Let me tell you something: Sleeping Beauty is bullshit. Ok, lets just say she hasn’t lost any memory during her 100 year nap. You probably would but she hasn’t. Whereas her brain may not have forgotten anything I can guarantee her body will have. Christ, I was only out for about a month and my body forgot how to do all the important stuff. Eating, pooing, weeing.
Sleeping Beauty would definitely need an NG and catheter at least. Probably a colostomy. Why Disney didn’t put these details in I don’t know. The mean old lady who can change into a dragon I was fine with but when Sleeping Beauty didn’t have a bag full of poo by her bed that is when the story lost all credibility for me. Shame really.
My colostomy bag has gone but today I loose another dear friend. My catheter.
With help I can now wheel myself to the toilet so it is time to try to wee without my warm yellow friend. Apparently they have tried before but I didn’t get the hang of going solo. I don’t think I was pissing my self regularly. I wasn’t a wheeling warm puddle. I think it was more that I couldn’t go when I wanted. I think I spent a lot of time just sitting on the loo waiting for something to happen.
Today we’re giving it another go. I brace myself as the nurse grabs the apparatus and gets ready to pull. Her fingers fold round the tube and her knuckles whiten. Here we go!
And slurp and …
I’m holding my breath and squinting.
I look down between my fingers expecting the worse.
My cock just hangs there, on his own, minus the tube. I’ve never described a penis as looking nonchalant before but my old chap is definitely, well, a cool customer. He puffs casually on a tiny willy fag (the fag is tiny … not the … oh never mind…).
The nurse is busying herself folding up the tubes, packing things away.
I exhale loudly, puffing my cheeks out.
That it then?
That wasn’t too bad! In fact that was alright. I’m glad I can’t remember them putting it in though.
Next time you’re complaining about the NHS, bear in mind it is someone’s job to put tubes up people’s cocks.
What do you do? Architect? Great. Me? Well, I put tubes up people’s cocks. Oh, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Except sometimes you get big tubes and not so big … well, you can imagine …
It can’t be fun.
Anyway before too long it is time for my first piss and this time it all goes well, it all goes swimmingly in fact. In fact it is very nice.
Let me tell you another thing: You have not had a piss until you have had your first post catheter piss.
It was … emotional. You know that scene in When Harry Met Sally in the café?
The whole thing was very sensitive. I guess your tubes are getting a fresh run down them after a lot of time being dry and resting up. Imagine an excited and happy boy having the first go down the new waterslide. Now imagine that first slide having Tizer running down it instead of water. Fizzy!
It was a bit like, and I hate to be as blunt as this but these definitions are spot on, it was a bit like either weeing cum or cumming wee.
It was intense.
Unfortunately things died down after that. Before too long weeing was just weeing.
But occasionally you will see my eyes cloud over and I will look to the distance with a wistful smile on my face.
I’ll never forget my first wee after the catheter.
It was … it was … special.
Two Of My Favourite Ladies
Let’s meet some more people. Two of my favourite ladies. A favourite friend and a favourite hospital person.
Lets start with Bev. In the hospital there are some staff you just click with and me and Bev just click. Maybe because, along with Timmea, I fancy her a bit too. She is the definition of my type. Short, brunette, a bit bossy. She’s Australian too. Being Australian doesn’t make her my type you understand. The short and bossy business does.
She is Australian in character or, at least, what you might think when you think ozzy. Straight forward, no nonsense, likes a laugh and kind of sun touched and healthy looking (in a pretty way). She seems to like me too. A lot of the hospital staff seem to. I think I’m a refreshing change. In stark contrast to all the baffled, miserable, old dears, here’s a (relatively) young man who seems thrilled to be here. He like’s a laugh too. Just trying to get him stop laughing is a bit of an issue.
Bev is here to help me with my mouth and throat. Talking and eating really. It’s early days so we’re just focussing on the eating. Today we are tackling toast.
“And keep chewing, come on, chew. That’s good. Aaaand swallow. Lets try another one.” I have informed her I’m not touching Weetabix ever again (well serves you right, there’s got to be a downside for having a product that’s only recognisable by brand name), something about the consistency. Every time I’ve tried Weetabix, I’ve nearly died. Well maybe a slight exaggeration there, but I’ve had two big old coughing fits.
“They are,” I inform her darkly. “My … my erm…. oh balls, I had it earlier…” My faux foreboding is gone. “My erm, what’s like an enemy?”
“Baddies?” she replies helplessly with a shrug.
“Yes that’s it,” I say with a smile. “Weetabix are my baddies.”
I just about get it out, but I can hear my voice starting to turn. Getting dippier, goofier. This can only mean one thing of course. And I’m off. Here we go. In an instant I’m quite helpless. The GIGGLES again.
Bev tuts and puts her head to one side and does her best to look professional and disapproving. But she can’t hold it. She looks down, bites her lip and tries not to smile. Imagine a 12-year-old girl sitting at the back of the class and her mates just farted a little too loud. Can she hold it? Caaaan sheeeee hoooold it? No. She cracks and a smile makes it’s way across her face and her shoulders begin to shake a bit.
That really gets me and I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I still have some toast in my mouth and this isn’t ideal. In fact, this could probably be quite dangerous. And the fact that I know this and that I shouldn’t laugh, only makes it worse. Quite, quite gone now. Bev reaches for a napkin and says with a begrudging smirk.
“Here, spit it out,” and I do but I’m still a real mess. “What are we going to do with you eh?” She‘s laughing along now and it is nice. I do like her.
Eventually, I calm down. Eventually. She’s packing up. The session is over.
“Nemesis.” I say triumphantly with a pathetic attempt at clicking my fingers. “That’s what Weetabix are. My nemesis.”
“Nice word,” she says encouragingly. “Your vocab’s getting better.”
“Since we’re talking about words… You know what I’ve started calling you?” I enquire.
“No,” she says. “Pray tell.”
“I think it’s got a nice ring to it…”
“I’ve started calling you … the swallow lady.” Ooop and the voice is beginning to go again. I just about get out, “Everyone should have a swallow lady.”
And the look she gives me says, bad boy, I can see the filthy undertone here but I’m not going to indulge you. Then she does. Starts laughing despite herself and that’s it; I’m off again, no coming back this time. Whilst sniggering away she packs up the rest of her stuff and says, “Right, I’ll see you sir on Thursday.”
She leaves and I can just about wave. That’s about the best I can manage. A wave. Because guess what? Yep, I’m still giggling.
So, there you go: Bev the swallow lady. So that’s how she deals with my chuckles. She’s used to them. All she knows in fact.
Let’s meet another lovely lady to whom this is all new. My dear friend, Sally. Let’s have a Sally visit.
“He’s good. He’s really getting the hang of puppetry.” Sally’s telling me about her (quite new) husband who is now a member of her puppetry group.
“And how’s the dog? What’s her name again?”
“Yeah that’s it.”
“Actually her full name is Molly Woofkin.”
“Right…” I guffaw.
“Molly Woofkin and I got into a spot of bother actually…” Sally’s in her first trimester of pregnancy but says she’s worried that her maternal instincts maybe wanting somewhat. She goes on to tell me a funny story about the way she jumped to her dog’s defense during a mutt brawl and completely left her young nephew utterly exposed to malign claws.
“And then I suddenly realized … where’s Thom?”
She tells me this to make me laugh but is rather taken aback by the onslaught of merriment that follows. Sally thinks to herself well it wasn’t that funny but soon begins to laugh herself, it is infectious.
I am a different man. Sally’s just come home from a small tour of France and the difference between the sleeping coma Dave that she left behind and the fully engaged if somewhat squiffy uncle that she has come back to is staggering. She’s loving it because although said uncle is still pretty much bedridden, everything, and I do mean everything, is a hoot.
He is light, I am as light as a feather.
“Excuse me my dear, I’m afraid I need to pee. Hey, I am learning when I need to and I need to.” Sally insists on pulling the curtains round for me. I don’t really give a damn, I mean; rather than trecking to the toilet I’m just peeing into a cardboard bottle. But Sally is adamant.
She pulls the last screen into place and looks around the ward. Kev and Ian are asleep and Ashley just frowns into nothing. No one is anywhere near as jolly as her mate who she can hear laughing quietly behind the screen.
She hears a long and somewhat hammy ‘AAAAAaaaaaaah’ and the tinkle of trickling water.
Then a rather wet fart.
The clock ticks.
“Sally. Pull the curtains back.” She does so. I’m sitting somewhat awkwardly.
Then, delivered with a BIG grin,
“Now, that pump was a little bit too wet.”
I laboriously beckon Nickon over (a lush’s hand appearing above the crowd to order a Bloody Marry). I give Sally a conspiratorial look.
“This is frightfully embarrassing.”
“Oh good nurse, I afraid I did a wee and I think some poo came out.”
“Oh dear,” says Nickon, commiserating. “Right, I’ve just got to turn Ian and then I’ll be right with you.”
“Oh fine. That’s fine.” I say twirling a hand on a limp wrist. “No need to rush! I’ll still be here when you’ve finished.”
So Sally looks down at her friend. A young man with a broken foot, still kind of hunched and twisted, slightly brain damaged, sitting in a little puddle of poo but without a care in the world. Lighter than air.
I smile broadly at her.
“And how’s the dog, what’s she called again?”
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