“I’m need to insert a digit into your back passage, is that ok?”
“Sure, have at i-NNGK!!”
My attempt to sound nonchalant and care-less about the idea of a strangers finger probing my inner world like a blind man with a stick looking for the kerb was cut short by rather physical reminder than I really wasn’t that nonchalant about it at all! In fact the moment I heard the words several things came to mind. Firstly: Oh God, am I really that old already? Am I now at the age of regular prostate checks?!
My second thought was actually a jumble of anxiety, discomfort at the thought of what was about to happen, and wishing I had known in advance so I could scrub my rear with disinfectant and bleach it porn-star white in preparation for its first public performance.
The final thing that entered my mind, and stayed there for some time after The Event, was
And that isn’t even the worst thing that happened at the urologist (or was promised to happen anyway).
I am losing a lot of faith in GPs at the moment. They failed to take my liver problem seriously for years, have failed to take my partner seriously (specifically refer her to the specialist who might actually be able to help), and apparently didn’t take my weeing blood seriously enough. When I told the urologist that it had happened three or four times in the past five years or so he was stunned that I hadn’t seen a urologist before. Although now I wish I hadn’t because I’m booked in for a less than pleasant experience.
I have had cameras in my body before, run down my throat into my stomach to investigate possible causes of illness, acid, and so on. It is an experience torture I have endured twice, and hope never ever to have to do again. Certainly not helped by my fear of being strangled, which was set off so badly the first time that nurses had to hold me down. This is also when I learned (on a BBC radio show coincidentally on after the procedure) that the “general” anaesthetic they give is pretty much the same as rohypnol, the date rape drug! You are conscious and in control (although compliant) through the procedure, but can’t really remember it afterwards. Luckily I don’t have to go through that again just yet.
Not that my substitute is any better. It’s called a cytoscopy and bluntly it involves a fibre-optic tube being run up into my bladder…from the closest opening.
It should be ok though – I have a feeling that when I see the doctor approaching my penis with this device I will scream like little girl and pass out!
Oh body of mine, why do you hate me so that you put me through this? I know I abused you in the past, filled you with toxins, fats, and all sorts of substances. I know I didn’t exercise you properly or pamper you much. I know I hurt you both accidentally and intentionally at times. But isn’t the liver thing enough? Haven’t you had your revenge already?!


