The Urology Ward

"Rrrrrr... ssssssss. Rrrrrrrr...sssssss."

An anaconda is eating my thighs.

"Rrrrrrrr....ssssssss."

The leg squeezers wake me up at 4 a.m. They won't let me go back to sleep. In fact, I won't sleep for another forty or so hours. To paraphrase Chris Rock,

"There is no sleep in the urology ward."

But that'll be ruminated upon later.


The urology ward is a strange place. Medical posters on the walls featuring diagrams of genitalia and information on avoiding kidney stones. Patients ambling down in the halls, asses hanging out of ill-tied, flimsy gowns, clutching IV poles, toting around plastic boxes filled with their own urine. It's like a Terry Gilliam movie.

Truth be told, I'm one of them. And as I emerge from my drug-addled haze, I realize I have problems on a two-fold front:

1. The stitches. In hindsight, these aren't bad. The laparoscopic surgery has left me with two small incisions, and two other entry points I would be hesistant to even call incisions; they're more like pokes. The only bad thing? I'm told I need to cough to avoid filling my lungs with fluid that could cause pneumonia. Cough after my abdominal wall was just sliced through? Surely you jest.

2. The catheter. You can't feel it when it's there, in fact you don't even know it's there because it's put in during surgery. However, the Hippie Nurse tells me,

"Aw man, it's gonna be awful. It feels like your intestines are getting pulled out. And then the first time you take a leak, it's gonna burn like nothing else."


OK, I'll admit, I'm truly intimidated. Catheters occupy the bladder in the form of an inflated balloon, and exit through the penis. My mind reels. Guys in general don't like having their parts fiddled with by strangers, and I'm not happy about having this thing out. When the day nurse comes, I ask her to get it over with.

And without describing the scene, it's really not that bad. Turns out the Hippie Nurse was just messing with me.

The day nurse helps me to move around.

"You see, they pump you full of gas during surgery so they can work in your abdomen. Your body needs to squeeze that out. When you walk around the first few times, you'll feel like there's a tremendous weight on your shoulders. It'll subside, but you need to move around. Walk at least three times today. I'll help you."

And she does. Getting out of bed is a new experience: crook left leg; straighten right. Move left leg to right side of bed. Perform half-roll. Shuffle legs to the side, sloooowwwly sit up. Sit on the edge of the bed until heart-rate subsides and head stops swimming.

The first walk is an adventure. I'm now one of the urology patients, ambling awkwardly, clutching my IV pole.

Dr. Briesbois comes to visit, in his usual brisk fashion. When I shake his hand, he immediately turns around and washes in the sink while still talking to me. It is in equal measures a bizzare and oddly appropriate thing for a surgeon to do.

He reports that the surgery was flawless. They transfused me for one unit of blood during surgery " just in case", but there was no bleeding during the actual surgery, which was a distinct possibility. That makes six units of blood in the 24 hours up to surgery.

I'm glad people give blood.

In fact, he thinks I could be out in a day.

A day?

He takes away my Morphine PCM (which I'm glad for later. Morphine slows body functions, including bowel and bladder control. I'm also glad I wasn't heavy-handed with the controller).

He leaves, and later a two-nurse team comes in to dispose of the PCM. They unlock the case, record the levels in the syringe (Does that thing hold a LITRE? Good lord, I only used maybe 5 percent of it!), and flush it down the sink in the room. Ah, morphine in the North Saskatchewan.

While the reassurance and safety of the hospital is nice, the surroundings are wearing thin. I haven't been able to shower for days. I smell like hospital. The food, which seemed cautiously adequate during the first week, is growing odious. I need to get out of here. Yes, please, send me home.