More Kvetching About My Catheter (aka Wanna Fight About It?) *I didn't realize this blatantly ripped off "Family Guy"

Last night, it became startlingly clear that the catheter I had had inserted was not going to work out. The one that I originally had was the product of other patients' bitching about the original's large size. I, though, am not Hank Hill, and my urethra can easily accommodate the evidently uncomfortably wide catheter that is Northwestern's favored method of invasive urine removal.

This stark fact grew even starker last night. My mother and brother came over to my hospital room and stayed to watch NBC's impressive Thursday prime-time lineup. Over the two hours that covered the broadcasts of the "Saturday Night Live Weekend Update Thursday" edition, "Parks and Recreation," "The Office," and the new "Community," my catheter had been leaking unremittingly. On what looks like my version of a city dog's "Wee Wee Pad," a formidable stain had formed on my bed underneath my butt.

Something had to be done, because the plastic tubing through which my urine was supposed to flow and then empty into the translucent plastic bag did not show that a leak had sprung. I called the nurse's station, and it soon was obvious that the problem lay in the entry of the catheter into my urethra. As I said, the catheter I was given was Northwestern's own concoction. Several other patients had complained that it was too wide. They were wimps, as it turned out, and/or bitched that their puny urethrae (yeah, I still know my Latin--wanna fight about it?) could not handle the normal catheter that the hospital had on hand. Subsequently, the hospital assembled a thinner version. Unfortunately, it was insufficient for my formidable urethra.

Yeah, that's right. I have a wide urethra--wanna fight about it? Since it's normal, as I like to say humbly (and nobly, if I do say so myself), the measly, ramshackle one they gave to me leaked substantially enough for me to summon my nurse with a grand pounding of the red button that called the nurse's station. She taped up what she thought was a typical aperture around one of the valves. This did nothing to stop the deluge that emerged from my pee-hole and ended up on my Wee Pad. In the morning, it displayed the urine-al equivalent of the producer's bed whose sheets and comforter were covered in blood in The Godfather. I, like that man, am not made to look ridiculous, so I bothered the nurses again.

By this time, it was well past midnight, so they said that they would call my doctor in the morning. Until then, I packed my crotch with numerous towels. When I was finished, it looked like a sumo wrestler's diaper/wrap. Eventually, I fell asleep. Around like six. AM.

I woke up relatively at peace with my problem, but I knew that it would have to be dealt with. The issue reached its breaking point when my grandma and uncle came to visit in the afternoon. We watched some television and talked a bit. All the while, though, a puddle of urine had been forming and then expanding to such a diameter that I knew I could not ignore it. Since I had to eschew the underwear that I had worn the previous night, I had had to ask my mother, who stayed at my apartment in Logan Square, to bring me some shorts or underwear that I could wear. Unfortunately, there was no clean underwear there because I have been staying in her house in Indiana--another issue that I don't completely enjoy. The dogs are there, sure, but they have ceased to be entertaining and now just annoy me with their repeated demands to be let outside. If you give a mouse a cookie... Over the past two weeks, I've learned to ignore them, but Shadow's bark is so loud and cloying that sometimes it's impossible to do this.

But I digress. I told the nurses again about the problem, and they spoke with one of my doctors and finally ordered the regular catheter that had filled the other patients with immense trepidation (wimps--I'll say it again. Wanna fight about it?). Over the next few hours, I sat in what I described as the equivalent of a kiddie pool, only filled with urine as opposed to water. This is more accurate than you think, because since I had no clean underwear in my apartment, I had two choices: swimming trunks or washcloth-sized boxer briefs that either belonged to my lanky brother or to Anthony, who is slighter than Ryan even, so I didn't stand a chance with these wristband-sized pair of underwear. (This is not meant to be insulting; I can't help it if my junk won't fit into a Dixie cup. Wanna fight about it?)

After what seemed like an eternity filled with repeated deposits of urine onto the wee pad, the nurses finally came through with the normal/bigger catheter. I pulled off my trunks, which really did their job since they were bone-dry while the rest of the area around my core, as the yogis say, was drenched with piss. It was mostly clear, though, so it wasn't as disgusting as you'd think. Actually, it probably was, because the saline drip, as I've said, makes me pee a comically prodigious amount, and I definitely had not spilled a Big Gulp on my sheets.

At last, my nurses delivered the "real" catheter, and shoved it into my urethra with a disturbingly small amount of topical anesthetic. At least, that's what I thought. I've said it before, but I'd gladly take my chances with Michael Jackson's beloved Propofol when it comes to having a sword jammed into my pee-hole. But since then, my sheets have been drier than Mel Gibson on Easter (on second thought, this might not be a great comparison). I even felt masculine enough to buy Mariah Carey's cover of Foreigner's "I Want to Know What Love Is," at LNE's urging, admittedly. (By the way, we also perused the awesome mix I made for her upcoming marathon, and I must say, it is exactly that--awesome.)

As a matter of fact, I'm listening to it right now. Yeah, that's right, motherfucker--I like Mimi's cover of "I Want to Know What Love Is."

Wanna fight about it?

R
--Also, my nurse tonight is named "Sylvia," & I insisted on playing her the refrain of Lou Reed's "Heavenly Arms," which is, appropriately, "Syl-vi-i-i-uh-aaa," repeated three times. I'm like a pop music Rain Man.