Store up for yourselves treasures in Heaven
where moth and rust cannot destroy and thieves cannot break in and steal

Saturday, April 20, 2013

Of Pencils and Catheters

I've had several major surgeries over the last few decades. Five to be exact. In four of them I've awakened with a catheter already inserted. On one occasion however, and for the life of me I can't remember for which surgery it was, the catheter was inserted prior to the operation.
It was done in a teaching hospital.
If that doesn't mean anything to you, thank whom or whatever it is to which you attribute your salubrious and arbitrary good fortune.
The bed upon which I'm lying is wheeled into a small ice cold room where I'm forced to stare at a row of cupboards, tan in colour, in silence for 15 minutes. The doctor arrives through a door behind me and with him, I can hear, are several medical students, probably nurses although I can't be certain. They gather round and greet me with such cheer and wide smiles I think that perhaps they've also discovered that I have terminal cancer and are hoping I won't find out until after they've left.
Upon realizing that all of the students are female, my eyebrows, synclinal with despair, never left that furrowed position throughout the ordeal. My heart sinks as quickly as my respiratory rate rises. All of the nurses could become cosmetic and/or bathing suit models if their medical career goes south. Pathetic or not, I want beautiful women to think highly of me. I prepare to be utterly and completely mortified.
The doctor invites his students to join the colloquium now being held between my legs, feet in stirrups. Picture the doctor, head sighted perfectly on a line from the tip of my nose and belly button, with eight other heads gathered round, some only 20 centimetres from my rectum.
Did I wipe good enough?
Do I smell?
Yes, yes, I know. Women giving birth go through this all the time. The thing is, women were MADE to be able to handle this kind of stuff. Men are different! 
Please smile. It was said as a joke.
The doctor grabs hold of my penis and pulls. And pulls. And pulls until I'm certain that what these women are looking at resembles a brand new Dixon #2B pencil.
O Lord Jesus, could you not just let me die right now?”
Did I say that out loud?
They don't care.
They have something far more amusing to look at.
I try to believe they only want to learn.
I don't even remember the insertion of the foreign object. 
Where is that “Men in Black” memory eraser thing when you need it most?

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