Need a good catch phrase to redirect a topic of discussion that you're not comfortable with? Want to get that pain-in-the-ass guy in the next cubicle to stop poking his head over the wall every five minutes to borrow your one remaining good pen? Would you like to get your overbearing bitch of a mother-in-law to stop calling to complain about the crappy bed you've got in the guest bedroom that's giving her a backache every time she comes to visit?
I got a guaranteed conversation killer for ya', folks -- just throw out these two words and watch people suddenly realize they've got someplace better to be than to stand there talking to you. And those words are (cue the music):
Urethral spasm.
Now for those that have forgotten completely about recent events in my world, allow me to say that last week's surgery to remove a cyst from my testicle, for the most part, went quite well. They got the cyst out, but also had to take the left epididymis because the cyst had basically taken that bad boy hostage and the doctor, thankfully, didn't want to try and play cut-along-the-dotted-line with it. (And, just so you know, the epididymis sits on top of the testicle and serves as, for lack of a better phrase, a holding tank for your sperm before they are ejaculated -- not that I have had reason to DO such a thing lately, but now I've only got one holding tank, instead of two, to work with.)
Unfortunately, the fine medical staff at Emmanuel Hospital in Omaha forgot to cross one thing off the "Things Mikey C MUST do before we can release him back into the general population" list, and that thing was -- to take a leak. Normally, they make sure all the plumbing is workin' before they turn you loose, but I guess they figured, "Hey, the guy just got part of his package hacked off, so there's no need to see if all his junk's workin' or not. We'll just assume he's O.K. Besides, hasn't he had enough pain down there for one day?"
Well, it wasn't working well Friday night. In fact, I'm not sure which level of frustration was higher -- my ongoing drought in the pursuit of carnal relations with the female gender (over two years and counting, thank you very little), or the fact that I couldn't pee to save my soul (and isn't it odd that both of the major frustrating events in my life had something to do with my penis? Oh wait, I'm a guy -- that sort of thing is just natural).
By Saturday, I was in really bad shape. No kidding -- I was in a lot of pain, I was constipated, I couldn't focus on the TV, the laptop or anything else without lapsing in and out of consciousness. Strangely enough, this was a remarkable re-enactment of most of my 20's, only it wasn't nearly as much fun (from what I have been told, anyway).
Eventually, my sister -- who, evidently, drew the shortest straw in the contest to see which family member would have the unfortunate honor of trying to get me to take my meds and not move around so much, per the doctor's orders -- suggested we go to the emergency room. I wanted to go home (we were staying at my dad's in Plattsmouth). In fact, I wanted to go anywhere where I could be alone and suffer in peace and quiet -- like the middle of Interstate 80 during Friday afternoon rush-hour traffic. But, under protest, I went to the emergency room.
And it was there, boys and girls, that I got to experience a "urethral spasm" firsthand. And to make a long story short (although I will make it much longer after this paragraph, don't you worry), if the pain of several hours of childbirth is ANYTHING like the 60-90 seconds I went through during the course of that "urethral spasm" -- I have a completely new and unshakeable respect for any woman out there who has given birth. That was the kind of pain I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Hell, I wouldn't even wish it on my ex-wife (then again, she was married to me for over five years, so she's already suffered enough).
When I went into the emergency room, my daughter and sister were sitting in the room with me. As we were waiting for someone -- a doctor, a nurse, the janitor, a long-lost uncle, the town drunk -- to show up, my sister got a text message from her husband, who was at the Nebraska-Kansas State game with my dad and his two sons. Jenni remarked that Nebraska was winning 31-10 -- and I was sure that the urine buildup had entered my nervous system and made me start hallucinating. In fact, she had to SHOW the text message to me to keep me from losing my mind.
Eventually, the doctor came in and, after evaluating the situation, said he was going to insert a catheter into my penis. Normally, my response would have been something along the lines of, "Only if you want your epitaph to say, 'I was bludgeoned to death by an irate patient with a broken catheter.'" Instead, I was about a step away from offering to have catheters stuck in every possible orifice -- whatever it took to take care of the problem.
Once the catheter went in, the discomfort began. Any time you have something going in a door that God has marked "Exit Only," it's not fun. It's about as comforting as listening to Hillary Clinton tell us how things are going to be when she is President. So there was that discomfort, followed by a momentary feeling as if the pressure of holding enough liquid to water Grandma's petunias for an entire summer was beginning to subside.
That's when the ol' "urethral spasm" made its appearance.
How does it feel, you are probably asking yourself. I'm going to tell you EXACTLY how it feels, and I encourage you to follow these instructions to get a REALLY GOOD IDEA of what it feels like:
1. Take any kind of metal wire that is connected to an electrical source. The more volts, the better (I recommend 10,000 -- I could've handled more, really).
2. Now take that wire and, without a moment's hesitation, jam it up that special place where your bladder empties out.
3. Leave it there until you come to the realization that, when they announce your death on the local news that night, it will include the words "catheter", "urethral spasm" and "he screamed 'IT (EXPLETIVE) HURTS!!!!' 37 times before he was bludgeoned to death by an ER nurse with a German accent."
And if a family member hears you laughing hysterically as you read this, offer him or her the opportunity to try it for himself or herself. No, really, I insist -- why should I have all the freakin' fun here?
The whole situation lasted, and this is a guess on my part, about 30-60 seconds. It FELT as if it lasted as long as the Clinton and Carter presidencies put together. But once the pain peaked and began subsiding, I actually felt pretty good. And when you drain 1,900cc of urine from your kidney -- is there REALLY a better feeling in the world? (For the record, the doctor told me that, "When you can pee so bad you can taste it, there is about 400cc of fluid in your bladder." Obviously, I had gone well past tasting it -- I could actually SEE it.)
The good news is that, after about 48 hours with a bag strapped to my leg, I went in to see the doctor on Monday morning. He was surprised and disappointed to see the catheter in place ("I'm going to have a talk with some nurses about that," I recall him saying during my visit -- and I'm hoping he passes their names on to me so I can stop by in six months for my checkup and give THEM a "urethral spasm" as a thank-you gift), but was happy to report that everything looked good (which may be the ONLY time I have ever had ANYBODY -- male or female -- tell me my scrotal region looked good) and that I should be dancing within a week or so.
If there has been any good to come out of the insanity of the past week, though, it's in the fact that I've had the opportunity to really educate people about the dangers of "urethral spasms" and what it feels like to live with such an affliction.
It's also made from some very quiet, uninterrupted days at the office -- which is just fine for what's left of me.
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