I Have to Pee
I piss myself a lot. Come on, don’t laugh. It is a serious problem. It’s called “overactive bladder”. It happens when your nervous system, apparently drunk, sends erroneous signals to your bladder muscles to immediately constrict (think Rose’s mother angrily tightening her girdle in Titanic). So even though I have a normal size, grown-ass bladder, for all intents and purposes, I actually journey through life with the bladder of a toddler.
Here’s the worst part. There is a horrific, urgent sensation that if I don’t find a bathroom in twelve seconds I am going to piss myself. Yet when I do make it, I am done in six seconds. If you see me in the bathroom at a game or concert, I am absolutely the guy you want to get behind in line.
But think, for a moment, about how embarrassing it is for me. My own 9-year-old son takes longer at the urinal than I do. I have to stand there, pretending, just to save face.
It didn’t have to be this way.
Around twenty years ago, there were commercials advertising a prescription drug which claimed to solve the whole thing. I couldn’t believe it. I was so excited. You can probably imagine the sensation I felt when I first saw this ad — like something warm and wet running down my leg.
I joyfully called my doctor to set up an appointment. I really liked this doctor. He had played football in college, like me. We liked to talk sports and share football stories.
This day was no different, until I heard the snap of the rubber glove.
“Doc, uh, what are ya doin’ there, man?”
“Oh, anytime there’s a bladder issue I need to check your prostate.”
This was the day I learned where the prostate is located.
“Woah, woah, Doc! Jesus, man, I thought we were cool! Just give me the damn prescription!”
“Sorry man. I would have to do this regardless, but have you seen your family history? Says here every man in your family dating back to just before the Protestant Reformation has had prostate cancer.”
“I feel like you are exaggerating.”
“In fact, your Uncle Gary was born with prostate cancer. I didn’t even know that could happen.”
“Gary made the most of his life.”
“Oh, and your great, great-grandfather Fairbanks Alouicious Bancroft? He was born without a prostate…”
”Ya, so?”
“He died of prostate cancer at age 32.”
“Poor Fairbanks. He barely got to know life at the abbey.”
“So take off your pants, lay down, turn over, and get ready.”
I concluded that this scene in the overactive bladder commercial was lying somewhere on the cutting room floor.
Do you remember the first time you had something stuck in your ass?
That’s a crazy feeling, no? I mean, it feels like you are pooping, but the poop is going back in, so every impulse in your brain is telling you to push out. Then you realize if you push the finger out, you will also be shitting all over it.
Talking sports with a doctor who is an ex-football player?
Upside.
Remembering ex-football players generally have large, callused fingers?
Downside.
“Colin, if you can, try and relax your muscles.”
“Doc, if you can, try and go fuck yourself.”
I attempted to comply, which basically means it just felt like I was shitting everywhere. He finally pulled his finger back out and, thankfully, was done.
You know that terrifying feeling you get the instant before you first glance at a mess you’ve just made?
I knew when I summoned the courage to turn and look, my doctor would be covered with crap, and our acquaintance would be over.
Alas, there was nothing. Zip. Zero. Clean as a whistle.
It was actually disappointing, because it made the experience just a little more fucked up. So much craziness had just happened to my sweet, naive little asshole, yet there was absolutely nothing to show for it. I would have preferred some type of battle scar to mark the time.
“Doc, please just give me the drugs.”
“Don’t you wanna hear about your prostate?”
“No.”
After I began taking the drugs, the sun shined brighter. The birds sang sweeter. Children gallivanted through meadows with 25% more frolic. I had been given a new lease on life. I knew in just a few more days, the drugs would begin to take affect, and I would never piss myself again.
So, now do you remember those overactive bladder prescription commercials?
No. No, you don’t. Because that shit did not work. Ever.
So here I am, now middle-aged, and hopeless. Forever looking for the next bathroom.
I would love to tell you more, but I have to pee.
