TURP Surgery – A real life story

free flow life after turp surgery1.30am. 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?

Toilet sign - needed for prostate problemsIt’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

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