This post will focus strictly on clinical medical data, which some of you might find useful, particularly if you’re considering getting a prostate exam. This may have the unintended consequence of sending most of you screaming out into the night, so if you proceed beyond this point, viewer discretion is advised.
Still here? You can’t say I didn’t warn you. I wouldn’t share this experience with you, except that my wife thinks it’s really funny, and she believes protecting my privacy is less important than having a laugh at her husband’s expense. So, without further ado, I take you back about three years or so, when I discovered I was peeing more than I thought was normal.
I consulted with a urologist, who asked me to return for an exam. “We’ll do some x-rays and other stuff,” he said nonchalantly. What he should have said was, “We’ll do some x-rays… AND OTHER STUFF! MWAHAHAHAHAHA!” It’s all in the emphasis, really.
I came back and drank some nasty goop that made it easier for the x-rays to map my urinary tract, and, at first glance, the technician couldn’t see any problems. They then asked me to come back later that afternoon for the other stuff, which I naively assumed would be more x-rays. That doesn’t make sense in hindsight, because if that were the original plan, they would have said, “We’ll do some x-rays… and then we’ll do some more x-rays.” I didn’t anticipate what the “other stuff” would entail, because it’s forbidden for the mortal soul to peer into the very depths of hell. The technician’s cackling should have tipped me off, but as you can tell from reading this blog, I’m really not that bright.
So I came back, and they told me to take off my pants – never a good sign – and to put my feet up in stirrups. This would have been a familiar setting to any of you who have regular gynecological exams, but for people with penises, this is not typically part of the program. It’s especially awkward when the urologist’s assistant, a fairly attractive young woman in her mid-to-late twenties, strolls into the room when your middle-aged manhood is on full display. As a good Mormon boy, I’ve reserved that view exclusively for my wife only, although she’s never had it with that particular presentation.
I should know the name of that assistant, because she has the unique distinction of being only the second woman to lay hands on my apparatus during my adult life, and the first to do so without the clergy’s consent. She was holding a syringe full of liquid, which I presumed was some sort of local anesthetic, although I was put off by the very large needle on the end.
“Where does that go?” I asked.
“Right here,” she said, with the tube in one hand and “here” in the other. She injected what she called a “lubricating gel” directly into an orifice that until that moment had always been “exit only,” if you know what I mean.
“Trust me, you’re going to want that later,” she said, which, honestly, is probably the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard.
She left and returned with the doctor a few minutes later, and he brought with him a medical instrument designed by Savonarola during the Spanish Inquisition. I didn’t get its exact measurements, but I can say without exaggeration that it was approximately seventeen feet long and between two and three miles wide.
“This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” I said.
The doctor blinked a couple of times and then said, “It’s going to be… uncomfortable.” And Mount Everest isn’t really huge; it’s just “sizeable.”
Then the expedition began.
Choosing a verb here requires a certain delicacy. Should I go with “insertion?” “Penetration?” “Violation?” “Dude rape?” How does one describe the full fury of a huge friggin’ stick rammed straight up your schlong? I’ll leave that one to the philosophers.
It was excruciating, and it went on forever. The guy was rooting around, digging in deeper, all the while telling me “it’s much easier if you relax.” People who hear those words are seldom the same afterwards.
It must have ended eventually, since I’m still alive. Then I heard a huge rush of running water, like someone was drawing a bath. Turns out it was me, relieving myself involuntarily as the lovely assistant held a receptacle at the bottom of the urine waterfall. That’s not my favorite way to end a first date, but I’m way out of practice.
It also turned out that the gel wasn’t just a lubricant; it was, indeed, an anesthetic, and once it wore off, there was a lot of pain. And spasming. And – yick – blood. Going number one was a ten on the pain scale, and I had very little control as to when and where I did it.
Immediately after the exam, I had to go pick up the kids, who were playing at their cousin’s house. I called Mrs. Cornell on my cell phone to tell her I had the children in tow, when suddenly it happened.
“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Cornell asked.
“I’m wetting myself! I’m wetting myself!”
We traded in that car right after that. If you ever find yourself buying a 1998 Saturn SL sedan, know that some things are not necessarily included in a CarFax report.
By the way, my prostate’s fine, and the urination problem went away with a few changes in my diet. But if it ever comes back, I intend to pee eighty times a day if necessary and keep the whole thing to myself.