WARNING: If you are disturbed, offended, or just plain squeamish about terms like “prostate,” or “urine,” this article is not your cup of treacle. You might prefer something less graphic like, say, the movie Texas Chain Saw Massacre.

A few weeks ago, I attended my annual urology ritual: waiting in the waiting room (how apt), urinating in a cup, waiting in an examination room, saying hello to my friend, the urologist, letting him mistreat me, pressing here and there. As I sat back down tenderly, I expected the usual lecture about exercise and losing weight. Instead, he strongly advised prostate surgery, saying he’d done it dozens, maybe hundreds of times. “A simple operation,” he claimed. He even showed me a video of a prostate being vaporized by a laser.

After I finished barfing, he made an appointment for a pre-op exam (that’s “pre-operation,” for those not versed in medical dramas on TV). Somehow, I was now committed—or should have been—and from then on, drifted along with whatever the people in white coats demanded.

Pre-op doesn’t sound so bad, does it? Yeah, sure! I barely suppressed an urge to scream, my hands trembling, as the doctor determined precisely how big my enlarged prostate was. I’m not sure but think the telescope he used must have been the one used at Mount Wilson’s Observatory.

“Too bad,” he said. “Your prostate is so large it would take forever to trim it down with a laser (and I certainly didn’t want to interfere with anyone’s schedule or tee-time). I’ll have to cut it the old-fashioned way,” he grinned, “with a roto-rooter (no kidding, that’s what he said, “roto-rooter”).”

I blanched, picturing what the business end of a roto-rooter looks like. “It’s a procedure I’ve done many times,” he said. (I didn’t think to ask how often he’d done it successfully.) “The only drawback,” he continued, “is you’ll have to remain in the hospital overnight." (I didn’t ask why, but at this point, I really didn’t want to know). So I drove home, gritting my teeth at the way I still hurt.

Now, let me state two facts here and now (where else, when else?). First, as bad as my prostate condition was, throttling the urine stream as it did, a condition only males enjoy, the female of our species have it worse, with their own difficulties. That’s why God made them stronger than us, braver than us. Second, I have no tolerance for pain … or discomfort. Put another way, I can stand any amount of pain as long as it doesn’t hurt. By the time I arrived home, my wife could see she was once again married to a baby, an 84-year-old baby.

We made our plans for the appointed day, and, considering I was allowed no food or drink after midnight, was pleased when the surgery center called to say they’d had a cancellation and could fit me in an hour earlier than planned.

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The day arrived; I threw a couple of bags into our car’s back seat—in case the surgeon suggested we go camping. Ann & I departed early, knowing it was a lengthy trip to the hospital, a destination we’d not visited before. Moreover, we were concerned about road construction—half-hour traffic stops—along the way. Turns out, we weren’t stopped, indeed made record time to the surgery center.

Oh well, better early than late, right? As we pulled into the parking lot, sensible people were no doubt finishing breakfast, enjoying a cup of coffee. After seeing me reach the admissions desk, Ann waved goodbye. (She would have stayed to console me, but COVID-19 protocols forbade that.)

At Admissions, I stood on one foot, then another, waiting, hoping the clerk would notice me. She was intensely engrossed with her computer. After a while, I formed the opinion she was playing some sort of game, maybe Mario Bros. Probably not. Knowing the medical profession’s expertise with modern computers, I bet she was playing that venerable old standard, Pong.

Or maybe she was having computer problems. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard medical folks complain, “Sorry, our system is down. Can I get back to you … this century?”

It might help if they’d upgrade their hardware. Those old wooden computers are trouble-prone, what with termites and woodpeckers. Funny thing, in contrast to front-office computers, medical diagnostic equipment is so advanced it could probably make coffee while peering into your innards deeply enough to diagnose your political preferences, all without disturbing anything but your self-confidence.

Finally, the clerk looked up, asked a few questions, asked few more questions, and then exhaustively reviewed my medical, marital and financial status, learning enough to impersonate me if the need ever arose. Funny thing: Some guy working for the surgery center had called the night before, asking many of the same questions. Maybe it was a contest he and the clerk devised: Who can find out the most from this dope?

I think the clerk won. Anyway, she helped me to a nearby seat, telling me to wait there until called. And so, I dutifully waited … and waited, during which time I believe Hell froze over.

To be continued...