Gotta go Gotta go Gotta go Right Now

It’s been way too long since I blogged last, so a quick update. My dvr isn’t working again, my #2 molar hurts and there’s a strange smell coming from the kitchen sink. Everything is normal! Thanks for all the comments on my last post; I love the stories, so keep ‘em coming.

All right campers, when last I left you I had just popped a few vicodin and gone into a haze of blissful oblivion. Despite having to change the gauze every few hours, and practicing a fun game of “put the ice on one side, put the ice on the other side,” I was comfortably ensconced in my cozy living room. John stayed the night, just in case I bled out or something, and he also loaned me a few movies from his absurd dvd collection. (I encourage everyone to take drugs and watch Amalee.) Save for one small problem, I would have had the ideal recuperative rest. But because this is a Shawn Story, you can guess it wasn’t that easy.

As most of you know, I have what can only be described as a minuscule bladder. In college my friend Nina tracked it, and a single can of diet coke led me on 8 trips to the bathroom within an hour. Movies are pretty much a waste of time for me; I have to avoid all liquids for hours before hand or I spend the entire evening climbing over people and running back and forth to the bathroom. During my recuperative period I was told to drink lots of water, so I was already anticipating a few late night emergency trips to the loo. Unfortunately, matters in my nether region became… complicated.

Back in those college days I wasn’t much of a player, despite my devastating good looks. Nonetheless there I was one day standing innocently in front of a urinal when it became painfully clear to me that something was wrong. Peeing felt like razor blades being forced through my unit. (All the boys are cringing right now.) Shocked, I consulted a few of my more experienced friends, whom all agreed that I had managed to contract a “social disease.” Being a college student I had no money, so off to the free clinic I went.

The Dr. assigned to me was a good southern Christian woman, who clearly had decided that I needed to be punished for my sins. She told me that she was going to perform some sort of “test,” and that while we wouldn’t have definitive results for a week, she would assume the test would come back positive and treat me with antibiotics. The “test,” she explained, would be somewhat “painful.” When someone is talking about your johnson, you don’t want to ever hear the word “painful,” especially when that person is a born again Christian who looks forward to the End Of Days. She went on to say that although even some FSU football players had cried during the exam, it would be very quick. She popped on rubber gloves, ordered me to drop my shorts and unveiled the longest Qtip I have ever seen.

“No,” I’m thinking.

Ohhh yes, dear readers, it went… there. And was swirled around a bit for good measure. (Cue the cringing again.) She plopped the swab into a baggie and said I could go. I hobbled home, feeling punished by the universe.

Until, that is, the test came back negative! I didn’t have one of those diseases after all. “But Shawn,” you ask, “what was it then?” Well, the evangelist doctor explained that it could have been some other infection, or even some very acidic juice (as in the orange juice with my vodkas), but that if the symptoms were gone, I shouldn’t worry, and thank god. So I didn’t worry.

In the years since then, the razor blade peeing, accompanied by the constant need to go, has come back to haunt me at least two or three times a year. As an official adult, I have health insurance, so a few years ago I decided to go to a urologist, whom I like to call Dr. PeePee. You could tell this guy was the real deal because he had a really thick Polish accent. I figured if anyone knew about suffering, it was a Pole.

Dr. PeePee felt around… down there, and around… inside there and then he fingered the problem: Acute Prostatitis. (Even my prostate is cute!) Apparently, I have an incurable malady of the prostate that results in painful urination, the constant urge to go followed by extreme bouts of what most of us know to be “pee shyness.” Oh joy. I guess I was happy to have an answer, but I was not so thrilled that it was incurable.

It is possible, Dr. PeePee explained, to treat the symptoms. One method is a medication that makes all those feelings of having to urinate go away, but also happens to turn your pee a delightful shade of rust. The other method is through what the doctor called a “sitzba.” I had never heard of a “sitzba” before, but I told Dr. PeePee I would get one right away. He looked at me strangely, and sent me on my way with a prescription of the rusty pee pill.

As the pharmacist took my scrip, I asked her if she might know where I could get one of these “sitsbas.”

“A sitsba?” she asked.

“Yes, a sitsba.”

“A sitz… bath?” she asked.

“Um, I guess,” I said, resigned to the fact that she had no idea what I was talking about.

She looked at my prescription, looked up and me and started laughing uncontrollably. She explained that “sitba” was Dr. PeePee’s Polish way of saying “Sit Bath,” which meant sitting in a tub of hot water for as long as you can stand it. Who knew? I mean, I wasn’t even aware there were positions other than sitting that one could bathe in, unless there are two people in the tub, and even then your options are limited.

So it was to be a lifetime of funky looking pee and long baths for me. I guess it could be worse right?

Yes, it can. Try a raging flare up of prostatitis during your recuperation from a wisdom tooth extraction. My bladder was already on overdrive from all the water I was drinking; now in my drugged up state, it felt like I had to pee ALL THE TIME. I would wake up from some trippy dream to realize that I seriously had to go, only to stumble to the bathroom and realize I had been tricked by my prostate once again. And when I actually could pee, it felt like my old friend the razor blade.

To make matters worse, as if they could be, I was so loopy I couldn’t really stand to pee like most boys, so I had to sit like a stupid girl. There I would sit, waiting for the razor blades, while holding ice to my face or changing gauze. I definitely fell asleep a few times. Once a bag of ice even slipped out of hand, and fell clumsily onto my boys. Few can imagine the surprise of a heavy bag of ice slamming into your bits and pieces, and I encourage you not to try.

While the holes where my teeth used to be eventually healed, this latest case of prostatitis has been the most stubborn one I’ve had in some time. Dr. PeePee has even gone so far as to prescribe six weeks worth of Cipro to try and nuke whatever infection is going on this time. At least I’m safe if we’re hit with anthrax. Meanwhile, I wait for the day when I can pee normally again. You’ll know it has come when you hear a really loud, long “Aaaaahhh.”

Until then dear readers, take care of your prostates and enjoy your sitbas. I know I will.