Monday Mournings... early edition... ( very early )

Exert from - THE FUNNY THING ABOUT BLADDER CANCER

I wasn't surprised to see an attractive young woman step into the exam room. I knew that before the doctor came in, there would be somebody else first to take my blood pressure and ask all of those personal questions again. She quickly finished that then said. "OK, let me explain what is going to happen."

Now I was sitting in a urology clinic to have the doctor shove a camera into an orifice one would not normally expect to accommodate a camera. I pretty well knew what was going to happen. But she had a job to do, and far be it from me to thwart the industry of a dedicated professional, so I let her go.

"OK Mr. Wheatley," she began. "You'll need to drop your trousers and underwear to your ankles, then lay face up on the exam table. You can cover yourself with this sheet. I'll step out until you're ready. Then I'll prepare the area with betadine and inject lidocaine into your urethra."

I remember seeing her lips continue to move after that last sentence, and I vaguely remember sounds like human speech. But there was nothing in the form of information reaching my brain. It was too busy screaming inside my skull, "WHO'S going to do WHAT?

I felt strange enough even acknowledging to such a young woman that I possessed those parts. I thought I'd taken quite a step being able to discuss their function in a small, academic way. But now, she was going to actually treat them. Fortunately, this was such an emotional overload that I just went numb. I again began to discern actual communication in the sounds she was making.

"I'll step out now. You get ready on the table," she told me. Then true to her word, she left the room. I don't know why.

I dropped my pants, then lay back on the table clutching the sheet like a life preserver. A second later there was a quick rap on the door and she called, "Ready?"

"Yes ma'am," I timidly responded.

She stepped around the table pulling on a pair of latex gloves, then lifted the sheet. And there I lay, sheet up, pants down, while a woman younger than my daughter surveyed the area. I can assure you that nobody would have been the least bit impressed with anything found there at that moment. I couldn't have been less impressive sitting in a tub of crushed ice. I consoled myself with the thought that this would not be the first scared to death, little piece of malfunctioning equipment, desperately trying to hide she'd have seen. Nor was it likely to be the last. And with the next victim, I'd just become one in a forgettable procession. At this point, I expected her to go into cold, clinical, robot mode. But that's not what happened.

I remember when my father-in-law passed away. He had been confined to the hospital for quite a while. I have twin nieces, about my daughters age. One of them became a nurse. I remember being fascinated, watching the girl I still thought of as a child switch to nurse mode. Suddenly, where one of my daughter's play mates had stood, was a competent, professional nurse. But in this case, mingled with the professional care, was the love for a beloved grandfather. It was an incredible mix of confident, competent medical care delivered with a tenderness that exceeds my ability to put into words. I remember thinking how fortunate Mr. Greenhill was to have her there.

That memory came to me in this moment because this young woman was doing almost the same thing. I don't remember any of the actual words she used. I don't remember her tone of voice. I do remember her looking into my eyes as she asked how I was doing, or if I was hurting. That's odd, because I remember definitely planning to not make eye contact. In some way, she conveyed genuine concern with out demeaning pity. I would have been surprised for a seasoned nurse, calling on a long lifetime of experience to pull that off. How someone so young did it, I'll never know. But I don't have to understand it to be grateful for it.

She finished what ever it was she was doing, then gently replaced the sheet. "The doctor will be right in," she assured me. Unbeknownst to her, the doctor was tied up and would not be right in. As much as I wanted this over with, I dreaded what was to come too much to be able to wish he'd hurry up. As I lay there with conflicting emotions, another factor soon began to make itself apparent giving me cause to reconsider my strategy for that day.

I'd made the 74 mile trip on this 105 degree day by motorcycle. There were several reasons for that. One was gas. At 3-and-a-half dollars a gallon, I saved quite a bit by taking the bike. Another reason was that I rarely pass up a chance for a ride. Unless there's a compelling reason to take a larger vehicle, I'll usually go on the bike. And finally, I don't know how many more rides I'll get to take. While I had not pulled it out and looked it over real close, somewhere in the back of my mind was the idea that I might not be able to ride much longer. So, 105 or not, I'd taken the bike.

I'd been told to drink 2 quarts of water 40 minutes before my appointment. I filled up an insulated quart water bottle with crushed ice and water and slung it around my neck before heading out. By the time I got to Shreveport, it was empty. I checked in at the desk, then filled the bottle from a water fountain and drained it again. I did this three more times before finally being called to the exam room.

By the time I was making my way down the hall toward the exam room, my eyes were floating. I'm sure I'd sweated out a lot of water on my ride over, but that 5 quarts I'd downed in the last hour-and-a-half had apparently been more than enough to top me off. Now the excess was demanding release. I knew that I was going to be called upon for a specimen, so in just a few more minutes blessed relief would be at hand. Sure enough, the exam room shared a bathroom with another exam room. The lady who escorted me here instructed me to go inside and provide the sample. I quickly filled the thimble sized specimen cup, then began to seriously tax the clinic's sewerage system. I eventually finished and somewhat to my astonishment neither ruptured the pipes nor washed away the buildings foundation.

But shortly after leaving the rest room, I again felt the waters building. Absent from my previous narrative was that I made one more pit stop before dropping my trousers and laying on the table. I figured that would surely get me through the ordeal to come. And without the doctor's delay, it might have.

My kidneys, apparently excited by the sudden attention of a renal specialist, were determined to put on a good show. They were moving water at a rate that would have done Niagara Falls proud. My poor diseased bladder was less ambitious. It was, in fact quite adamant in its displeasure. By the time the doctor arrived, there was no hope that I could make it through the exam.

"Sorry doc," I said, " but I've got to go."

"That's alright." he assured me patiently. "You go ahead."

I slid from the table and modestly clutched the sheet around me as I shuffled to the bathroom, pants still around my ankles. I finished my business and returned to the exam room where the doc gave me an apologetic look and said, "I'm sorry, but we'll have to prep you again."

The attractive young woman began pulling on another pair of gloves.