I went to Paris

I didn’t really go to Paris, but this might be the clearest chance I ever get to reference a Jimmy Buffett song. In “He Went to Paris”, Jimmy sings of an 80-year-old man reviewing his life and concluding “some of it’s magic, and some of it’s tragic, but I had a good life all the way.” Last week I had prostrate surgery and the recovery bays were named for famous cities. I recovered in Paris, between Athens and Melbourne. A stretch, I grant you, but please hear me out.

The outpatient procedure is called green light surgery because of the colour of the laser beam that vapourizes the fatty tissue clogging the prostate. After 75 years of fried corn meal mush, bacon cheeseburgers, countless beers and not nearly enough BBQ ribs at Gates and Sons in Kansas City, my prostate said “enough” and started shutting down. My first warning was on an epic road trip in 2019 with my Great Good Friend Bill. After a few days of junk food, away from Jude’s healthy cooking, my prostate told me at a Red Lobster in Rapid City, South Dakota, that I needed to review the error of my ways.

I couldn’t pee. The pain came in waves like contractions, which I would later tell Jude was likely the closest I’d ever get to giving birth. She would later tell me to get serious. Bill took me to the nearest ER and we were on our way after an hour or so. That quick stop cost me $3000, not one cent of which was covered by my useless travelers’ insurance. I had to eat prudently the rest of my time in the Midwest, home of the pork tenderloin sandwich and the chicken-fried most anything. Agonizing.

In August my prostate reminded me that I wasn’t aging gracefully, so my urologist suggested the surgery. After a mercifully short wait, they lit me up. The anesthesiologist suggested I go with the spinal rather than the general so I could watch the show on a monitor. I’m really glad I did. It was like a video game as the surgeon ripped though the fat like a Roto-Rooter through a drain pipe, which is basically what a prostate is. The tissue melted into nothing, sometimes bubbling. Maybe that was the beer. And sometimes the tissue waved like one of those balloon guys outside a car dealership.

After an hour of this frivolity, I was wheeled to Paris for a four-hour stay. Regrettably it had no French cuisine, but I did get two popsicles.

So, guys, please get regular prostate checks from age 50 on. It’s not worth the popsicles.