Thanks all who have checked in here recently. My continuing exhaustion means that imaginative writing is still some distance in future, but I visited a new urologist today and, again, a scope was shoved up my little urethra. The good doctor found nothing abnormal in my bladder except the scar tissue one expects to find after the application of high doses of radiation aimed to defeat a "highly aggressive prostate cancer." Turns out the Flomax generic I've been taking does not treat the condition that's been depriving me of sleep and comfort for the past 5 to 6 weeks. Flomax only works when there's a blockage in the system. There appears to be no blockage, and my problem is nerve damage associated with the high doses of radiation that were needed to treat my prostate cancer. The new drug he prescribed will hopefully calm the nerves that are sending too frequent and intense messages from the nerves in my wounded bladder to my brain. Hopefully, the urgent and continuous need to pee will lessen, and I'll catch a few more winks per night. I was near tears with feelings of hope as we talked. I cry at the drop of a hat these days. Where did Mr. Masculinity disappear too? Somewhere between the doses of hormone, I suppose. Maybe by end of next month, I'll get back to the writing projects I've put on hold.
This Beatnik Boomer is bushed and beaten and bumbed out. My age is showing. On Friday last, I had stones removed from my bladder. In the afternoon, I took pain pills that caused constipation, then a laxative on Saturday to cure the constipation. I had good reason for the pain pills. The diameter of my urethra was undersized and my urologist had to insert a tool and expand it. Yep, she had to tear open the "narrow fibromuscular tube that conducts urine and semen from the bladder and ejaculatory ducts, respectively, to the exterior of the body." My poor Willy was bruised black and blue for many days afterward and peeing was more than uncomfortable. Then the laxative kicked in and all day Sunday I trekked to the bathroom on a regular basis on demand of both terminuses of the path from my mouth back into the world. I did little from Friday afternoon till this Tuesday morning but lie around the house and visit the bathroom. I ate little because of the constipation. Thus I awoke this morning aching all over, and when I tried to fold a couple of tee shirts and bundle one pair of socks and hang up a shirt, I was literally exhausted by the simple tasks, and my brain absolutely fails to operate creatively. This simple listing of details is all it can do. A man my age should never be inactive for as many days as I was. Move even if it hurts.
