Every so often, I get an email from the World Trade Center Health Registry, asking me to fill out their latest on-line survey on the health and well-being of people who were around and at least peripherally involved with 9/11, and if I don’t respond in some reasonable time frame, I’ll get a reminder and then another reminder, until to get them off my back, I take the ten or fifteen minutes needed to fill out their survey.  Are they doing anything useful with the information they collect or is this just one more boondoggle, I have no idea. But I figure that some of us who were there but weren’t damaged emotionally or physically should be included in their sample, so their results won’t be too skewed. But when they ask about my personal assessment about the quality of my health, I have to stop and pause. Compared to what? A whole bunch of people I hang out with are members in good standing of the Oy Vey Club, meaning that they are legitimately entitled to kvetch about what has happened to their bodies over the decades that have gone by since they were spry and in their prime. Compared to them, I’ve been in reasonably good shape, still able to hightail it to catch a bus when the occasion warrants. So when I got another survey last week, I checked off the box saying I’m doing more than OK. But all good things must come to an end. My application is ‘in the mail’ for membership the Oy Vey Club, this honorary association of men and women who have climbed to the top of the hill and are having trouble making it back down. Details to follow.

(Warning: what follows is medical information that I would not want to hear about, except that I’m involved – so I already know the details.)

Just look at the information scribbled on my JSPCA wall calendar: mostly the medical appointments that I need to keep track of, all the doctors I need to see, all the tests I need to take. Several months ago, I explained to our ‘family doctor,’ Adam Albert, what my symptoms were and asked in all innocence if I was not suffering from what is known in the trade as ‘irritable bowel syndrome.’ Which got me a referral to a new gastro guy, Moshe Rubin, who, after a few minutes, looked at Barbara and told her that she had successfully diagnosed my problem. The hernia in my navel was getting bigger – as my wife had noted on more than one occasion – which was causing my intestines to move from where the Good Lord had intended them to be to untried territory. (Remember: I warned you!) Which got me an appointment with Alon Schwartz, a top surgeon, and a referral for a blood test and a CT that Dr. Schwartz would need before he would decide how to proceed.

Hence, on Monday June 9, the wife and I headed out to Givat Shaul for my CT, a procedure I had never undergone before. What I didn’t know was the need to drink alarming quantities of iodine-laced water, much more liquid than I with the weak bladder would ever contemplate imbibing at one time. And If I didn’t keep guzzling, the lady said, I would be asked to sign a form saying that I was ‘refusing to drink.’ I did my best, which meant I was constantly heading to the sherutim. At long last, I had consumed enough of this liquid to satisfy the young lady in question and was allowed in to do the procedure and leave.

I kept wondering, how am I going to make it back home without a portable toilet to take with me? Even with using the facilities at the Central Bus Station and the Navon train station, it was a tough haul, but somehow I made it home shortly before midnight.

I suspect that everyone has been in this situation at least once in their life. OUTTA MY WAY, I GOTTA PEE. (Sound familiar?) And then the feeling of relief once it’s over. But supposing you can’t. Nobody is stopping you, but nothing is coming out – even though you know it’s all inside. That’s what happened to me. I could not sleep; I could not find any way to lie down; I spent the night pacing the floor in our apartment.

Should we try to get an emergency appointment at our clinic, or should we head straight to the emergency room at our nearby hospital? These days, there’s usually a doctor at Maccabi just to handle emergencies – when you can’t wait a day or two or three to see your regular doctor. In this case it was Dr. Yungerwood, their most senior M.D. He listened to my tale of woe and directed me to the emergency room of my choice. He prepared a referral which listed my problem as ‘urinary retention.’ (You think!) And so we headed down to Hadassah-Har Tzofim. Lest you think we had wasted our time, au contraire, mes amis. When you walk into an emergency room (at least, here in The Land) with a written diagnosis from a doctor, it saves them time deciding what to do, and apparently they charge you less.

In a very short time, I was taken into the emergency room proper, assigned a doctor, and given a bed, where I would receive emergency treatment. They needed to empty my bladder, and so they inserted a catheter. (I don’t see the need to be too graphic; you can figure out for yourself how they did it.) It didn’t seem to have the desired effect, so they tried again. Nothing was happening, so the doctors came back with a ‘special catheter’ and tried for a third time. (BTW, just as whenever someone says to you, ‘don’t worry,’ you know it’s time to seriously start worrying, whenever a doctor tells you, ‘this won’t hurt,’ be prepared for the worst.)

A call went out for the resident urologist. It seemed that it took forever for him to arrive, but that was probably because of my dire situation. Thadi brought his own ultrasound machine and realized that the path where the catheter is supposed to go was blocked. We’ll try one more time; if it doesn’t work, we’ll have to through the abdomen. At least for that, they were prepared to provide a local anesthetic – in addition to the medicine in the IV tube. (Be grateful for small blessings!) Finally…. It took a while, but I began to feel better. You would too if you hadn’t been able to pee for eighteen hours.

There was a downside. I would be leaving the hospital with a catheter stuck in my abdomen and a bag dangling from my side, which would remain in place for several weeks, or maybe longer. Not what I would have hoped for, but considering the alternatives…. I felt tired, I felt weak, I felt old, I felt oy vey-ish. (You hear that, club members! And I wonder if I can use that as an answer the next time the World Trade Center Health Registry comes knocking on my inbox.) Still, I felt relieved, even grateful (asher yatzar et haadam) because I’m still here to write my article.

I’m gearing up for a busy week ahead: a phone appointment with my regular urologist on Mon; a series of eye tests on Tues.; our chiropractor on Wed.; an MRI on Thurs. All assuming all goes as planned. Except that there’s a war going on here in the region, and things are sort of up in the air. But you didn’t need me to tell you that.