Hour One

A friend of mine disappeared from my view months ago.  We used to frequent the same coffee shop, and had many fine conversations.  We never shared contact information … and one day he was no longer there.

I’ve been sad about his absence and scared that something had happened to him.

This morning I was walking past a restaurant in Gent centrum.  I looked in the window.  Sitting way at the back was a familiar jacket and a familiar face.

We both smiled on the approach.  He invited me to sit down.  As he started telling his story, something happened to me.  I was flooded with a softness … something floating down from above and leaving me limp.

I was with him, falling into his words.  They were spoken in English – not his mother tongue.  He’d often search for how to say it and I searched to understand.

The letting go continued.  It was no longer important to figure out the meaning, to ask clarifying questions.  It didn’t matter that the conversation was one-sided – all about him.

Eventually I told him that I had to go.  I had an appointment at the hospital.  I offered a hug and he received it gladly.  We both hoped that our reunion will continue.

Hour Two

When I was in the hospital a few weeks ago, the doctors found some blood in my urine, though I’ve never seen any while peeing.  So today I met with Dr. Goedertier, a urologist.  He was one more example of doctors in Belgium being thorough, exploring all the possibilities when there’s a problem.  Thank you, doctors.

Dr. Goedertier wanted to put a camera into my bladder to see if everything was okay there.  I said yes without getting the implications of that decision. 

Soon it was pants down lying on a bed.  Doctor and nurse were ready to go.  He pointed to a narrow tube (maybe 45 centimetres) with a camera.  “That’s what we’re using.”

Under my breath, I uttered a four-letter word that started with “s” and ended with “t”.  Pain isn’t my best subject.

He placed a gob of anaesthetic at the entrance of my urethra, waited for a few seconds, and then started in.

Ouch!  “That’s the worst part.”  Oh good.  As he explored, the pain came in waves.  I was being invaded, all for a good cause.  I grimaced and uttered stuff that was definitely not under my breath!

A minute later there was an exit.  The nurse said “You did very well.  Some men yell.”  Guess I’m a discreet guy.

My response at the end?

I still have a penis!

Results will come later, as will an appointment for a CT scan down below.  I am being cared for.

The penal pain continued as I left the office.  The friendly nurse: “The anaesthetic needs to be peed out.  Drink lots of water first.”

Okay.  So I sat in the lobby for thirty minutes or so, downing two big water bottles full of the good stuff.

And now all is well

On we go

My friend, my body and the rest of me