stevenpiziks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stevenpiziks) wrote2017-11-09 03:44 pm
stevenpiziks) wrote2017-11-09 03:44 pm
Entry tags:
The Final Stoning of Steven
Wednesday morning I got up, took a Valium, and climbed into the car so Darwin could drive me to the hospital for my fourth operation in eight weeks. Fourth time I'd be knocked out, fourth time I'd wake up to pain.
Pain, kidney stones, and the constant violation of my body have been going on for so long, they've become part of my identity. I don't know how to think without considering all these things. Crippling anxiety might strike at any moment. Every time I go to the bathroom, I ready myself for pain. I can't walk more than a dozen-odd yards without getting winded. And there's always another operation looming, when strangers will render me unconscious, splay me on a table, and do whatever they want to me, sniggering all the while at my exposed parts.
Despite the Valium (which the surgeon kindly prescribed for me as a one-shot), I was a hot mess by the time Darwin and I arrived in Detroit. The Valium did keep me a little more level-headed than last time, though. We trooped up the elevator to the fourth floor check-in lounge, went through the same process as before, and sat around, trying to chat me through my shakiness. As before, the nurse finally called my name and a pang went through my stomach. Darwin wasn't allowed to go with me at first.
Last time I had a separate room for pre-op. This time I had a bay in a larger ward with just curtains for what passed for privacy. The nurse gave me my gown and instructions to undress. I put the gown on with the ties facing forward--it's easier to tie them, and it ensures my ass isn't hanging out when I'm done. I got into the bed just as the nurse returned. She looked scandalized.
"Your gown is on backward!" she cried.
"No," I said, giving my standard answer. "Mine is on forward. Everyone =else= has theirs on backward."
She wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed. A second came in and made the same shocked statement. The first nurse repeated what I'd said, and the second one seemed to be more amused.
"But the pocket for the heart monitor is on the front," she said. "There's no place to put it with the gown on that way."
"I won't need a heart monitor," I shot back.
"You never know," she replied.
I folded my arms and ended the discussion.
The rapid-fire questions began, all of them the same as last time. "What's your name? Birth date? What operation are you having? Do you have any allergies?" I interrupted partway through and asked for Darwin to come back. As before, the nurse was recalcitrant about it, but I insisted. He was finally ushered in, and I felt a lot calmer. There was a kerfluffle for a moment--my chart said my right side was being operated on to clear the last stones out.
"That was last week," I said. "The only thing they're supposed to do on the right today is take the stent out. He's actually operating on my left."
This took some time to straighten out. If something is in the computer, apparently it's written in stone. But finally they changed it. The nurse finished the Q&A, assured us the doctor would be in soon, and left.
Meanwhile, in the bay next to us, another patient entered who wasn't nervous at all. We couldn't see him through the curtain, and I don't know what he was coming in for, but the first thing we heard after the nurse told him to undress was, "My prosthetic leg won't fit in this bag! Should I leave it on?"
"No, honey," the nurse said. "It needs to come off."
"Then I need a wet paper towel or something to wrap my stump in," he said. "Can ya get me one, darlin'? Otherwise it'll ooze all over the sheets here."
We also overheard his Q&A:
NURSE: Do you drink alcohol?
PATIENT: Only on days ending in Y. But it's just beer, and that don't count.
NURSE: Cigarettes?
PATIENT: That stuff'll kill you!
NURSE: When did you last have your marijuana?
PATIENT: I lit a big one up yesterday afternoon, I think.
This went on. I wanted to write it all down to use later. Darwin and I were covering our mouths to hold in the laughing. It was a lighter moment in a difficult day.
Eventually, the anesthetist showed up. It wasn't the same guy as last week, but he was friendly enough. One thing I liked about him was that he said he was planning to use just a mask and a small breathing/gas tube that would sit at the back of my tongue, and not a full-blown respirator. I was happy about that.
By now I've become experienced at anesthesia (knowledge I never wanted), and I told him that I needed pain and anti-nausea meds =before= I woke up so I wouldn't be so miserable, and he agreed to handle that.
"He also cries as the anesthesia wears off," Darwin said. "I think it's a side-effect."
He nodded sagely. "There are things we can do to keep that from happening," he said, and I was glad about that, too.
I was terribly thirsty, but knew the hospital wouldn't give me anything to drink. I hooked Darwin into a scheme. "There's a sink over there," I pointed. "Can you sneak me a glass of water?"
Reluctantly, he sidled up to the sink, but there were no cups. This was probably to thwart people exactly like me. But I wasn't done.
"I need to go to the bathroom," I announced.
And a hospital employee was engaged to hold my IV and show me the way, and since my gown was on the right way, I didn't need to clutch the back closed. So there. In the bathroom, I drank deeply from the faucet. So there, too!
Back at my bed, it was more waiting, and more waiting, and finally Dr. L-- showed up. He answered more of my questions. Yes, there'd be yet another stent left behind, but they'd use the smallest they had. No, he hadn't used a laser last time--just a basket to get the stones out. Yes, he'd prescribe extra pain meds for the upcoming stent, since he knew I had so many problems.
Whenever he mentioned a stent, I had to put my hands over my face to shut out the fear. "Taking the stent out is almost as bad as the operation," I said, shaking again.
"I could put it on a string," he said. "It's inconvenient, but it makes taking the stent out a lot easier. I could give you another Valium and have you come in to the office for it."
"I hate that scope," I said. "Hate, hate, hate it."
So he said he'd use a string.
And then they gave me a dose of Versed, which made me a little dizzy, but I was determined to hang on to memory. The rest of the surgical team showed up, and I knew all of them except one guy, who was standing in the background. He was young and very handsome.
"Are you ready?" said Dr. L--.
"Who is that?" I asked, pointing.
The man introduced himself as a resident who'd be assisting. Later, Darwin told me he was trying not to laugh because, due to the Versed, my "who is that?" came out as a cat-call. When that happened, the anesthetist, who was also gay, caught Darwin's eye behind my back and winked, which only made things worse for Darwin. I don't remember it going that way, but that's what Darwin says happened.
They wheeled my bed down to the operating room, leaving Darwin behind. I hate losing my memory, and made a determined effort to remember what I saw: shelves of medical equipment, metal carts, cupboards, people in scrubs, a set of sinks with huge faucets. In the OR, one more person remarked on my gown being on backwards, and I gave my standard answer.
They moved me to the table, and there were the stirrups again. Dr. L-- promised to put extra padding on them this time so my legs wouldn't be cramped when I woke up. The anesthetist put a mask on me--
--and I was back in another room, surrounded by curtains. Everything was heavy and dark. I managed to crack an eye open and saw a female nurse typing at a portable computer station. I shut my eyes again, unhappy. For these procedures, I don't want women handling me, and I remember thinking, "Well, I'll just have to get through this."
A few moments later, a male nurse in scrubs came in. "I'll take over," he said, and the woman left. Oh, I was happy. I don't know if my chart said something about my past history so they gave me a male, or if it was coincidence, but I was glad nonetheless.
I hurt, but not nearly as much as before, and I wasn't nauseated. The anesthetist had done his job well.
Still, I was climbing out of heavy darkness, with every limb weighed down and my head swimming. The nurse shook my foot and called my name loudly. "Are you awake?" he boomed.
My eyes were open, but I couldn't speak yet, so I just nodded a little.
"My name is Craig," he said. "It looks like everything went well. You'll have to void your bladder, and then you can go home."
"Did they put in a stent?" I croaked.
"They did."
Here my heart sank. I hadn't realized how much I'd been hoping Dr. L-- would have changed his mind about that.
"Where's Darwin?" I asked. "I need Darwin."
"Who's Darwin?" Craig asked.
Shouldn't this be on my chart? I wondered. "He's my husband. I want to see him."
"First we should--"
"I want my husband!"
Craig shrugged, took out a phone, and asked for Darwin's number. I lay back and dozed off again, but a few moments later, I opened my eyes and saw him walking through the ward toward me with a big smile, and I felt so wonderful seeing his cheerful face. He kissed me.
"You look a lot better than last time," he said. "I'm so glad."
I was taking stock now. My legs didn't hurt. My lower body hurt only a little. I could feel the painkillers sliding through me, dulling the pain.
My gown was on the wrong way. Yes, some anal-retentive nurse or orderly had stripped my gown off, turned it around, and fed my arms through it. Whoever the asshole was hadn't even bothered to tie it shut, either. It felt petty and bullying. "Yeah, he won't put the gown on the way =we= want, so we'll just knock him out. See if he can stop us then!" Fuckwads. I hate hospitals and their pissy personnel.
I checked under the sheet.
WARNING: GRAPHIC STUFF TO FOLLOW!
A pair of what looked like nylon threads trailed from the end of my urethra, which was bruised and bloody. The threads looped around and were fastened to my shaft with surgical tape. A dribble of blood was already staining the sheet. My bladder felt full.
"It's good news," Darwin told me. "The doctor took out the first stent, then looked in your other kidney, but there weren't actually any stones in there. Just calcified tissue that =looks= like stones on the x-ray. You're clean!"
I was trying to respond to this, but my brain wouldn't let me. I was just glad Darwin was there, though now I was starting to hurt worse.
The nurse gave me a urinal. "You need to void," he said kindly.
It took some effort, but I was finally able to do it. A little. And it hurt. Fire blazed down my urethra, and my left side, where the new stent sat, was bring ripped apart. I screamed and screamed and clutched Darwin's hand.
When it was over, I leaned back on the bed, panting. Craig the Nurse ran a scan and announced my bladder has half empty. "You can go home soon," he said.
I gave him a "what the fuck do you know?" look. I couldn't even sit up and piss, let alone go home. At least I wasn't crying this time! I don't know what the anesthetist did, but that was a relief. Bawling in the ward on Darwin's shirt was no great fun last time, and it was nice not to weather it this time.
An Asian man came in and introduced himself as Dr. Wong. I recognized his name from the paperwork on my last operation, but I'd never seen him before.
"I don't remember you," I said drunkenly.
He sighed. "No one ever does. It's the curse of my position."
He went over post-op stuff with Darwin, because I kept falling asleep. He reiterated what Darwin had said--that the first stent was gone, there were no stones in my left side, the calcified tissue is harmless (though it may generate more stones and I should get a yearly x-ray to check), and there were a lot of drugs for me to take. I lay there, feeling stupid and helpless and weak.
Then came some better news: because no stones had come out, the stent could be removed in a couple days instead of staying in a week. (!)
After Dr. Wong left, Craig the Nurse stepped away as well. I turned to Darwin. "I need to use the urinal again. Maybe I should stand up."
Darwin helped me to my feet. I leaned heavily on him and tried the urinal. This time it worked more easily, but it was still so painful I couldn't help howling. The strings hanging out felt strange as well. They gave--still give--me the sensation that I'm dribbling all the time.
I got back into bed and rested some more. Darwin chatted with Craig, who returned. I just tried to gather strength. This operation hadn't been nearly as bad for me as the previous one, though it had lasted just as long--two hours. I'm sure the fact that they hadn't made multiple trips down my urinary canal dragging stones in a basket made a major difference. Darwin repeated that I looked a lot better than last time.
Darwin had also, at my request, recorded his meeting with Dr. L-- after the surgery. (I asked him to do this because, much as I adore Darwin, he's awful at remembering medical details and makes vague statements like, "The doctor said it was fine.") Listening to the recording helped keep me calm because I felt more informed.
Finally, it was time to go home. Same routine as before: Darwin ran ahead to get the car while some lady pushed me through the hallways in a wheelchair. Out front, Darwin helped me into the car and we drove home.
At home, I was resting in bed. Darwin brought me a snack--
--and suddenly I burst into tears. I cried and cried and cried while Darwin held me. I couldn't get myself back under control, and I said all the things I'd said last time, that I felt stupid, that I couldn't stop, that I felt weak. This time, though, there was an element of release. This was my last operation, and the doctor had confirmed it was over, and everything I'd been holding in came pouring out.
"It's a delayed reaction," Darwin said, stroking my head. "Just get through it, you'll be fine."
And I kept crying. So the anesthetist was only able to delay the inevitable.
Going to the bathroom is still a horrible chore. The stent--now on my left again--rips up my insides no matter what, and the strings hanging out of me make things touchier. And once the hospital painkillers wore off, I was hurting again. More pills!
That night, I woke up with an entirely new problem.
GRAPHIC STUFF BEHIND THE CUT
Pain woke me, and it was harsh stuff. My groin felt like it was being sliced apart. I stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the light, and checked myself. Like most males, I'd gotten an erection while I slept, and it was a good sign I had one now. It meant there was no injury. But whoever had installed the strings and the tape for the stent hadn't left enough slack. The strings were stretched taut as cello strings between my urethra and the tape on my shaft, and I wasn't even fully "up." I didn't want to think what might happen if I were.
I forced myself to go to the bathroom, and the resulting gut pain dimmed the enthusiasm of my genitalia. I tried to pull more slack from the taped part of the threads, but they wouldn't budge. I was reluctant to remove the tape entirely--would the stent be prone to falling out if I did? Would the freed strings catch on something?
I went back to bed, but an hour or so later, I was back in the bathroom with the same problem. This time, I carefully pulled some of the tape free and worked some slack out, but I wasn't sure it would be enough. This got me to thinking--how did the person who applied this thing know how much slack to give? Clearly he or she had underestimated. I wasn't happy at this development. It only made clearer that a team of people were fucking around with my body while I was unconscious, and they didn't always know what they were doing. I was betting it was a woman. A man wouldn't have made this kind of mistake.
The problem didn't repeat itself a third time, thank heavens. In the morning, I called the urologist's office and asked to speak with a nurse. "I'd prefer to talk to a man," I finished.
"We don't have any men on staff today," the receptionist said. "But we do have a female nurse you can talk to."
Reluctantly, I agreed. What choice did I have?
The nurse came on the line, and I explained the problem to her. When I got to the part about being erect, she interrupted in a stern voice, "Did the doctor say you could have relations?"
I was so shocked, I couldn't speak for several moments. Then I got angry. Very, very angry. "Ma'am," I snapped, "you =do= work in a urologist's office, right?"
"Yes, but--" she began.
I railroaded over her. "Then you should damn well know basic male anatomy, including the fact that men become erect several times a day, whether they're 'having relations' or not. Why are you answering a doctor's phone if you don't know this?" Oh, I was pissed off!
"I'm very sorry," she said, suddenly contrite. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"I don't need information about 'relations,' " I snapped. "I need to know what to do about this tape."
"I'll have to ask one of the residents and call you back," she said. "And I'm sorry again."
I hung up.
A few minutes later, she called back and reported that the tape could come off, as long as I didn't pull the string. She apologized to me again, and I coldly accepted.
Darwin, to his chagrin, was enlisted to help me pull the tape off. It was a three-hand job to do it without yanking the stent out. We succeeded, but I didn't like the much longer strings hanging free. They kept catching on the inside of my clothes and tugging painfully. Finally, Darwin drove me to the drug store and we found the same kind of surgical tape the hospital had used. We bought a packet, and back home Darwin had the fun job of helping me retape the strings, this time with an appropriate amount of slack. (Don't ask how we figured this out!)
Meanwhile, I made an appointment at the urologist's for Friday to get the stent removed. I could technically do it myself--all you have to do is pull the string--but the thought makes me shake, so I'm going in to have someone else do it while I'm on Valium. On Friday, everything will be over at last.
Pain, kidney stones, and the constant violation of my body have been going on for so long, they've become part of my identity. I don't know how to think without considering all these things. Crippling anxiety might strike at any moment. Every time I go to the bathroom, I ready myself for pain. I can't walk more than a dozen-odd yards without getting winded. And there's always another operation looming, when strangers will render me unconscious, splay me on a table, and do whatever they want to me, sniggering all the while at my exposed parts.
Despite the Valium (which the surgeon kindly prescribed for me as a one-shot), I was a hot mess by the time Darwin and I arrived in Detroit. The Valium did keep me a little more level-headed than last time, though. We trooped up the elevator to the fourth floor check-in lounge, went through the same process as before, and sat around, trying to chat me through my shakiness. As before, the nurse finally called my name and a pang went through my stomach. Darwin wasn't allowed to go with me at first.
Last time I had a separate room for pre-op. This time I had a bay in a larger ward with just curtains for what passed for privacy. The nurse gave me my gown and instructions to undress. I put the gown on with the ties facing forward--it's easier to tie them, and it ensures my ass isn't hanging out when I'm done. I got into the bed just as the nurse returned. She looked scandalized.
"Your gown is on backward!" she cried.
"No," I said, giving my standard answer. "Mine is on forward. Everyone =else= has theirs on backward."
She wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed. A second came in and made the same shocked statement. The first nurse repeated what I'd said, and the second one seemed to be more amused.
"But the pocket for the heart monitor is on the front," she said. "There's no place to put it with the gown on that way."
"I won't need a heart monitor," I shot back.
"You never know," she replied.
I folded my arms and ended the discussion.
The rapid-fire questions began, all of them the same as last time. "What's your name? Birth date? What operation are you having? Do you have any allergies?" I interrupted partway through and asked for Darwin to come back. As before, the nurse was recalcitrant about it, but I insisted. He was finally ushered in, and I felt a lot calmer. There was a kerfluffle for a moment--my chart said my right side was being operated on to clear the last stones out.
"That was last week," I said. "The only thing they're supposed to do on the right today is take the stent out. He's actually operating on my left."
This took some time to straighten out. If something is in the computer, apparently it's written in stone. But finally they changed it. The nurse finished the Q&A, assured us the doctor would be in soon, and left.
Meanwhile, in the bay next to us, another patient entered who wasn't nervous at all. We couldn't see him through the curtain, and I don't know what he was coming in for, but the first thing we heard after the nurse told him to undress was, "My prosthetic leg won't fit in this bag! Should I leave it on?"
"No, honey," the nurse said. "It needs to come off."
"Then I need a wet paper towel or something to wrap my stump in," he said. "Can ya get me one, darlin'? Otherwise it'll ooze all over the sheets here."
We also overheard his Q&A:
NURSE: Do you drink alcohol?
PATIENT: Only on days ending in Y. But it's just beer, and that don't count.
NURSE: Cigarettes?
PATIENT: That stuff'll kill you!
NURSE: When did you last have your marijuana?
PATIENT: I lit a big one up yesterday afternoon, I think.
This went on. I wanted to write it all down to use later. Darwin and I were covering our mouths to hold in the laughing. It was a lighter moment in a difficult day.
Eventually, the anesthetist showed up. It wasn't the same guy as last week, but he was friendly enough. One thing I liked about him was that he said he was planning to use just a mask and a small breathing/gas tube that would sit at the back of my tongue, and not a full-blown respirator. I was happy about that.
By now I've become experienced at anesthesia (knowledge I never wanted), and I told him that I needed pain and anti-nausea meds =before= I woke up so I wouldn't be so miserable, and he agreed to handle that.
"He also cries as the anesthesia wears off," Darwin said. "I think it's a side-effect."
He nodded sagely. "There are things we can do to keep that from happening," he said, and I was glad about that, too.
I was terribly thirsty, but knew the hospital wouldn't give me anything to drink. I hooked Darwin into a scheme. "There's a sink over there," I pointed. "Can you sneak me a glass of water?"
Reluctantly, he sidled up to the sink, but there were no cups. This was probably to thwart people exactly like me. But I wasn't done.
"I need to go to the bathroom," I announced.
And a hospital employee was engaged to hold my IV and show me the way, and since my gown was on the right way, I didn't need to clutch the back closed. So there. In the bathroom, I drank deeply from the faucet. So there, too!
Back at my bed, it was more waiting, and more waiting, and finally Dr. L-- showed up. He answered more of my questions. Yes, there'd be yet another stent left behind, but they'd use the smallest they had. No, he hadn't used a laser last time--just a basket to get the stones out. Yes, he'd prescribe extra pain meds for the upcoming stent, since he knew I had so many problems.
Whenever he mentioned a stent, I had to put my hands over my face to shut out the fear. "Taking the stent out is almost as bad as the operation," I said, shaking again.
"I could put it on a string," he said. "It's inconvenient, but it makes taking the stent out a lot easier. I could give you another Valium and have you come in to the office for it."
"I hate that scope," I said. "Hate, hate, hate it."
So he said he'd use a string.
And then they gave me a dose of Versed, which made me a little dizzy, but I was determined to hang on to memory. The rest of the surgical team showed up, and I knew all of them except one guy, who was standing in the background. He was young and very handsome.
"Are you ready?" said Dr. L--.
"Who is that?" I asked, pointing.
The man introduced himself as a resident who'd be assisting. Later, Darwin told me he was trying not to laugh because, due to the Versed, my "who is that?" came out as a cat-call. When that happened, the anesthetist, who was also gay, caught Darwin's eye behind my back and winked, which only made things worse for Darwin. I don't remember it going that way, but that's what Darwin says happened.
They wheeled my bed down to the operating room, leaving Darwin behind. I hate losing my memory, and made a determined effort to remember what I saw: shelves of medical equipment, metal carts, cupboards, people in scrubs, a set of sinks with huge faucets. In the OR, one more person remarked on my gown being on backwards, and I gave my standard answer.
They moved me to the table, and there were the stirrups again. Dr. L-- promised to put extra padding on them this time so my legs wouldn't be cramped when I woke up. The anesthetist put a mask on me--
--and I was back in another room, surrounded by curtains. Everything was heavy and dark. I managed to crack an eye open and saw a female nurse typing at a portable computer station. I shut my eyes again, unhappy. For these procedures, I don't want women handling me, and I remember thinking, "Well, I'll just have to get through this."
A few moments later, a male nurse in scrubs came in. "I'll take over," he said, and the woman left. Oh, I was happy. I don't know if my chart said something about my past history so they gave me a male, or if it was coincidence, but I was glad nonetheless.
I hurt, but not nearly as much as before, and I wasn't nauseated. The anesthetist had done his job well.
Still, I was climbing out of heavy darkness, with every limb weighed down and my head swimming. The nurse shook my foot and called my name loudly. "Are you awake?" he boomed.
My eyes were open, but I couldn't speak yet, so I just nodded a little.
"My name is Craig," he said. "It looks like everything went well. You'll have to void your bladder, and then you can go home."
"Did they put in a stent?" I croaked.
"They did."
Here my heart sank. I hadn't realized how much I'd been hoping Dr. L-- would have changed his mind about that.
"Where's Darwin?" I asked. "I need Darwin."
"Who's Darwin?" Craig asked.
Shouldn't this be on my chart? I wondered. "He's my husband. I want to see him."
"First we should--"
"I want my husband!"
Craig shrugged, took out a phone, and asked for Darwin's number. I lay back and dozed off again, but a few moments later, I opened my eyes and saw him walking through the ward toward me with a big smile, and I felt so wonderful seeing his cheerful face. He kissed me.
"You look a lot better than last time," he said. "I'm so glad."
I was taking stock now. My legs didn't hurt. My lower body hurt only a little. I could feel the painkillers sliding through me, dulling the pain.
My gown was on the wrong way. Yes, some anal-retentive nurse or orderly had stripped my gown off, turned it around, and fed my arms through it. Whoever the asshole was hadn't even bothered to tie it shut, either. It felt petty and bullying. "Yeah, he won't put the gown on the way =we= want, so we'll just knock him out. See if he can stop us then!" Fuckwads. I hate hospitals and their pissy personnel.
I checked under the sheet.
WARNING: GRAPHIC STUFF TO FOLLOW!
A pair of what looked like nylon threads trailed from the end of my urethra, which was bruised and bloody. The threads looped around and were fastened to my shaft with surgical tape. A dribble of blood was already staining the sheet. My bladder felt full.
"It's good news," Darwin told me. "The doctor took out the first stent, then looked in your other kidney, but there weren't actually any stones in there. Just calcified tissue that =looks= like stones on the x-ray. You're clean!"
I was trying to respond to this, but my brain wouldn't let me. I was just glad Darwin was there, though now I was starting to hurt worse.
The nurse gave me a urinal. "You need to void," he said kindly.
It took some effort, but I was finally able to do it. A little. And it hurt. Fire blazed down my urethra, and my left side, where the new stent sat, was bring ripped apart. I screamed and screamed and clutched Darwin's hand.
When it was over, I leaned back on the bed, panting. Craig the Nurse ran a scan and announced my bladder has half empty. "You can go home soon," he said.
I gave him a "what the fuck do you know?" look. I couldn't even sit up and piss, let alone go home. At least I wasn't crying this time! I don't know what the anesthetist did, but that was a relief. Bawling in the ward on Darwin's shirt was no great fun last time, and it was nice not to weather it this time.
An Asian man came in and introduced himself as Dr. Wong. I recognized his name from the paperwork on my last operation, but I'd never seen him before.
"I don't remember you," I said drunkenly.
He sighed. "No one ever does. It's the curse of my position."
He went over post-op stuff with Darwin, because I kept falling asleep. He reiterated what Darwin had said--that the first stent was gone, there were no stones in my left side, the calcified tissue is harmless (though it may generate more stones and I should get a yearly x-ray to check), and there were a lot of drugs for me to take. I lay there, feeling stupid and helpless and weak.
Then came some better news: because no stones had come out, the stent could be removed in a couple days instead of staying in a week. (!)
After Dr. Wong left, Craig the Nurse stepped away as well. I turned to Darwin. "I need to use the urinal again. Maybe I should stand up."
Darwin helped me to my feet. I leaned heavily on him and tried the urinal. This time it worked more easily, but it was still so painful I couldn't help howling. The strings hanging out felt strange as well. They gave--still give--me the sensation that I'm dribbling all the time.
I got back into bed and rested some more. Darwin chatted with Craig, who returned. I just tried to gather strength. This operation hadn't been nearly as bad for me as the previous one, though it had lasted just as long--two hours. I'm sure the fact that they hadn't made multiple trips down my urinary canal dragging stones in a basket made a major difference. Darwin repeated that I looked a lot better than last time.
Darwin had also, at my request, recorded his meeting with Dr. L-- after the surgery. (I asked him to do this because, much as I adore Darwin, he's awful at remembering medical details and makes vague statements like, "The doctor said it was fine.") Listening to the recording helped keep me calm because I felt more informed.
Finally, it was time to go home. Same routine as before: Darwin ran ahead to get the car while some lady pushed me through the hallways in a wheelchair. Out front, Darwin helped me into the car and we drove home.
At home, I was resting in bed. Darwin brought me a snack--
--and suddenly I burst into tears. I cried and cried and cried while Darwin held me. I couldn't get myself back under control, and I said all the things I'd said last time, that I felt stupid, that I couldn't stop, that I felt weak. This time, though, there was an element of release. This was my last operation, and the doctor had confirmed it was over, and everything I'd been holding in came pouring out.
"It's a delayed reaction," Darwin said, stroking my head. "Just get through it, you'll be fine."
And I kept crying. So the anesthetist was only able to delay the inevitable.
Going to the bathroom is still a horrible chore. The stent--now on my left again--rips up my insides no matter what, and the strings hanging out of me make things touchier. And once the hospital painkillers wore off, I was hurting again. More pills!
That night, I woke up with an entirely new problem.
GRAPHIC STUFF BEHIND THE CUT
Pain woke me, and it was harsh stuff. My groin felt like it was being sliced apart. I stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the light, and checked myself. Like most males, I'd gotten an erection while I slept, and it was a good sign I had one now. It meant there was no injury. But whoever had installed the strings and the tape for the stent hadn't left enough slack. The strings were stretched taut as cello strings between my urethra and the tape on my shaft, and I wasn't even fully "up." I didn't want to think what might happen if I were.
I forced myself to go to the bathroom, and the resulting gut pain dimmed the enthusiasm of my genitalia. I tried to pull more slack from the taped part of the threads, but they wouldn't budge. I was reluctant to remove the tape entirely--would the stent be prone to falling out if I did? Would the freed strings catch on something?
I went back to bed, but an hour or so later, I was back in the bathroom with the same problem. This time, I carefully pulled some of the tape free and worked some slack out, but I wasn't sure it would be enough. This got me to thinking--how did the person who applied this thing know how much slack to give? Clearly he or she had underestimated. I wasn't happy at this development. It only made clearer that a team of people were fucking around with my body while I was unconscious, and they didn't always know what they were doing. I was betting it was a woman. A man wouldn't have made this kind of mistake.
The problem didn't repeat itself a third time, thank heavens. In the morning, I called the urologist's office and asked to speak with a nurse. "I'd prefer to talk to a man," I finished.
"We don't have any men on staff today," the receptionist said. "But we do have a female nurse you can talk to."
Reluctantly, I agreed. What choice did I have?
The nurse came on the line, and I explained the problem to her. When I got to the part about being erect, she interrupted in a stern voice, "Did the doctor say you could have relations?"
I was so shocked, I couldn't speak for several moments. Then I got angry. Very, very angry. "Ma'am," I snapped, "you =do= work in a urologist's office, right?"
"Yes, but--" she began.
I railroaded over her. "Then you should damn well know basic male anatomy, including the fact that men become erect several times a day, whether they're 'having relations' or not. Why are you answering a doctor's phone if you don't know this?" Oh, I was pissed off!
"I'm very sorry," she said, suddenly contrite. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"I don't need information about 'relations,' " I snapped. "I need to know what to do about this tape."
"I'll have to ask one of the residents and call you back," she said. "And I'm sorry again."
I hung up.
A few minutes later, she called back and reported that the tape could come off, as long as I didn't pull the string. She apologized to me again, and I coldly accepted.
Darwin, to his chagrin, was enlisted to help me pull the tape off. It was a three-hand job to do it without yanking the stent out. We succeeded, but I didn't like the much longer strings hanging free. They kept catching on the inside of my clothes and tugging painfully. Finally, Darwin drove me to the drug store and we found the same kind of surgical tape the hospital had used. We bought a packet, and back home Darwin had the fun job of helping me retape the strings, this time with an appropriate amount of slack. (Don't ask how we figured this out!)
Meanwhile, I made an appointment at the urologist's for Friday to get the stent removed. I could technically do it myself--all you have to do is pull the string--but the thought makes me shake, so I'm going in to have someone else do it while I'm on Valium. On Friday, everything will be over at last.
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