It was the music that got to me first. The opening four notes of Magic Roundabout: da-da-da-da ... da would normally follow. What's that? Oh, it's some instrumentation saying that it needs checking. The guy next to me was constantly monitored with drains in his leg and he was the most musical of all. He also had Mungo Jerry's In the Summertime which I think was the blood pressure monitor because we all had that set of notes at various times in the night.
Then I woke to the sound of one of the nurses at the nurses' station talking quietly on the phone. "Yes, that's fine. OK. Speak soon. Bye."
"Who is THAT?" A voice came from the bed opposite. "Who's there?" No response, of course. "Who WAS that?" Interesting change of tense. It's always sad when old people on the ward believe that they're at home and they're calling out to partners, living or dead, who simply aren't there. "Where are you?" It's quite heart-breaking. Sometimes a nurse will come through and put on a light to show them where they are, but more often they're elsewhere and don't hear the cry.
Then of course, the nurses are checking your observations all the time: 8pm, 2am, 6am - which also breaks your sleep up. Mind you, sometimes the sound of their activity weaves its way into one's dreams and, it has to be said, with unfortunate results, when you're sporting a natty catheter. "Dave," she whispered. "Dave, wake up." Her voice was breathy and rather nice. She's not talking to me, but my dream doesn't recognise that. "Dave," there's the sound of tearing Velcro as she pulls apart her ...
I wake, realising that the buxom creature of my dreams, bending over me and ripping off her clothes is in fact the night nurse doing Dave's observations next door - and the Velcro is the cuff for the BP monitor. That doesn't stop a certain amount of discomfort in the nether regions where I have managed to prove that, yes, erections are possible when you have a catheter. Did you need to know that detail? Probably not, but it's all part of the experience. And, anyway, it's a sign that, despite having 69 Iodine-125 seeds fired into it, the old prostate is still functioning. There is hope yet, so watch out, Gloria!
Reality dawned with a bang at 6:00am though when the nurse arrived - no Velcro tearing - and said, "Right, we'll have that catheter out now." OK - this is the uncomfortable bit because, if you didn't already know, the catheter is a long tube with a little balloon hidden in the end of it. It's passed all the way up the urethra into the bladder and then they pump up the party to keep the tube from pulling out. To take it out, the nurse releases the balloon and then draws the tube out from the penis ... carefully. "Hmm. A bit of a blood clot on the end of this. I wonder whether it was blocked? You didn't make much during the night."
Since I'd pumped out extraordinary amounts the day before, I wasn't that surprised, but I felt I needed to go, so she hurried off to fetch a pot and, when she returned with it, I tried my best to go. Nothing.
Now, you're not allowed out after brachytherapy unless you can pass water. No pressure then. The other guy in the ward who'd also had the procedure beat me to it, but he made only a tiny drop. Mine, when it came, was 180ml - One Hundred and EIGHTY! Much applause all round and then I settled down to concentrate on getting the next one out. Plenty of water of course, but the problem is, that the catheter had left me very sore so weeing was quite uncomfortable. Not a great incentive then to perform.
No matter, I was soon producing another generous donation of 180ml, proudly presenting the receptacle to any nurse who looked interested. They agreed that, yes, I was magnificent and that therefore I would be allowed home, once the meds had been prescribed and delivered and the various notes written up.
Long story short, about two hours later, I was marching out of the hospital with Gloria, feeling very sore, but relieved that that stage of the proceedings was over.
"Anyway," says the Glorious one, once we arrive home, "let's have a look," so I remove trousers and underwear, lie on the bed and wave my legs in the air in front of the wardrobe mirror - not a great look, but necessary for all concerned. "Blimey!" she says, and blimey indeed because the bruising around the perineum and down the top part of one thigh is quite bad.
That probably explains why sitting on a hard chair was not at all comfortable for a while. However, onwards and upwards. Phase one is done and now we wait for the side effects to kick in. Stay tuned!
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