And it was morning of the second day. Time for the night shift to leave, their day’s work done, to be replaced by the morning crew, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to be of use to those of us still languishing in our beds. Avi even wrote his name on the whiteboard in my room, so I wouldn’t forget who my nurse would be that day. Would it be too much to ask of you to head down to the family room and bring me back a cup of tea? Being an obliging soul, he did just that, although that’s not what they taught him in nursing school. (‘Place the teabag in the cup and pour in the hot water.’) An hour or so later, the fellow with the breakfast tray would arrive. It wasn’t much, but as they say about beggars… Would it be churlish of me to mention that while my meals would arrive, there was never anyone to remove the tray and whatever was left over. The empty yogurt container and egg shells would await a friend, a family member to do cleanup, or else the trash pile would get bigger and bigger, like the flow of bloody urine in the bags on the floor. Otherwise…Remember, I was still attached, somewhat limiting my mobility.

Speaking of visitors, I was more than surprised when Steve, my mentor, arrived. Had he come all the way from Ma’ale Adumim to do bikur cholim? I was thrilled to see him, and I didn’t ask how and why he got there, just be glad… Later in the morning, Natania showed up, bringing me a proper cup of coffee and a pastry. (There is a reason why we take the trouble to have children.) At least the lab at the Hebrew U. medical school where she works is five minutes away. She stayed awhile, and then Barbara arrived to take her turn keeping me from getting lonely.

But before my family arrived, guess who had shown up to check on me? (drum roll, please) Dr. Lorber, the star of the show, the surgeon who lased my prostate, that’s who! And now would be the one and only chance to ask him: Why couldn’t we have done this procedure with Sharap (which stands for Private Medical Insurance), so I wouldn’t have had to wait all this time – fourteen months, in fact? Barbara and I had speculated to no avail as to what the hangup had been. Was it because of my age? Was there a problem with the hospital, with Maccabi, with Misrad habriut? And the answer: none of the above!

As the good doctor explained, the procedures on the ‘regular’ patients were done in the morning, while the sharapniks got attended to in the mid-afternoon (so they didn’t have to spend the previous night lying awake in a hospital bed). My operation would have taken far too long for the afternoon schedule. The truth came out; it wasn’t ‘them,’ the doctor, the hospital, my kupat cholim, or the government, it was me – me and my big fat prostate. Do the math. They started on me at 10:30, and I got wheeled back into the recovery room at 2:30. If they had started with me at 2:30, they would have had to involve the next shift to finish the job. No wonder I wound up unable to pee with a prostate the size of an ice cream truck!

Which was now the question du jour. What would happen the next day when they yanked out the catheter, leaving my now-svelte prostate to communicate with my bladder? All I could do was wait another night by my lonesome in a hospital bed, thinking about what might be, because why miss an opportunity to worry?

And then… I could see what she was doing, exactly what the nurse at Maccabi had done. Only this time, it wasn’t a mistake. Drain the fluid from the tube that seemed to have no reason for being there. Except that the fluid created the pressure that kept the catheter in place. And now…. With a quick yank, she (my bad, I don’t remember Tues. nurse’s name) removed the catheter, holding it up like a trophy for me to see. (Maybe I should take it home and frame it as a memento of my fourteen months attached.) And now I was no longer hooked up to anything, not the bags with bloody urine that lay on the floor, not the bags with saline solution hanging from the movable rack. For the first time in fourteen months, I was ‘on my own.’

Now what happens? I had passed the first ‘written’ exams, the lab work that would have detected if anything was wrong in my system. Now came the ‘oral’ test. Would I be able to pee? If I could, they would send me home. What happens if I can’t? Of course I was prepared for the worst, that’s the result of fourteen months when I couldn’t. If nothing had happened by 2PM, four hours away, then they would… The truth is, I’m not sure what they would have done. I sure didn’t want to know. (Talk about pressure. I kept thinking about that disastrous night when, out of the blue, I couldn’t.) Fortunately, my bladder responded splendidly. Within a half an hour or so, I felt the urge the way I used to. At least now I could walk to the toilet without dragging all the ‘ballast’ with me. My next trip was to the nurses station. I just peed, I just peed! I knew that I would have to do a repeat performance before they would discharge me, but I wanted to give them a heads up. A while later….. I didn’t actually pee, but I dribbled on the floor. Does that count? No, I really had to pee a second time. But now I felt more confident. I can do it!!! And a while later, I indeed did it. Barbara, come and get me; they’re releasing me. (Actually, there was one more ‘written’ exam, an ultrasound to make sure that my bladder was emptying the way it is supposed to. Less than 100? You’re good to go.)

I had nothing better to do than walk around, even head down to the Family Room and make my own cup of tea. And then…. Who’s that walking into my room? It’s Jeff. My old friend was double-dipping, in that he wasn’t there only to see me. He had just come from the other wing from his own appointment. (Of course you’re welcome to stop by; I just don’t know what’s happening with me. If they’re releasing me or when…) Let’s all join in: It’s always fair weather when Oy-Veyers get together.

Barbara arrived soon thereafter; the nurse arrived back with my discharge summary; another nurse made me an appointment for a follow-up visit on Aug.11, and the exit door was wide open. We did stop at Roladin for a light repast, while we waited for good friend Bernice to arrive and drive us back, where three furry creatures were waiting for my return. As I have said on more than one occasion: airports and bad, but hospitals are even worse.

I goofed department.

There are those rare moments when I’m actually wrong about something. In my last post, I made reference to a scene in a movie, which I mis-identified as being in one of the Godfather movies.  Two sharp-eyed readers, Nachum and Ezra, pointed out that the scene was Goodfellows, a different mafia movie. I’m glad someone is paying attention.