TURP Surgery – A real life story
1.30am. and I’m up in the chill of winter’s wee small hours. My route is well worn, a pathway from the bedroom to the toilet, where I peed just a couple of hours ago. And then, back to the warmth of my bed.
3.30a.m… Groan. It’s at me again, as insistent as a nagging wife. So I’m up again, following the same routine. This time I stand for what seems like hours and wonder why I even bothered to get up because nothing’s happening down there. – But really I do know the problem – I just don’t want to consider the solutions. Then finally relief and I return to bed hoping that this will be the last trip of the night.
I pause to have a sip of water though I know this is risky stuff. That’s what you’re reduced to in the darkness. You worry about, of all things, the very thing that’s got you up in the first place, the damned bladder. Still, you want to keep it working and well, healthy, so you figure it’s probably wise to keep it watered with what you think is the teensiest sip of water.
BIG mistake. Because at six o’clock – annoyingly one hour before my alarm goes off I’m up again, cursing myself for that drink, but there’s hardly a flood into the toilet as I wait and wait as the minutes, and my sleep time ebb away. When the alarm does ring, my wife prods my insensate body, says it’s time to get up. I don’t want to. How would she feel if she had been woken up three times for no good reason?
It’s been like this for years now. Years marked by imperatives of all sorts, most dictated by the need to pee. Traveling is characterized by a relentless search for the next watering hole. At airports those cities of signs, there is only one you search for – the little icons indicating public toilets. Just in case. You measure out your days by the number of daily visits.
And then finally you listen to your wife because her sleep has also been disturbed. I should go to a specialist she says. I know what that means: A prostrate operation, something which could interfere with the far more rewarding activities of my Willy. In short I’m scared. Now privates really mean just that but she tells me to grow up, reminds me that my privates have been invaded annually by doctors, checking prostate health.
She’s right of course and so I see a specialist who puts me through a flow test. Flow…. that’s a word which hasn’t applied to me for years. Embarrassingly there’s a computer read out of my ‘flow’ and except for one brief but valiant rise, it all but flatlines.
“The specialist glances at the sheet and tells me I need TURP surgery, a transurethral resection of the prostate. In short a re-bore. I get it but there’s something else pressing on me and it isn’t my bladder.
“Will the operation…? Um will it interfere with – “
“- You’ll have sex as normal” he tells me.
Phew! I go in into Hospital for the operation. It’s an overnighter and not long after my discharge I’m thundering into the toilet like a horse in the field. I’m happy. My wife’s content – and for a change, we both sleep through the night.
There is still life after TURP surgery.
* Thanks to our Anonymous contributor