A host of abuses and indignities have been heaped upon my member recently. Here’s the story of why.
As I’ve already intimated in the previous post, I’m a bit crazy, and health anxiety in particular is something I struggle with constantly. As such, I’m very attuned to minute details and changes regarding my anatomy. What follows is a rare occasion when it wasn’t all in my head.
One evening in late April of this year, I had just made my way to bed when Archi, a dachshund and one of the older members of my menagerie of animals, came up to me and made it very clear he needed to go outside. Upon returning from taking my dog out to answer Nature’s Call, I decided to do the same and went to ensure my bladder was empty before bed. As I stood yawning and distractedly watching the stream making its way into the bowl, a tiny dark fleck caught my eye as it drifted with the current.
At this point, my systems were on low-level alert: curiosity piqued, but nothing more. I grabbed a cotton swab and fished the dark fleck out of the water for inspection and time seemed to immediately slow to a crawl as the fibers began to turn red. Adrenaline and cortisol began to flood my system as my neurotic brain struggled to process the fact I’d just pissed out a fucking blood clot.
I believe I was still holding the swab as I darted across the house to Kara’s room and began recounting the story to her. She has known me for over a decade now and has long-suffered my many panics. This time I had physical evidence for something wrong and the only reason I wasn’t in hysterics is likely the low dose of Prozac I was taking at the time. I’ve since gotten off psychiatric medication, at least temporarily, but I can’t deny it made the extremes of my mental illness far more manageable.
The next 18 hours were a hellacious ordeal. I went to the ER where they confirmed that I did have a small amount blood in my urine and collectively shrugged and referred me to a urologist. The doctor commented that they normally would have suspected a kidney stone, but the lack of pain made that seem less likely and all the other alternatives were a bit more serious. I returned home, called into to work first thing in the morning, and tried to get a bit of rest before calling the urologist as soon as they opened to make an appointment for the following day. Most of the day was spent in a bit of a daze, trying to come to terms with my imminent demise. I had a massage scheduled for later that afternoon anyway, so I decided to keep the appointment in hopes it would help me relax.
Near the end of my massage, I found I couldn’t quite make myself comfortable and lamented that the stress and tension of the day had already overwhelmed whatever good the therapist had done. I decided to venture to Empire Cafe, one of my regular haunts, and try journaling for a while. As I nursed an iced coffee and struggled to collect my thoughts amid the increasing discomfort in my back, a sneaking suspicion began to form. I began to wonder if maybe my hypervigilant powers of observation picked up on the blood in my urine well before a normal person would have. Perhaps this pain I was feeling would have been the first thing someone would have noticed? I was almost excited because a kidney stone seemed like a much better prospect than bladder cancer.
Not knowing just how bad the pain was going to be, I drove home so I could face the dreaded renal colic I’d been reading about in privacy. Let me just say that I was absolutely not prepared for what followed. The pain is difficult to describe adequately, I’d never felt anything remotely like it. After several hours of trying to zen my way through it, I returned to the ER in hopes of finding some sort of respite. While there, they performed a CT scan and confirmed a roughly 6mm stone in my left ureter, quite close to my kidney. They also gave me some pain medication which was nice, but the pain had already begun to abate while I waited to see the doctor. The cyclical nature of kidney stone pain was something I’ve since grown very accustomed to.
I’ll try and condense the next part of the story somewhat, as it was a whole lot of nothing for quite a while. I met the urologist the following day (top-notch guy, 10/10 would recommend) and we discussed options regarding the stone. He cautioned me that, given its size and the fact I’d never had a kidney stone before, the odds were not great that I’d be able to pass it on my own. He detailed surgical options, but I decided to wait a bit and see how things went. We agreed to follow up a few weeks later.
A few weeks came and went, I had no more pain and the doctor agreed that we should play things by ear. My goal was to at least make it to the end of the school year so any recovery could be done over the summer. As the semester came to a close, I had a small spike in pain, but it only lasted a few hours. This became a recurring trend, a week or two with no pain, then a few hours of misery and occasionally a bit of blood. By mid-June I’d decided this was foolish on my part as kidney stone pain isn’t usually from the stone making its way down the ureter, it’s from pressure building up in your kidney and I really didn’t want to do any lasting damage because of my stubbornness.
I scheduled another appointment with the urologist on July 8th and he agreed that it had been a valiant effort on my part, but that it was time to get that thing out. He sent me for another CT to locate the stone and decide on a plan of attack; it turned out that the stone was much further down the ureter, but also at one of the narrowest points along the way. We decided on ureteroscopy with laser lithotripsy and basket removal. Cool, sounds fancy! But what the fuck does all that mean? Turns out they stick a flexible scope into my penis, up through the bladder, and into the ureter to find the stone. They then blow it up with a laser and fish out the debris through the tube with a little wire basket. Finally, they leave a long stent from my kidney to my bladder for a few days just in case scopes and lasers and baskets irritate my ureter to the point that it swells shut. I’d be blissfully asleep during this whole procedure, so it wouldn’t be that bad, right?
Thanks to a cancelation earlier that morning, the doctor would be able to perform the procedure later that same week, on the 11th. I was on the schedule and the reality of my first real medical procedure began to set in. Other than having my wisdom teeth removed under conscious sedation, I’d made it this far in life without needing surgery. I got to the surgical center around 9:30 that morning, was checked in, and soon ushered to the back by a distractingly attractive nurse. This would be the first of many times over the next week or so that my penis would either be on display or at least the topic of discussion with several attractive women.
I was given a gown to change into, various forms and questions were asked, vitals were taken, I met the anesthesiologist, and then spoke with my urologist. He gave the go-ahead for surgery and we were rolling. One of the nurses asked me if I was ready for my “margaritas” and put something in my IV that soon made me very tipsy. At this point the room was spinning a bit as they began wheeling me down the hall to the OR. I noted that the clock on the wall said 10:45 as we made it there and I was scooted onto the table. Things were quite fuzzy at that point, but a mask was put over my face and I was encouraged to breathe deeply. The next thing I remember is thinking about Katy Perry’s “Firework” as another nurse was talking to me in the recovery room.
She told me I’d been a bit combative earlier to which I remember apologizing profusely several times. At some point I became aware of Kara standing there and I told her about the Katy Perry song. The nurse brought me apple juice and some cheese crackers and those tasted like ambrosia as I came off the drugs. I was wheeled out to my car and Kara drove me home, though I imagine I probably apologized to the nurse a few more times on the way out.
Kara helped me up the stairs and, as we made it inside, I immediately felt the need to pee so I wandered to the bathroom to handle my urge. During this entire ordeal, I’d become an avid reader of r/kidneystones on Reddit. One phrase I saw tossed around rather commonly when describing post-surgical pain was “pissing razor blades” which I just assumed was a bit of hyperbole. Fucking nope. I still don’t know how I didn’t collapse to my knees as I stood above the toilet while blood and what I imagine must have been a mix of sulfuric acid, fire, and countless razor blades flowed out of my penis. That would be the last time I’d pee standing up for the next week.
Much of that day and the next are a bit of a blur, I know I had an absolutely ravenous appetite after the fasting and the drugs. I remember sitting on the toilet several times, steeling myself for the onslaught prior to starting the flow of urine which would also cause unbearable pain the entire time. By Saturday (two days post-surgery) the urinary pain was just a dull unpleasantness thanks to time and a ton of Azo (phenazopyridine). What no one warned me about, however, was constipation after the anesthesia. That was traumatic in and of itself, but not a story I want to share at the moment.
By early the following week, I was feeling pretty good, though the stent was noticeable at times when I’d move. All that was left at that point was to go in on Wednesday and have my stent removed. I returned alone to the surgical center for the procedure that morning, was checked in, and less promptly ushered back by a nurse who gave me a large dose of Cipro, had me fill out more paperwork, and then sent me back out to the lobby to stew.
Some time later, another nurse brought me back, asked me to go to the restroom to empty my bladder and took me into a small room where the procedure would take place. While the stone was removed using a flexible ureteroscope, the stent would be removed using a cystoscope, which is just designed to go into the bladder. Also unlike the first procedure, I’d be wide awake for this one. Thus I found myself on a bed with my pants around my ankles, the modesty drape long-since abandoned, while two women stood around the table. One took my vitals while the other grabbed my penis, rubbed some very cold gel all over it then, I presume, forced more of that gel down my urethra using a syringe, sans needle. I say I presume because I had my eyes closed fairly tightly by this point, and was trying to regulate my breathing. One of the nurses asked me if I was “going zen” to which I replied that I was certainly doing my best.
At this point my urologist shows up and cheerfully discusses aspects of my previous surgery with me while my numb penis was swaying in the proverbial breeze. He then grabbed the scope and began the procedure. To his credit, I’d be surprised if the entire thing took more than 60 seconds, but it was easily the most bizarre minute of my life. Intense pressure in my otherwise numb member, the doctor saying “open” followed shortly by “close” to the nurse, then instructing me to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I got about halfway through inhaling when a sensation like ice-cold lightning jolted me from perineum to navel. As I regained my breath the doctor cheerfully asked me if I’d like to see the stent. After confirming the procedure was, in fact, over I turned my head to see the 10″ plastic tube that had been inside me for nearly a week. During this entire discussion I had both women toweling off my penis and legs since I’m guessing there was some spillage of that gel and who knows what else upon removal of the stent.
I was then given a moment to compose myself and pull up my pants and meet the nurse outside for discharge instructions. Ignoring the fact that this woman had just been roughly handling my penis, I followed along, signed the forms, and shuffled out to my car, still marginally traumatized. While I highly respect the professionalism of all the people involved in my urological care, I still feel as though I need to defend my honor somewhat as they haven’t been seeing me at my best. I’ve always been a grower, as opposed to a shower, and my penis had been doing its best during most of these procedures to retract as far back as possible, much like a turtle into its shell. I find a certain degree of comfort in the absurdity of worrying about these strangers’ judgment of my penis.
I’d love to say that was the end of the story, but you can’t have a stent pulled out of your urethra without a few minor repercussions. The pain and blood were rather unpleasant for the next few days and I ended up using every single dose of Azo I was prescribed by the end of this ordeal. Things have pretty much healed by this point as I’m just shy of a week post stent removal. One final anecdote to wrap up this tale, however!
Over the weekend, I finally felt like things had healed up enough downstairs to engage in some more intimate self-care. I’d initially been somewhat concerned about the effect erections would have on the healing process, but I had a few random ones pop up after the first procedure and things seemed fine, so I was fairly confident that my foray into Onanism wouldn’t do any harm. Now, something that people might not know about Azo is that it turns your urine a bright, almost neon yellow/orange color. By this point, I was very familiar with this side-effect and I’d completed my course of the medication the day prior. What I had not considered, however, is whether anything else along that pipeline would take on that same disturbing hue. You can imagine my brief surprise when, immediately post-climax, it looked as though a highlighter had exploded. Now, it only took a moment to realize what had occurred, but that was probably the most confused I’d ever been during an orgasm.
