And so there I was hurtling through time and space with the rest of humanity and doing a better job than usual of hanging on. Losing some weight, healing body and mind with bike rides through the desert, not feeling the compulsion to keep looking over my shoulder for the Footstep of Doom. I woke the morning of the 11th expecting just another non-momentous day and found myself standing in front of the Oracle that is the Big White Bowl, guided there by decades of repetition. I stood waiting for the affirmation from what once was a cascading symphony that in recent years had become little more than a few sad notes hummed by a leaky faucet. And even though I had not slipped into my stone for the day, I realized the Oracle was silent. I stood stupefied, urged Mr. Winky to grow a set and show some gumption. Dammit, be strong man, push your way through it. But Mr. Winky had apparently skipped out overnight and headed to some cheap condo in Florida to retire. And though the Winkster’s been pretty useless for some time now, I guess I always expected some minimal level of lifetime service. So I stood there, a freshly initiated urinary eunuch and for a split-second heard the whistle of it cutting through the air before looking up just in time to see the well-worn and shit-encrusted sole of the Footstep of Doom.
I’d been warned Mr. Winky might wimp our as far back as 2014 when docs in Asheville grilled my prostate over a bed of radioactive coals. Warned again November 2019 when Doc Vargas in Phoenix shot protons at the cancer the grilling had missed years before. The hope was that the slow, but never leisurely enough to be marketable, flow of the River Wee would grow stronger with time but it didn’t and remained weaker than spit. As previously advised should Mr. Winky ever give up the ghost, I headed to Mayo’s emergency room where Cath Erter and I reunited, having met a few years back after a brief fling my butt had with the hood of a Ford Ranger. And while our meeting this time didn’t exactly set me tap-dancing to Yiddish show tunes, I have to admit it did help me from keeping everything inside until I exploded. Agitated bladder the comely PA told me via videodoctoring the next day. Cath needs to stay a week to make sure things calm down. So I assured her I’d do my best to help and spend some quality time meditating with my bladder and listening to audio of tropical rain.
A very rough week followed. Not able to sit, I lay on my side adding pillows to lift me up and position myself to use the computer, although the Dave-Computer interface is one of many new exciting opportunities for personal growth I’m still dealing with. Then there were the spasms, as close as I want to get to what I imagine childbirth must feel like; indeed I used similar breathing exercises to get through. At the end of the week, Cath and I parted company, only to be reunited the next day, confirming that what I had thought was the bottom of the universe was actually just a ledge. Since then Cath has been inserted twice more and now we’ll spend the next month together. Medication has kept the spasms at bay and the urology folks skill has made Cath’s presence somewhat less harsh though still obnoxious. Still, walks longer than 20 feet are for masochists only and it remains next to impossible to get comfortable although I spend a good chunk of each day trying. Fortunately another outstanding opportunity for personal growth has presented itself in that my permanently dislocated collarbone (from aforementioned hood love a few years back) and adjoining arm have been promoted to Primary Lifting Agents and opened up a whole new arena of pain to explore. Golly gee-whiz, does it get any better?
Will know next steps in about a month. Until then even though you may tell your partners they’re the reason you wake up every morning, everyone knows the real reason is to pee. And believe me, you should cherish each golden drop.