It has been a week and a half since my prostate surgery and I’m doing great. I’m walking a couple miles a day (can’t run for a few weeks but even when I do run it’s not running), eating normally, sleeping well, now able to sit and stand and cough and burp without feeling as if I was hit in the belly with a Volkswagen.
I just returned from my hosectomy: the last dread. After everything else one goes through, this is the least of it. But I am damned glad I didn’t know just how long a Foley catheter is; I’m surprised I didn’t choke on it. The nurse fills the bladder with saline, then deflates a balloon also filled with saline (which is what keeps it in), then pulls, and then it’s my job to catch what comes out in a jug. “Just don’t get my shoes wet,” she says, “they’re expensive.” Mission successful. An hour later, I just went to the bathroom for real. Mission successful. Life is good.
But it turns out my pharmacist was wrong: I will be wearing man diapers for a few weeks along with a man pad inside – the belt and suspenders of the urologic trade. I feel as if I’m walking around with a padded codpiece – which is ironic, considering what’s still not going to be happening for awhile in that department.
They tell me it’s going to be a difficult few weeks and then it will start getting better over the next few months. That’s why I’ve canceled trips – that and I am still recuperating. The one thing I heard from people who’ve had my same robotic surgery is that you feel too good and then push it and then regret it. Today’s a case in point: I was determined to go into Manhattan for my class but my wife and my substitute, Steven Johnson, convinced me I was wrong.
Bottom line: The new normal is looking more like the old normal every day. I remain very lucky.
