Anchor Struck

Last week I had a cystoscopy because my primary doctor is concerned about

my PSA levels.  It was my first, and I earnestly wish I had read the informative

pamphlet the urologist mailed me a bit more thoroughly.  I didn’t really grasp

that he was going to stick a tube up my Willy Johnson (TM).

I did notice that the pamphlet stated “any discomfort should be tolerable”, but

I didn’t notice that it had been written by the Marquis de Sade.

Jude took time off from work to hold my hand during the procedure.  I wish

she’d held both of the urologist’s hands, instead.  Everything went as described

in the first four paragraphs, including me being “awake and aware of being

touched”.

It was actually a congenial atmosphere as they male nurse chatted and prepped

my packet.  I was as relaxed as I’ll ever be under fluorescent lighting with my

pants off and my feet in stirrups.  The pamphlet stressed the importance of that.

Then he walked in the room, and — with precious little foreplay — inserted the 

aforementioned tube.  I thought I was going to go through the fluorescent

lighting.  The stirrups held me in place.

The urologist said “you may feel a slight sensation” as he started pushing the

tube toward my bladder.  I wanted to be a brave Marine in front of my sweetie,

but all I could think about was why was the tube wrapped in sandpaper.

Another shove and I decided that he was using equipment originally used to

dig the Chunnel.  The only thing that saved me was the distraction of watching

the jaunt through my johnson on a monitor.  I think I saw some squiggly things

much like these from a Donald Fagen video.  (“Yes, we’re gonna have a wingding.”)
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In the classic word of Rick Perry, “Oops!”  I was working on this post for Friday

and accidentally pushed “Publish” when I meant to hit “Preview”.  I’ll have Part

Two Friday.