Come In. Sit Down. Can I Get You a Cup of Coffee? Are you Comfortable? Let’s Talk About My Penis.

Background: About 12 years ago, I had an “infection,” it wasn’t that kind of infection, but an infection nonetheless. A quick round of antibiotics later, and everything was good to go.

Or so I thought.

Fast forward to 2008. I’m in a hotel in NOLA, and after enjoying some local fare, I made a pit stop in my room and notice that my output was, how shall we say? Tinged with red.

I’m not a doctor, nor do I play one on the Internets. (Well, except on alt.furries.lame.tv.re-creations. Call me Doggie Bowser, MD. Don’t judge.) Anyway, I surmised instantly that this could not be a Good Thing, so I made a mental note to make an appointment with my (youngish female) doctor upon my return.

I won’t go into the details of that visit, other than to say that I understand the term “clinical detachment” much better, and also my doc actually LOL’d when were done and I said, “Usually when I get that done, it’s not covered by insurance.”

That visit led to a referral to a urologist, henceforth known as “The Cock Doc.” The Cock Doc, while a competent and highly regarded professional, has the personality of a bag of sand. Which made me uncomfortable because what better opportunity are you going to have to make dick jokes? Dick jokes are the universal social lubricant, as we all know.

A quick examination and history, and he decided he wanted to look at my bladder using a small camera. It took me 3 nanoseconds to understand that the odds were strongly against him working the camera down through my kidneys. The shortest trip from A to B was obviously via my urethra, and you don’t have to have a degree in physiology to understand the implications of that.

The procedure is called a cystoscopy. You need only watch a minute of this video to get a good visual on what a cystocopy is all about.

Yeah. So, anyway, the dreaded date arrived, and you can imagine that I entered the exam room with some trepidation; especially as it looks a bit like a medieval torture chamber, what with the stirrups and all. Yes. Stirrups.

Now, as you can imagine, you probably don’t want that camera run up to your bladder without a little something to numb the pain, and that is provided. In gel form. Delivered the same route that the camera will follow.

So after getting through being numbed up, and waiting for the camera insertion, it takes all of 15 seconds for him to say, “Can’t get in there. You have a stricture.”

Stricture?

“Scarring and closure of the urethra.” Of course, I think immediately of Hank Hill and his narrow urethra, but the LOL’s just aren’t coming for some reason.

“What do we do about that?”

“We’ll have to cut it open.”

Now, of course, the last thing any dude wants to hear about anything chonson-related is the word “cut.” But, given the options and the ever-looming possibility of the “C-word,” I figure that it’s best to go ahead and have it done. So, I pick myself up off the floor and have it scheduled.

The big day arrives, and I head to the OR prep where, of course, the nurses are female. They do some prep work and stick in an IV line, and after a while, the anesthesiologist comes in. He asks — seriously, I assume — whether I want general or just a spinal.

I said, “Well, we’ve already got some tubing open here in my hand, and to be quite honest with you, I would prefer to sleep through this whole thing and wake up, say, next June.”

So, I went to sleep for a while.

Then I woke up.

Still feeling groggy and not quite with it, I asked whoever was within earshot, “Did you give me a couple extra inches while you were down there? Least you could do.”

I heard a couple LOL’s and went back to sleep.

There was no cancer or anything abnormal in the bladder, but I had to wear a catheter for a week to keep the urethra open while it healed, then everything seemed to be hunky dory. I was peeing well, dudes.

But, over the next year, I noticed that it seemed to be closing back up again, so I went back to the Cock Doc. He needed x-rays.

The first shot he wanted was called a “Retrograde Urethrogram.” To get that particular picture, they put a pediatric catheter about 1″ into the tip of your peen. Then they inject dye into it, whilst taking pictures. Oh, and you’re naked except for the dignity-preserving gown, and you have to hold your own peen closed so the dye doesn’t come out, and is forced into your bladder.

But the fun is just beginning.

I can’t remember the name of the other one. I think it’s HVUC. With that one, they run the catheter all the way to your bladder (which is how I learned, incidentally, that I have a sensitive prostate) and fill you up with dye, then take pictures as you piss the dye out. They mention that if they don’t get the pictures they like, they will have to repeat the procedure. I vow to them that I will let them fill my bladder to the point of bursting, so that we only have to do it once.

I made good on that promise. According to the radiologist, only one other person held more dye than me. Dammit. Second place is just the first loser.

There was a short list of options. 1.) Surgery to get it repaired once and for all; 2.) Come in 3-4 times a year to have my urethra dilated until I’m dead.

Hmmmm….let me think about that one.

I opt for surgery, and ask the Cock Doc who should do it. He gives me 3 options, and I just have one question: “If it were you, who would you have do it?”

He recommended a doctor in Seattle, and I began to prepare myself for an Encounter With Modern Medicine™.

(Stay tuned for Part II…)

Filed under: Beavis, You Are One Dumb Sonofabitch, Get The Fuck Outta Here!, LOLPENIS!, What the Fuck?