Pee

Hospital Journal

Since removing the urinary catheter with a drainage bag (a tube going from your bladder through the penis into a bag), I have had to pee more than usual in the hospital. For one thing, what a great pleasure it is not to drag that stupid pee bag around the room or while walking. Having that attached to me made me feel like an old 71-year-old man. Without it, I feel like a young 71-year-old man.

My only complaint is that when I pee in a plastic container in the middle of the night, the nurses here turn the alarm on my bed on, so when I stand up to pee in the urine jar, a loud alarm goes off. I yell to them that I’m just standing up to pee, but then the female nurses hang out in the room with me while I’m peeing. I don’t know about you, dear readers, but I like to pee in private as much as possible. I’m not even crazy about using public bathrooms with others in them while peeing. So having two female nurses watch me with eagle eyes as I pee, I find very disconcerting.

I have no trouble getting out of bed. That was a different story about two months ago, when I had to drag myself off the bed or have someone pull me off the mattress. I’m already getting stronger, and when I walk around with a walker, I go at a fast pace in the hospital hallways. The goal is to walk three times a day while staying in the hospital. The rules say I need a nurse to walk with me, which is understandable. I do two laps each walk, which means six laps a day here. It feels good to be on my feet and get those weak legs moving. The fact is, the more I lie in bed, the harder it is to walk later. You’ve got to use them to make them go-go.

Today is my last day in the hospital, and I will go home. I’m arranging an ambulance to pick me up and take me up the twenty steps into my house. Hospital bed to home bed delivery, without even touching the ground. I’m terrified of falling on the steps, which has already happened three times. It’s expensive to be taken by ambulance, but it beats having broken bones—or my beautiful face broken.

The nurse told me that I will probably lose my hair between the fourth and fifth chemotherapy treatments. I’m preparing myself mentally for when that happens. I’m also told that when the hair grows back, it may be more fuzzy, so there will definitely be a change. I’m not sure if I will get my thickness back. I have to get used to the new “Tosh” look when it happens. My vanity is all over the emotional map. I may even refuse to see people. Do I want them to confront a bald Tosh?