PART 14 of My PC Adventure (see full story HERE> )
FORGET Marx, Kinsey, Salinger, Solzhenitsyn, et al: in my view, Philip Roth wrote the 20th century’s most revolutionary book.
Portnoy’s Complaint, his 1969 account of sexual frustration and the creative solo ways it might be relieved, changed everything for young men around the world.
Brought up on our fathers’ homilies about “self abuse”, blindness, insanity and the growing of hairy palms, we were liberated by Roth’s frank revelations about masturbation, although not necessarily uplifted.
His tale of the fate of a parcel of liver ‘twixt the neighbourhood butcher shop and his family dinner table was compellingly shocking.
Why am I telling you this?
Regard it as my version of the television AO warning: readers may be repulsed and offended by the content of the following story.
Got your full attention now? Good, let’s proceed (but you have been alerted).
During the various processes already narrated in My PC Adventure, there was opt-repeated medical advice that I should visit the rehab clinic after my radical prostatectomy for help in regaining erectile function. Polite term for being able to get it up again (sorry, but let’s be frank about this).
I learned that restoration of spontaneous nocturnal erections is important for the good health of the old fella. The sooner the better. There was talk about injections (ahhh!), Viagra and other stuff.
Fair enough. I booked an appointment for about a month after the op.
But then, home alone 10 days into my recovery and a couple of days after the catheter was so deftly removed (and I was continent, and peeing bloodlessly and with commendable force) I decided perhaps I should just experiment a little, freelance, to see what happened. To see, I suppose, whether I really needed to go to the clinic at all.
Spending $12 on a viewing of SkyTV’s Spice porn channel seemed like a justifiable investment.
It was slow, at first, but, hey, bingo: 75% function. Woohoo!
But wouldn’t you know it. That other warning from our fathers about the standing thingamajig having no conscience (or, in this case, no sense of caution) turned out to be so, so accurate. I was like a teenage driver – no frontal lobe development, no sense of fear, invulnerable and reckless.
An orgasm at this early stage of recuperation seemed like a miracle (although I’ve since read on the web of some overly keen soul who had intercourse the night after his op…and suffered two days of agony in return).
My agony started about five minutes after the feeling of euphoria began to fade.
What agony!
It resembled something called “lover’s balls” that an adolescent male can suffer if, as Mick Jagger puts it, he can’t get no satisfaction after a period of prolonged tumescence (an hour or two of holding hands in the movies with the object of one’s desire will do it).
I upped the painkillers, trying the codeine for the first time. No relief.
After an hour, I rang Lin at work and gasped that I needed to go to A and E. Could she come home and take me, please?
My explanation in the car on the way to Wellington Hospital was met with amusement and sympathy.
At A and E, I staggered around in the empty waiting room while the bureaucracy filled out my name, date of birth and other obviously vital statistics, then – after 10 excrutiating minutes – I was led through to a bed.
I blurted out a coded explanation, well rounded with verbal self abuse, while they pumped in increasing amounts of morphine, to little effect.
Then I raised my knees and the pain suddenly subsided. I saw why when I looked into my underpants and saw a spectacular amount of blood emerging from the end of my penis.
A specialist ran a scan over my belly and said the news was good – no blood in my bladder. He rang surgeon Rod for advice.
A couple of hours later, I was able to pee into a bottle, so they allowed me to go home.
Little did I know, my troubles were just beginning.
Doped up with morphine, I dozed through Coronation Street and something else, then – about three hours after getting home – went to the loo.
Oh hell – nothing. Even though my bladder felt full.
I returned to bed and dozed, awakened every hour or so by the urge to pee. But nothing would come. And the agonising pain was back.
About 4am, I decided I needed to go back to hospital, probably to have a catheter inserted again to clear whatever was blocking the tubes. As I dressed, doubled up with pain, I had a sudden urge to go at the other end.
When I did, the pain eased off greatly, so we postponed the run to hospital, even though I still couldn’t pee.
At 6am, I got up to try again – with spectacular result.
A blood clot the size of a .303 bullet shot out and smashed into the back of the toilet seat.
It was followed by a gusher with the momentum of Huka Falls.
Oh my God, the relief! It was over.
In fear of the clotting happening again, I drank copiously and peed hourly for the next couple of days and nights, after which the blood cleared from my urine and everything felt fine.
Rod rang on the Saturday morning to see if I was okay. He explained that while the performance was encouraging, it had caused a spasm in my pelvic floor muscle, and since things were “still pretty raw down there” that had caused the bleeding.
Had I done any permanent damage? He doubted it very much. Just relax and take it easy.
NEXT: Being a patient patient.
Prostablog 