Ten or fifteen years ago my
stream weakens and my bladder demands frequent relief. Doctor Ruth suggests I get
my prostate checked. The urologist instructs me to kneel on his medical table
while he applies a five-fingered condom to his right hand. The brute crosses
the surgery, takes a short run-up, plunges a digit up my puckered date, and wriggles
it round for about three seconds.
He pronounces my prostate to be
in fine fettle. I am sent to radiology where liquid is pumped up my urethra
into my bladder, a disconcerting feeling if ever there is one. X-rays are taken
as I lie sideways on the X-ray bench. Then I’m instructed to stand on one leg and
piss into a bottle while more photographs are taken. I can stand on one leg for
a day, but I can’t piss with a leg in the air.
The diagnosis is that I have a
congenital defect in my bladder; the opening to the urethra is small so the
bladder muscle thickens from the increased squeezing it must do to evacuate
urine. I am doubly damned by diminished capacity and age.
Older men experience weakened
flow, and difficulty starting and finishing: you think you’re done and another
couple of drops need passing. I used to wait impatiently outside the Ladies at
the cinema for my companion to emerge. Now she waits for me. On group rides the
bunch pedals off, leaving me camped on the shoulder, lycra bunched around my
groin.
I stare at the tiles in railway
cloakrooms, whistling a happy tune and waiting for a flow. Scores of younger
men come and go while I study the wall. Sometimes I rest my head on the tiles
and doze.
Some nights I go out into the
garden with the dog instead of to the toilet. We piss together and look at each
other forlornly. Then we return to our beds and hope for sleep to come again.
Rock on.
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