In Which My Penis and I Have an Encounter With Modern Medicine™

If you haven’t already, this will make more sense if you read the first part.

If you’ve had a recent encounter with Modern Medicine™, you know that a hospital of any decent size will have a well-oiled bureacracy that rivals that of the federal government, both in efficiency and friendliness.

So it was that after I arranged an appointment for the surgery with the New Cock Doc, I got a packet in the mail with a whole shit-ton of useful information, and also some forms (surprise!) to fill out with respect to my current health status.

I wasted no time getting the forms back, since I was at home and had all the information handy. Insurance info, health history, medications, the whole shitaree went on that form, which I mailed back in the enclosed, pre-addressed envelope; all in the name of efficiency and preparation. Sending them the forms well ahead of time would give them ample opportunity to lose them.

All that was really left was to make travel arrangements and wait.

But, as the wise philosopher and sage Tom Petty once noted, the waiting is the hardest part.

My procedure was to be a urethroplasty. Long story short: reconstruction of the urethra. If the damage is small enough, they just snip the ends and tie it back together, much like splicing a wire. If the damaged area is larger, they create a graft from the tissue inside of your cheek, and patch everything up that way.

It’s one of those things that sounds very interesting on an intellectual level. “Wow. Using cheek tissue to repair a vital part of the genito-urinary tract. That is something else, right there; a marvel of modern medicine indeed.”

Unless it is happening to you, of course. Then you start thinking, “What are the downsides of this wonder?” And, being a dude, and further considering the system that is being repaired, you start to wonder that unlike Commander Data in episode #34 of TNG (“Blaze of Glory”) whether or not you will be “fully functional in that regard” when all is said and done. And when I say “you,” I mean “me,” of course.

Now, I’m also a strong believer in “informed consent,” and thanks to these here intarwebs, one can become more informed than ever. I did a lot of reading and Googling, and was feeling OK about the whole thing. I mean, not 100%, but it seemed to me that it was something that was, as much as these things can be, fairly routine, and had an excellent track record for working.

In most cases.

So, with that .05% failure rate in my brain, I continued educating myself on the procedure.

I’ve been around the internets for a long time. I had a shell account for a long time, and used to use nn to read newsgroups. I used to use Veronica to find excellent Gopher sites. I’ve been around. I survived goatse. I tolerated tubgirl. I’ve seen stuff. I’m jaded.

Never before in my travels of the interwebs have my knees ever buckled, nor have I felt light-headed.

Until I saw this video of a urethroplasty with a buccal mucosa graft.

Somewhere, my mind had decided for me that this was one of those surgeries where they use a little scope and do some minimally invasive snipping and sewing. They have all the robot shit now, and lasers and whatnot, you know? So, I watched in horror and revulsion as I realized they had to make a huge incision. Right in the perineum. (Or, in technical terms, taint.. If you are not aware of that technical term, Urban Dictionary may be of help.) I vaguely remember whispering to myself, as I struggled to maintain consciousness, “My God. They’re going to go in through the taint.”

My confidence was shaken, to say the least. But, I couldn’t exactly turn back now.

So, I went to Seattle, where my first appointment was with the radiologist.

All of this took place at Harborview Medical Center, which is run by UW, and hence a “teaching hospital.” I had to repeat the x-rays I’d had earlier. The radiologist asked, “When was the last time you had these?”

“A couple months ago.”

“Have you had anything done since?”

“No.”

“Hmmm…I’m not sure why we need these again.”

Already, I like this guy because I had been thinking the same exact thing.

That is short-lived, though, as we have to repeat the HVUC. He ran the catheter about an inch down, and blew up the balloon on the end, which has two settings: Can’t Feel it at All and JEBUS FUCK THAT HURTS.

As he’s filling up my bladder with radioactive dye, he keeps pulling on the fucking catheter, which I am patiently explaining to him. “Uh, you’re pulling on the catheter.” “Uh, the catheter is coming out.” “The catheter is out now.” (I am the John Madden of radiological play-by-play.) Then I got the giggles for a while, just because of the absurdity of the whole situation.

After the third attempt, I was done. They could make do with what they had. You can only have an inflated catheter pulled out of you so many times (3) before you’ve had enough.

Next visit was to the New Cock Doc. Upon arrival, I was placed into a room, where evidently, I would have to wait until the Second Coming or I healed myself. Fortunately, there were medical diagrams of peens and “Wall Of Colon,” so I could sit there and giggle, Butt-Head-like while I waited.

One of the nurses brought me some forms to fill out, and I did, and one of them seemed vaguely familiar. Yes, it was the one I’d filled out a month or so prior to this engagement with Modern Medicine™. (If you hadn’t figured that out already, I am very bad at foreshadowing.) But, you know, I’ve got nowhere else to be all day, so I’m game.

The Doc comes in, and we visit a little while about the history, and what will be happening the next day. I ask again, “Think you can throw an extra couple inches on, as long as you’re in there.” He replies, “Sorry. We ran that special last week.”

Good sense of humor, the doc. I ask, “Evidently, you get asked that a lot.” “Pretty much every time.” Heh.

He tells me that everything looks good, and that, despite the initial prognosis, it looks like he won’t have to take anything out of my cheek. This makes me happy, as I am of the surgical philosophy, “The less cutting the better.”

My last appointment for the day is with Pre-Anesthesia, where I spend the better part of my time with a lovely and charming woman whose job, it appears, is to re-ask me every single question I’ve answered over the course of all the forms and appointments.

Then it’s back to the motel to brood, and worry about oversleeping and missing the train.

Next morning, I show up at the appointed time (well, about 1/2 hour early, because I’m spiffy like that) and begin the process of cooling my heels for 2+ hours. But, I am finally called back to pre-op, where, by my count, there are at least three nurses, two anesthesiologists, six students and a random guy named “Earl.” Their job, is to ask me the same questions from the previous day, but each of them get to ask them. Perhaps they think I am being tricksy and trying to get a surgery that I’m not qualified to have. Or something. The doc draws and arrow under my belly button pointing down. So they know where they’re supposed to cut, I guess. I am not heartened by this.

Shortly thereafter, the anesthesiologist pumps some drugs into my veins, and within a minute or two, I am feeling extremely mellow as they wheel my down the hall. And it amazes me that they can do so, because the hall seems to be growing, and I get the giggles. Then I’m lying on the operating table and a nurse is holding a bag (oxygen?) over my face, and annoying the shit out of me because she is talking and the bag is leaking, and then …

… I open my eyes and see that, instead of the surgery completing at noon, it apparently lasted a couple extra hours. It’s almost 3:00, and I went in at 10:30. I am aware of two things: my head is swimming, and the inside of my cheek feels like it has been gently caressed by an industrial cheese grater. I don’t know how much time I spent in the post-op area. It was not unpleasant. The nurse was cute and checked my blood pressure a lot, and I slept a lot. Which isn’t a bad way to go through life. Except for the pain part.

But, I didn’t get to stay there very long before I was whisked away to the recovery room, which I shared with a guy in his 60′s who had a hernia repaired. All I knew or cared at that point was that my cheek hurt far more than my taint, or “repair site,” as the docs say. Shortly after getting situated in the recovery room, the New Cock Doc and Junior Cock Doc came in to look at their handiwork. They seemed pleased. I just wanted to sleep, and be knocked out by pain pills. And find my dignity.

Stay tuned for the thrilling finale.

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