the bad news to you in.”  I sit down and start to formulate this post, “I gotta write about this shit.”

Gimli comes in as subtle as a WWF heavyweight, “Your bladder is clear, there are no tumors. Your prostate is encroaching somewhat but not enough to really worry about. I think perhaps the history of back injury and surgery are playing into this. You are much too young for surgery. The other procedure I would recommend is not covered by your insurance. So, we will stick to the medication and you will just have to live with the symptoms.”

His professional opinion was, “Deal with it.”

While I was quite happy and relieved by the results, I was not thrilled with his treatment plan.

“What is the other treatment and what does it cost?”

Thermo Matrix – $3000.00.  The short version – a microwave antenna of sorts is inserted in the urethra up to where it is in the center of the enlarged prostate.  Another similar, larger device is inserted in the rectum and placed at, near the prostate as well. Cook on medium until tender. Salt to taste.

A short while later, I am standing in the pharmacy line at Costco, working on this post some more in my head and pondering Thermo Matrix when I realize just how much more the anesthetic was wearing off. Very concerned and a bit panicked I would leak or blow more bubbles, the idea of the cooking the captain from the inside seemed more reasonable.

I’ve created the ‘New and Improved Penis Fund’ – an empty peanut butter jar for change – and resigned myself to the fact that, until this jar is filled, many times over, I am just gonna have to deal with it.

Next post – MRI, visits to the Orthopedist, and what an EMG is like.