I have a personal relationship with my bladder. I know it seems odd. We’re not dating, although it does come along with me everywhere I go. For the most part, it’s a tolerable partnership, except when it gets pissed off.
We became close several years ago when I was diagnosed with bladder cancer. Any organ or body part that decides to revolt immediately gets attention. Luckily my bladder leaked information, and they found the malignancy at an early stage.
This was good news and bad news. The cancer was treatable, but the process involved numerous cystoscopies and catheterizations. This is an exciting procedure where a tube with a camera is inserted into a small hole down in your southern hemisphere. The doctor can then view inside your bladder like he’s James Cameron searching for hidden treasure on the Titanic.
I was allowed to watch the deep bladder diving on a video screen. Inside the bladder, it’s pink and wrinkled like a geriatric Barbie. I was hoping to see a couple of minnows or a sea monkey waving as it swam by. There was nothing there worth getting a DVD copy of Vince and the Bladder of Secrets.
By now the offending organ and I were on a first-name basis. I’d seen him up close. Since he was south of the border, his nickname became Señor Peepee. We were a team as we went through our immunotherapy to kill the cancer cells. The treatment involved a catheter being inserted and a liquid drug injected into the señor. The treatment called BCG is a vaccine made from a germ that’s related to the one that causes tuberculosis. No anxiety there—calm down, Peepee.
The treatment was once a week for six weeks. By the time I was catheterized six times and injected with the solution, Señor Peepee was a drug addict, and my urethra was the size of the Holland Tunnel. I’m now a walking pipe organ.
During the weeks of BCG infusion, the liquid had to remain in the bladder for two hours. I’d rush home from the doctor’s office, hoping there wasn’t a traffic jam or I hit a huge pothole. My bladder could burst like a piñata.
For the two hours I had to hold my BCG fluid, I needed to lie down and rotate every half hour—front, back, and each side. I was like a rotisserie chicken at Costco. Afterward, I needed to put on a hazmat suit, rubber gloves and place a quarantine sign on the bathroom door just to empty my bloated bladder. It was a tuberculosis hot zone.
Six weeks were spent working on my plumbing and disinfecting the bathroom plumbing. I’ve been called many things, so I didn’t need Tuberculosis Vince added to the list. With treatment completed, the señor and I went out for a celebration dinner. I ate, and he drank. He was going to survive, so our tenuous relationship would continue. We depended on each other. Señor Peepee always lets me know he’s there—especially at 2am. He doesn’t care; he’s always full of himself.
We have regular follow-ups at the urologist to make sure we’re still compatible. Every time it’s another cystoscopy. It concerns me that I’ve kind of gotten used to them. My anxiety might increase, but my inhibition falls away. It’s always the same drill— the nurse hands me a paper drape to cover myself, and I drop my pants and underwear. The paper drape is the size of a banquet tablecloth. I feel like I should be setting up for a wedding reception pantless.
The paper is for easy access to the bladder byway. I wrap myself like a Christmas present, climb up on the table, and await the doctor. My urologist is an attractive man. I always hope he’ll enter the room, dim the lights, put on some Sade, and wink. Instead, he’s followed by his nurse assistant, who is grabbing for the hose and turning on the video screen.
He strategically tears a hole in my tablecloth and tells me to relax. Oh sure, it’s lights, camera, action, as you jam a tube into what should be the tunnel of love. Now, it’s just an old thruway to a crumpled but healthy bladder, so I can’t be mad about that.
It means Señor Peepee and I will be making a return visit for another episode of 20,000 Leagues Under the Pee. Next time I’m bringing candles and my iPod. I’ll set the mood. As I wrap myself in my cystoscopy toga, I’ll turn on “Smooth Operator” and make the señor hum along.
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