Naw, too acronymish. I sound like someone from the Dept. of Homeland Insecurity.
I’ll try it again. I am to report to my urologist, Doctor Potty, to have Trans Urethral Microwave Thermotherapy for my Benign Prostatic Hyperlplase.
How’s that? Yeah, way too doctorish.
Okay, okay, I’ll say it in English, but don’t get angry at me if you’re squeamish. As far as I’m concerned, there aren’t enough good squeams around anymore and they’re good for you—they make you appreciate that it is I and not you going through this shit.
In a nutshell (har) my prostate gland, which is normally the size of a walnut, is now the size of a golf ball. The larger it gets the harder (har) it is to pee; the prostate, you see, is choking the crap out of my urethra, so the best I can do is dribble a little at a time. Very little, and about a hundred times a day (and night). Well, not a hundred, but enough to be a real pain in the ass (har).
So the Doc and his assistant are going to burn a bunch of tissue off the prostate with microwaves, thus making it possible to pee normally again.
Isn’t that something? Boy, I can hardly wait: they’re going to stick a catheter, the microwave probe, and a balloon up my schwantz, while a camera is going up my rectal area so they can see what the hell they’re doing. The balloon? Well, that’s a high-tech safety valve: if there’s too much heat it’ll bust.
Huh. I wonder who’s going to blow up the safety valve.
Just a little more FYI. They only use local anesthetics because I have to be awake to detect pain. The first local is the fun one: right on the tip of my aforementioned schwantz so the roadies can move all the equipment into my bladder. And don’t forget the enema I have to do in the privacy of my own bathroom; without one, I suspect they may get some pretty shitty pictures on their camera.
At least the post-op poop sheet they gave me is encouraging. The very first line says, verbatim:
Expect to get worse before you get better!
What a kidder that Doc Potty is.
It also says no sex for two weeks or more. I will bet the last 15¢ in Martha’s retirement fund that she doesn’t have one headache for the next two weeks or more.
But the hell with Martha and sex and blood and catheters and all the rest of it because I want my mommy.
[Continue to Potty Problems, the Sequel.]