A New Me: Now With Fewer Parts! (cont.)
I last told you that I had been transferred to a room and was without my old friend Mr. Prostate and his posse. I'm not sure when my wife came into the room, but she was there making sure I was being properly cared for and that my bed was adjusted...multiple times...until she thought I was comfortable. Before long, I actually got out of bed and staggered out in to the hall with her help. Believe me when I tell you that all evidence indicated Mr. Prostate went unwillingly. My first day without a prostate proved to me that the prostate is directly responsible for the ability to stand upright and move your legs, bend in the middle and sit comfortably. The only time it didn't hurt was between heartbeats. The nurse came by and gave me my regular medications. They carefully went over each one with me before giving it. That would include amoxycillin! Can you believe after all of the crap about the amoxicillin they actually started giving it to me? I just took it like I had good sense and never mentioned it again. They gave it to me the entire time I was there.
My first meal was brine they had washed a chicken in. Curiously enough I ate it. I'm not sure, but I believe for breakfast the next morning I had the rinse water used on the chicken. My doctor came by around noon and told me that everything was good and a few other things, but I couldn't really hear him for all the beeping of the pain medication pump as I pressed the button like a fiend. The pain medicine did not work. They brought in lunch while he was there and after listening to my bowel sounds, he sent the tray back and had them bring me solid food. I had a sandwich and some dessert. It was wonderful. I liked the food service guy, he would tell me what the choices were for the next meal in a way that made me feel like I was dining at Wolfgang Puck's. My wife told me that everybody likes the food service guy because he never does anything painful to you. Obviously she didn't taste the chicken rinse water. The solid food was actually good, but the desserts were a tad lame. Once I had two chocolate chip cookies with a dollop of Cool-Whip between them. But hey, it's better than an enema!
The second night a couple of my co-workers stopped by to visit. It was a good visit and I appreciated that these guys would take the time to come see me on a Friday night. They got to see my Foley bag (the bag that holds the urine from the catheter). I pointed out that it looked like I was marinating a brisket in there, it was so bloody. There's no better conversation starter than a catheter!
I got up and walked a couple of times that day and the next. Funny thing, under normal circumstances I would never wander around in front of strangers wearing pajamas while pushing an IV pole and toting a bag of bloody pee. But somehow it seemed okay here. Actually, it was like a perverse badge of honor. "Yeah, that's right. I'm a survivor! Let me tell you about MY prostate...the bastard tried to kill me, but I'm still standing! It'll take a helluva lot bigger organ than that to take me down!"
Late that Friday night I had a very unpleasant experience. At some point my catheter got stopped up and I didn't realize it. It had been clogged on the first night, but a couple of the nurses noticed it and flushed it out before it became serious. This time, though, I began to feel like a truck was parked on my stomach. And it continued to get worse. After a couple of more hours, I was really feeling bad and called for a nurse. My wife was there and they looked at my catheter but it appeared to be okay. In the mean time I told the nurse that I no longer wanted pain medication and was ready for a cyanide tablet. Mark, the nurse, decided to flush the catheter just to see if it was stopped up. He shot some saline up into my bladder, which at this point was so bloated it was now eligible for it's own zip code, and within twenty seconds more than a liter of pee found its way to my Foley bag. And this was good.
The next day, one of my doctor's associates stopped by to see me and told me that they had decided that I should stay another day if I was okay with it. Of course I was okay with it, we were having baked turkey with a medley of vegetables, yeast rolls, iced tea and a strawberry parfait. Granted I would miss seeing the New Orleans Saints play for the first time in nearly fifteen years, but hey, they were playing Detroit. The hospital TV sucked. It was so small and the channels were pure guess work. Analog 20, analog 22, analog 30...I don't think I ever saw a program that I recognized. Needless to say 65" of high definition TV to watch virtually every channel that DirecTV offers has spoiled me to a certain degree. They took me off of my "pain pump" which I was now certain hadn't been working. The level of the medicine never changed and my wife said it didn't sound like it was supposed to when it administered the dosage. Then, when they gave me the pill form of Dilaudid, I broke out in hives. It turns out that I'm allergic to the pain medicine, but not once did I itch when I was on the pain pump. AHAH! I knew it!
That day was fairly uneventful and before you knew it, checkout day arrived. I did manage to have eggs, grits, bacon and a biscuit for breakfast and a cottage cheese fruit plate for lunch. Sadly I had to tell the food service guy that I wouldn't be around for dinner. He was nice. At checkout time they loaded me into a wheelchair that was too narrow and carted me to the front lobby. As we passed by visitors I couldn't help but wonder how many of the men knew their PSA level. I'd wager that a measurable percentage of them didn't even know they had a prostate, let alone that it could kill them. When you look at the odds of having prostate cancer it's basically a sure thing if you live long enough. You're only real defense is catching it early. If I hadn't gotten my PSA checked yearly, it would have certainly gotten too advanced before the symptoms sent me to a doctor. Even with my prostate removed, I have to remain vigilant or the cells that are still, undoubtedly, floating around inside me can grab hold and pull me under.
The ride home was not fun. It's times like that when I wish my wife was a little less frugal minded. Renting a limo would have been a nice touch. That way maybe I wouldn't have a personal relationship with every pot hole, expansion joint, piece of gravel, dip, chunk of tire, bump, uneven lane, etc. that exists between the hospital and home. If you want to imagine what having your prostate removed feels like, think about riding a bicycle...with the seat removed. For miles. You can only stand up for so long.
I got home, waddled inside, greeted the cats and went to bed. It was great to be in my own bed, but I was definitely not feeling well. That night was tough. I was freezing, sweating, aching and to top it off, constipated. Big time! Lucky for me, having a nurse for a wife means you continue to have the same care as in the hospital. Even if you don't want it. I lost track of time as she administered medication, took my blood pressure, temperature, administered more medicine, asked about getting into the credit union accounts, drained my Foley, fed me, gave me more medicine, asked questions about the bonds in the safe, took my blood pressure again, etc. The first night, once I finally went to sleep, Coleman jumped right up in the middle of my stomach. All I could do was gasp for air and groan while my wife looked at my face trying to figure out what was wrong. In the mean time Coleman was standing on my stomach, packing cotton and getting ready to bed down.
I visited the doctor on December 23rd and he had received the pathology report back. The margins of the prostate were clean. The lymph nodes were all clean. The only sign of progression was that the tumor had begun to enter one of the seminal vesicles, but they, too were removed. The other thing was the Gleason Score had actually been downgraded from an 8 to a 7 or rather from a 4+4 to a 4+3 which is a wonderful thing. The result, I believe, is a cancer stage of T3b N0 M0 G3. All said and done that means it could be back in two to five years or by the grace of God, never. I hope and pray that it doesn't, but statistically Mr. Prostate and his posse are well known for planting little time bombs hither and thither. "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!" - Michael Corleone, The Godfather: Part III.
This week I'll finally get the catheter out and hopefully get a week to practice not wetting my pants before I go back to the office. Wearing a Maxi-Pad is emasculating enough let alone the idea of carrying a diaper bag. And if I do have to wear a diaper, I'll just pretend I'm an astronaut.
My first meal was brine they had washed a chicken in. Curiously enough I ate it. I'm not sure, but I believe for breakfast the next morning I had the rinse water used on the chicken. My doctor came by around noon and told me that everything was good and a few other things, but I couldn't really hear him for all the beeping of the pain medication pump as I pressed the button like a fiend. The pain medicine did not work. They brought in lunch while he was there and after listening to my bowel sounds, he sent the tray back and had them bring me solid food. I had a sandwich and some dessert. It was wonderful. I liked the food service guy, he would tell me what the choices were for the next meal in a way that made me feel like I was dining at Wolfgang Puck's. My wife told me that everybody likes the food service guy because he never does anything painful to you. Obviously she didn't taste the chicken rinse water. The solid food was actually good, but the desserts were a tad lame. Once I had two chocolate chip cookies with a dollop of Cool-Whip between them. But hey, it's better than an enema!
The second night a couple of my co-workers stopped by to visit. It was a good visit and I appreciated that these guys would take the time to come see me on a Friday night. They got to see my Foley bag (the bag that holds the urine from the catheter). I pointed out that it looked like I was marinating a brisket in there, it was so bloody. There's no better conversation starter than a catheter!
I got up and walked a couple of times that day and the next. Funny thing, under normal circumstances I would never wander around in front of strangers wearing pajamas while pushing an IV pole and toting a bag of bloody pee. But somehow it seemed okay here. Actually, it was like a perverse badge of honor. "Yeah, that's right. I'm a survivor! Let me tell you about MY prostate...the bastard tried to kill me, but I'm still standing! It'll take a helluva lot bigger organ than that to take me down!"
Late that Friday night I had a very unpleasant experience. At some point my catheter got stopped up and I didn't realize it. It had been clogged on the first night, but a couple of the nurses noticed it and flushed it out before it became serious. This time, though, I began to feel like a truck was parked on my stomach. And it continued to get worse. After a couple of more hours, I was really feeling bad and called for a nurse. My wife was there and they looked at my catheter but it appeared to be okay. In the mean time I told the nurse that I no longer wanted pain medication and was ready for a cyanide tablet. Mark, the nurse, decided to flush the catheter just to see if it was stopped up. He shot some saline up into my bladder, which at this point was so bloated it was now eligible for it's own zip code, and within twenty seconds more than a liter of pee found its way to my Foley bag. And this was good.
The next day, one of my doctor's associates stopped by to see me and told me that they had decided that I should stay another day if I was okay with it. Of course I was okay with it, we were having baked turkey with a medley of vegetables, yeast rolls, iced tea and a strawberry parfait. Granted I would miss seeing the New Orleans Saints play for the first time in nearly fifteen years, but hey, they were playing Detroit. The hospital TV sucked. It was so small and the channels were pure guess work. Analog 20, analog 22, analog 30...I don't think I ever saw a program that I recognized. Needless to say 65" of high definition TV to watch virtually every channel that DirecTV offers has spoiled me to a certain degree. They took me off of my "pain pump" which I was now certain hadn't been working. The level of the medicine never changed and my wife said it didn't sound like it was supposed to when it administered the dosage. Then, when they gave me the pill form of Dilaudid, I broke out in hives. It turns out that I'm allergic to the pain medicine, but not once did I itch when I was on the pain pump. AHAH! I knew it!
That day was fairly uneventful and before you knew it, checkout day arrived. I did manage to have eggs, grits, bacon and a biscuit for breakfast and a cottage cheese fruit plate for lunch. Sadly I had to tell the food service guy that I wouldn't be around for dinner. He was nice. At checkout time they loaded me into a wheelchair that was too narrow and carted me to the front lobby. As we passed by visitors I couldn't help but wonder how many of the men knew their PSA level. I'd wager that a measurable percentage of them didn't even know they had a prostate, let alone that it could kill them. When you look at the odds of having prostate cancer it's basically a sure thing if you live long enough. You're only real defense is catching it early. If I hadn't gotten my PSA checked yearly, it would have certainly gotten too advanced before the symptoms sent me to a doctor. Even with my prostate removed, I have to remain vigilant or the cells that are still, undoubtedly, floating around inside me can grab hold and pull me under.
The ride home was not fun. It's times like that when I wish my wife was a little less frugal minded. Renting a limo would have been a nice touch. That way maybe I wouldn't have a personal relationship with every pot hole, expansion joint, piece of gravel, dip, chunk of tire, bump, uneven lane, etc. that exists between the hospital and home. If you want to imagine what having your prostate removed feels like, think about riding a bicycle...with the seat removed. For miles. You can only stand up for so long.
I got home, waddled inside, greeted the cats and went to bed. It was great to be in my own bed, but I was definitely not feeling well. That night was tough. I was freezing, sweating, aching and to top it off, constipated. Big time! Lucky for me, having a nurse for a wife means you continue to have the same care as in the hospital. Even if you don't want it. I lost track of time as she administered medication, took my blood pressure, temperature, administered more medicine, asked about getting into the credit union accounts, drained my Foley, fed me, gave me more medicine, asked questions about the bonds in the safe, took my blood pressure again, etc. The first night, once I finally went to sleep, Coleman jumped right up in the middle of my stomach. All I could do was gasp for air and groan while my wife looked at my face trying to figure out what was wrong. In the mean time Coleman was standing on my stomach, packing cotton and getting ready to bed down.
I visited the doctor on December 23rd and he had received the pathology report back. The margins of the prostate were clean. The lymph nodes were all clean. The only sign of progression was that the tumor had begun to enter one of the seminal vesicles, but they, too were removed. The other thing was the Gleason Score had actually been downgraded from an 8 to a 7 or rather from a 4+4 to a 4+3 which is a wonderful thing. The result, I believe, is a cancer stage of T3b N0 M0 G3. All said and done that means it could be back in two to five years or by the grace of God, never. I hope and pray that it doesn't, but statistically Mr. Prostate and his posse are well known for planting little time bombs hither and thither. "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!" - Michael Corleone, The Godfather: Part III.
This week I'll finally get the catheter out and hopefully get a week to practice not wetting my pants before I go back to the office. Wearing a Maxi-Pad is emasculating enough let alone the idea of carrying a diaper bag. And if I do have to wear a diaper, I'll just pretend I'm an astronaut.
Posted by TBF at 1/5/2009 6:32 PM 
Categories: Daily Life
Tags: catheter lithothripsy amoxycillin constipation prostate
Categories: Daily Life
Tags: catheter lithothripsy amoxycillin constipation prostate
Mother tells me that for a while after his prostate surgery, Daddy had to wear these little pads to prevent accidents. Then she says nonchalantly..."I call 'em Peter Pockets."
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