Warning: for mature audiences only

My urologist lied to me.

Well, he didn’t tell the whole truth.

OK, he told technically the truth.

It all started in my 50s, when my prostate swelled and peeing became an adventure. For a while, I got by with drugs and the occasional probe by my family doc, who will never know how much her digit means to me.

In my mid-60s, my pee-duct clogged so that even microorganisms bumped their heads while trying to yellow-water.

Filled with dread by stories about razorblade-reaming and catheters the thickness of garden hoses, I went to see a meaty urologist (he’s not really that beefy, but I love that phrase to describe a weatherperson.).

My uro probed with his digit and said, “Hmm, I wouldn’t think you’d have a problem at all.” I took that as a compliment.

He told me about the UroLift, whereby they pull the walls of your prostate back like curtains and staple them with titanium curtain rods.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IVYs9jwUWOU

He was pretty excited about the UroLift. “You don’t have to go into the hospital, because we do it right here in the office. There’s no catheter involved. Bleeding is minimal and recovery is quick, and there’s no catheter. You don’t have to be knocked out, and there’s no catheter.”

Two weeks before my UroLift, I had an appointment with my new urologist. (They told me my old one had been promoted, but I suspect he sells the lifts, and then flies by night to another clinic until you’ve forgotten the promises he made.)

During my fortnight-before appointment, the nurse came, cleaned my genitals, and inserted some Lidocaine into the tip of my cock. Perhaps wanting to avoid any allegations of #HerToo-ing, she held my pecker with one gloved hand and slapped it back and forth with the other.

She smiled sweetly as I cringed in the stirrups. “The doctor will be right in,” she said.

My new-rologist strode in like a man with a strong flow and said that he needed to insert a micro-camera into my prostate to check things out. (What I heard was that he would be ramming a Brownie Instamatic duct-taped to the end of a garden hose up my delicate dinger.)

“But doc,” I whined. “Y’all said no catheter.”

He smiled. “This isn’t a catheter; it’s a camera.”

Then he said, “Deep breath” and WITHOUT ANESTHESIA inserted a looong lens up my lad. I levitated, but he kneed me back onto the gurney and peered into the end of the lens like a gem merchant inspecting the family jewels. He yanked the rod out (another minor levitation) and pronounced me fit for UroLift.

On the day of my Lift, I gave myself a Fleet enema, which involves lying on the floor, raping yourself with a plastic nozzle, and squirting saltwater up your colon.

Feeling violated already, I drove to the urologist. My baloney-pony-slapping nurse said, “After I clean you up, we’ll insert a cocktail into your bladder.”

“Hold up,” I said. “I usually just DRINK Cocktails. Also, I was told there would be no catheter.”

She smiled and said, “It’s not a catheter; it’s an anesthesia pump. Believe me, you WANT anesthesia.” She swabbed my stem and said, “Deep breath.”

I lifted my crotch to the heavens as she inserted a tube up my third leg.

She left me to photograph my meat and two veggies, and I started listening to Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together” on my headphones.

The nurse rolled in a tank of nitrous oxide. “Start breathing this,” she said. “It’ll make the music sound better.”

After a few deep breaths, Barry White DID sound better, and Marvin Gaye better still. The fog machine rolled in, and I hardly noticed when the nurse drew a curtain and strapped my feet into the stirrups.

When my new-rologist entered, I was floating on the ceiling, watching him roll a machine between my legs and pick up a looong tube with a Swiss Army Knife glued to the end.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” I squeaked.

But I was not. When the tube slithered up my trouser-snake, I jetted around on the ceiling like a balloon with a leak.

“Keep breathing that gas,” said my new-rologist.

I felt a heavy pressure down around my taint meat, and I heard a loud click as the Swiss Army Knife stapled my prostate with a titanium curtain rod.

But then things got weird.

“See, THAT’S why you have to be careful,” said my new-rologist.

Who was he talking to? I wondered.

He pulled the Swiss Army Knife out of my skin flute, changed the angle, and dug back into my dipstick. The pressure was so intense that my left leg shot out of the stirrups and knocked over a machine.

“My bad,” I slobbered. “Send the bill to my urologist.”

Another loud click, another levitation, and the worst was over. I remember cold liquid dousing my lingam, and the nurse wapping my willie.

I took off the mask and croaked to the nurse, “Just between you and me, how did it go?”

Her face gave nothing away. “The doctor will be back shortly. Breathe this oxygen to clear your mind.” I huffed on the O2 and tried to banish the memory of my surgery.

When my new-rologist returned, I asked him about his “that’s why you have to watch out” comment.

He told me that my bladder has a high lip, so he had to change the entry angle to avoid digging into it with the Swiss Army Knife. He handed me a UroLift flyer and darted out to perform his sixth surgery of the day.

I drank water in the waiting room, peed blood in the toilet, and headed home for a nap. When I woke up, I peed a clot of blood and flesh, and my flow was the strongest it had been in years.

It’s been two weeks since my surgery, and my swollen innards have closed up the Yellow River again. I’m hoping that the river will be navigable once the trama eases.

Sure am glad they didn’t impale me with a catheter.