How to Talk About the P Word
Tuesday, May 18th, 2010I’m curious what you think this P word is that I am referring to?
I’m guessing that it’s not quite what first comes to mind.
Just guessing.
Because today, my friends, we’re talking about prostates. (Did you think we were going to be talking about words that you didn’t want your kids to learn just yet? Really? Here?!)
Actually, my good friend and avid PHEA reader Alexandra Grabbe is writing about prostates—her husband Sven’s prostate to be exact.
Alexandra and I swapped posts today as part of the Blogathon. Over on her Chezsven Blog, I’ve written about my memories of camping at the Cape, where Alexandra now runs a B&B (called Chez Sven). And here at PHEA Alexandra is giving you a rare and honest peek at what it’s like to support your husband though a prostate operation.
The Roto-Rooter Operation
My seventy-year-old husband Sven suffers from the male ailment no one wants to discuss, except in cheerful voice-over during those television commercials about men who have a “growing problem?” The “problem” is enlarged prostate, a condition that is not unusual.
Many members of the masculine sex will suffer from symptoms as they age. Most men prefer not to talk about their prostate. Often plumbing analogies are used. My uncle referred to his “Roto-Rooter operation.” Both of Sven’s best friends in Sweden have already survived surgery, more or less, so he knows the risks and the rewards, the possible complications and the outcome all males dread—not being able to have an erection.
Instead of Flomax, for 20 years, Sven has been taking the herbal alternative, Saw Palmetto. Now the witching hour has arrived.
Day 1: A random blood test convinces our GP to schedule a bladder ultrasound the Friday of Thanksgiving.
Around 5:00 p.m., Dr. M. calls back: “I want you folks to head for the ER now!”
I note the urgency in his voice and propel my husband towards our car.
An amazed nurse at Cape Cod Hospital in Hyannis removes two liters of urine.
I’m frazzled. Sven looks somewhat dazed, newly equipped with the first catheter of his life. A catheter is a tube, placed in the bladder, to drain urine. The tube is connected to a plastic bag, strapped to his thigh.
Day 2: I sit like a piece of crumpled lettuce, left on the counter, unfit to be tossed with the rest of the salad. A low but steady keening emanates from our bathroom. It’s a strange sound, and totally foreign. The door, half open, reveals my husband on the toilet seat, leaning forward, seized by another bladder spasm. In the discomfiture department, my feeling of helplessness rates about a 1.5, compared to his obvious 10. All I can think of is my desire to push, push, push a baby out of my body during delivery. Could this be similar to what he’s experiencing?
Sven does not want to return to the ER. We decide to wait out the weekend and see.
Day 4, Monday Morning: The pain has not diminished. We hurry back to Hyannis, destination Urology Associates.
“The bladder is stupid,” Dr. H. says after a cystoscopy. “It feels something and thinks urine.”
The nurse inserts a new catheter and schedules Sven’s procedure in a couple weeks. She explains the delay will allow the bladder time for muscle-tone recovery.
Day 4: Afternoon: My husband again seizes up in pain.
“Remember, honey, what the doctor said?” I’m trying to be helpful. “You need to relax, and the pee will flow all by itself?”
Sven waves my advice away, not in the mood for second-guessing.
In my head, I hear a preacher’s voice, “I take thee … in sickness and in health ….”
I had a catheter once, after the birth of my son. I know it’s no fun. My husband is on his second in as many days. Dr. H. prescribes stronger painkillers. Sven and I decide to sleep in different beds until this ordeal is over.
Day 11: Dawn is breaking. I’m thinking another 10 days seems like an awfully long time to wait when the bedroom door swings open. Why is my husband crying again?
“The bag opened during the night,” Sven splutters. “I couldn’t figure out what all the water in the bed was.”
This unexpected twist leaves me speechless, but he’s able to find the exact words to describe his predicament: “Very strange, waking up wet. Like when I was a child.”
Day 14: One more week to go. We return to Cape Cod Hospital for pre-op. I study the handout a nurse has provided. TURP stands for TransUrethral Resection of the Prostate. Sections of the enlarged prostate are surgically removed through the urethra. Afterwards, the patient spends a night in the hospital and is sent home once able to urinate. The body will heal itself, but several weeks of rest are required, with minimal travel in cars.
Day 21: Dr. H. operates for over an hour.
My husband has started his second glass of ginger ale by the time I reach his hospital bed. I pull the flimsy gown up to cover a beefy shoulder. It seems he has aced the procedure and charmed several nurses with Scandinavian ancestry, who hover nearby. One calls him “handsome” as she leaves the room. During my visit I notice two boxes drawn on the white board. “Void” is written in one; the other says “Home”.
Day 22: Void is checked the following morning. Sven can leave without the catheter, a real victory. A hospital volunteer arrives with a wheelchair.
Day 27: Now, only a week later, Sven again wakes me early in the morning. I fear there’s blood in his urine, or perhaps more unexpected pain. Not at all!
“When I woke up, I felt horny,” my husband says with an impish grin at the memory of his recent erection. “I said to myself, ‘Are you totally mad? You cripple!’”
At least he hasn’t lost his sense of humor.
Alexandra’s Tips
* Make sure your sweetie gets his PSA once he reaches 40.
* If you notice he has to pee a lot, suggest he might have that “going problem.”
* An herb (saw palmetto) works as well as the drugs advertised on TV.
