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To Pee, Or Not To Pee?
That Is the Question
With apologies to Willie Shakespeare
The next time I run into the ghost of William Shakespeare,
I’ll apologize for bastardizing one of his most famous quotes: “To be
or not to be; that is the question.”
But that line came to mind frequently in recent weeks as I
endured hip replacement surgery and rehabilitation. Had I carefully
recalled my experience of two years ago when I got two new knees I would
have remembered how difficult one of life’s simpler pleasures can be
when motion from the hips down is limited and when pressing the emergency
call button results in a response in thirty minutes, if you’re lucky.
The simple pleasure of peeing, in a hospital post-operative setting, can
at times become torture.
After several days of groggily attempting to follow orders
of, “Now, turn toward me,” or “Lift your hips while I slide this pad
under you,” I became aware that someone, in the interval between the
start of my anesthesia and my post operative state of discombobulation,
had been playing with my little ole’ dangling participle. Perhaps,
“manipulating” is a better term than “playing” since I wasn’t
awake to know what they were doing. All I knew was that, as some of the
fog cleared, I became aware that a catheter was in place to drain urine
from my bladder and I had no knowledge of whether my benefactor was male
or female, gay or straight, cute or ugly—and it made no difference. I
was grateful.
The fun began, on the third day when a command came from
Mount Sinai, or more likely from the head nurse, to remove the catheter.
The removal process wasn’t bad, but then I had to go on my own. If I
failed to produce the necessary amount of urine within the appropriate
time frame, I was threatened with re-catheterization—without the benefit
of anesthesia.
I had two choices. I could either use the plastic urinal on
my beside table or I could hobble towing a walker into the bathroom to sit
on the throne. I suppose a third choice would have been to pee in the
bathroom sink but that didn’t seem quite cricket even though my roommate
was confined to his bed and never would have known the difference.
Perhaps, when some of the angst of my recent experience has dissipated,
I’ll write to Randy Cohen, the fellow who does The Ethicist column in
the Sunday New York Times Magazine, and request his opinion on peeing in
the sink when it isn’t your sink.
Most people are pee shy to one degree or another. Some guys
can’t even stand next to another male in a public rest room. They’ll
wait for a private stall while risking death from kidney failure or a
puddle on the floor in the process. But in the hospital, with limited post
operative mobility, there’s no private stall option. The aide pulls the
curtain around the bed and you’re on your own either to pee in bed with
a urinal between your legs or, standing unsteadily at the bedside, to let
her rip. Intermittently, of course, whether in bed or out, the nurses’
aide pokes her head between the drapes and in imitation of the waiters at
pseudo-upscale restaurants, repeatedly queries, “Is everything all
right?”
Of course it’s not all right! If it were all right I
wouldn’t be hanging on to the bedside rail like a drunken sailor with my
Donna Karan hospital gown drooped around my ankles. Fortunately as a
denizen of nude beaches and as a retired medical professional, I have no
problem in letting it all hang out and I was gratified to note that no one
ever seemed offended by my nudity. Also, no one ever seemed interested in
my nudity—not even me.
The real challenge, however, was using the contraption in the
bathroom. With hip or knee surgery you’re not allowed to sit on a
standard height toilet. It may put too much strain on the operated joints.
Instead, you sit on a toilet seat that’s affixed to a solid metal frame
fitting over the standard toilet. The seat is some six or eight inches
above the normal toilet seat level. When you sit at this elevation
there’s an inherent problem for men. It’s a problem, however, that’s
frequently not recognized until tragedy, commensurate with Hamlet’s
“To be, or not to be” speech, has already struck.
Approaching this heightened experience, with thoughts of
release and relief in mind and bladder, most first time male users pay
scant attention to the fact that there’s an opening at the front of the
toilet between the new seat and the old one of six inches or more before
you hit pay dirt—or in this case pay water. Also, most men have never
paid particular attention to the fact that when you sit on the toilet, the
dangling participle of the male anatomy doesn’t always dangle straight
down. It may be pointed outward from zero to ninety degrees totally
without erotic intent.
That geometric disparity becomes apparent when the grunts and
groans signifying bowel and/or bladder success, similar to the grunts and
groans accompanying sexual success, are accompanied by a panicked “Oh
Shit!” as the patient’s pristine elastic white surgical stockings turn
yellow and his legs become wet and warm.
It took only one such experience before I became adept at
reaching over the top of the elevated toilet seat and between my legs in
order to direct my dangling participle in the right direction. When I was
discharged from the hospital a plastic urinal for use during the night at
home didn’t accompany me and I had to improvise. Fortunately I have
several lovely crystal pitchers that filled the void (no pun intended). At
future dinner parties if I start telling guests about the alternate uses
of my Baccarat crystal pitcher, my partner will know it’s time to flag
me. I’ve had too much to drink.
But I also left the hospital with the knowledge that “To
pee or not to pee,” must be even more difficult for women patients
undergoing hip and knee surgery. The option of standing at the bedside
with a urinal, or peeing in the bathroom basin isn’t open to them. For
the gals it’s climbing onto a stainless steel bed pan (usually kept in
the hospital freezer until time of use) or a plastic bed pan that looks
like a left over from last year’s Halloween party.
Faced with questions of eternal essence such as whether to
pee or not to pee, I seldom wonder what Jesus would have done. But when I
come across Willie’s ghost I hope I’ll remember to question what
Shakespeare would have done.
John Siegfried, a former Rehoboth resident who now lives in Ft.
Lauderdale, maintains strong ties to our community and can be reached at hsajds@aol.com.
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