I don't remember everything that happened those first 24 hours after the operation. I know Liz was in the room when I woke up, at least when I remember waking up. She told me later that I said a couple of things right off. I don't remember them at all. I said, first off, "You're gorgeous." Then, when she told me about the open operation, I said something like, "Damn, that sucks." She stayed through the evening, and has reminded me that I did get out of bed around 7 or 8. I sat in the chair, next to the bed, for a few minutes. I didn't do anything. I just sat. I kind of remember that. It took all of my concentration to keep from moaning in pain. Or begging to be put back into bed, and out of my misery.
Liz cam back the next morning. She got there shortly after my second throw up. She talked about the coming show she was costuming, and the last minute problems she was fixing. She read to me some more. She also helped shift my blankets and my position in the bed. I was glad she was there, because it gave me some comfort. But I hated being so weak with her there. I didn't want to give in to the pain with her there. But I really wanted oblivion. I did let myself drift off to sleep a couple of times while she was there that day.
I knew that time was a major factor in the whole process, and I just had to wait out the healing. In the abstract, that doesn't seem so bad, but moment by moment, it isn't easy. You can keep telling yourself it's going to get better, but that doesn't help for the next five minutes, when it's going to take more like five days to mean much. Aside from the constant reminder that she cared about me, the best thing Liz did for me was provide some distraction. Trying to follow her stories, which were about people I know, kept me from obsessing on my condition. When I couldn't sleep, that was the best I could hope for.
By late that afternoon, the urge to pee was becoming desperate. I had tried, in that I got down the urinal, at least four times. And the nurses had noticed that I wasn't peeing. The nurse for that day, Amy, came in around 5, and asked about the need to pee. I explained. Yes, I really need to pee. But I can't get the flow started. I can't push, because any abdominal pressure hurts like hell, and that stops any possible parasympathetic response, being overwhelmed by the fight-or-flight response from the sympathetic output due to the pain. No, I didn't use those terms, but I understood the phenomenon.
"Well," she began to explain, "We need to know if your kidneys are working, and if it is just a problem with your bladder."
"My bladder is full," I replied.
"We have to be sure," she said. "So I want to do a bladder scan."
Terrific. She was going to get an ultrasound probe, and press on my lower abdomen. Maybe that would squeeze some urine out, and I would just wet the bed.
The goop she put on the probe was cold, and she didn't have to push much at all, because my bladder was stretched to the limit. She quoted some number, which was more than half a liter.
"Well, if you can't empty your bladder yourself, we might have to do something."
I know exactly what she meant to do. Straight cath. Stick another tube into my dick, just long enough to drain the urine, and the pull it back out. It didn't sound pleasant, but probably better than not peeing for a few more hours. But I had a suggestion first.
"Maybe I should try standing up, and peeing that way," I said. Get gravity to help a bit. Be in a normal position for peeing. I mean, it just doesn't feel right to sit on a bed and pee, even if you have something to catch the urine between your legs.
"Do you think you can stand up for that?" she asked.
Sure. I'm willing to try quite a bit to avoid having a tube shoved up my dick.
So she helped me stand, and I held the urinal under my dick. And she turned on the water in the sink. And then she left. Liz sat across the room, saying encouraging things. I stood there, hoping.
At first, nothing happened. I pulled on my dick, hoping to coax a little urine through the sphincter. After about five minutes, which felt like an eternity, I began to worry it wouldn't work. I tried bearing down, which hurt all across my abdomen. Then I pulled again. And I felt something, like a drop shifting forward. So I pulled again, and I pushed again, and I shifted my feet a little, and I thought about Niagara Falls, and I glanced at the sink. And the urge to pee increased. And another drop trickled forward. And the urge to pee shifted forward, and an actual drop of urine leaked out the end.
That almost felt like victory, and I figured that getting the flow started was the hardest part, so I concentrated on relaxing and think about water flowing. The Falls again. And the Mississippi River. And the Amazon, and Fos de Iguazu, and lake Erie. And slowly, painfully slowly, urine began to trickle forward. Just a few drops at first, and then a tine stream. And, finally, I felt like I was actually peeing.
By the time the flow stopped, I was completely exhausted, but I had done it. I had actually peed. I got more than 750 mL of urine. The nurse came back in just about when I finished. She had stopped by a couple of times while I stood there trying. It may have taken 15 minutes total. The nurse took the urinal and emptied it into the toilet, and turned off the faucet at the sink. She helped me back into bed, and I pushed the pain med button immediately. I felt like I had finished a hard day's work. My reward was a couple of hours sleep. As I settled in, Liz came over, and kissed me on the forehead.
"Good work," she said.
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