The vision was fuzzy in my left eye. I couldn’t figure out what this brown spot was. Then I stumbled on something, and was surprised I hadn’t seen it. That’s when I realized almost a third of my vision in the lower and lateral part of my eye was gone! I called up my optometrist. The receptionist was well trained; she told me her doctor couldn’t fix what was obviously a ‘retinal detachment,’ and she would get me an appointment. I waited on the phone only 20 minutes for a call from the retina specialist’s office. They wanted to see me that afternoon at 2 PM, and would I please lie down and rest. Just in case, warned the receptionist, pack an overnight case, don’t eat, and bring all of your medications, and insurance cards, identification. “The surgeon might send you to the hospital,” she said. I was shocked, but complied with her requests.

I arrived, scared, at the office. The nicely appointed office had muted lighting, comfortable chairs, spaced low tables and a selection of highbrow art, fashion, sports car, & mechanics magazines. I submitted all my insurance cards to the receptionist at the open counter. She gave me a clipboard of forms to fill out. I flipped through the sports car magazine, interested in a photo shoot of the original GT40 in Car & Driver magazine. A trim middle-aged lady in a skirt and blouse with white coat called me in. “I’m Kathy, Dr. Hughes’s assistant.” She showed me in to a dimly lit room with a couple spot lights from the ceiling. The exam chair was padded, had arms, and a folding footrest. Next to it was a stand with a ‘phoroptor,’ a machine with two holes to look through, so the doctor could put a lot of lens in front of the patient; my optometrist fit my glasses with one like it. On another arm were a small table and a binocular microscope with a strong light.

Kathy asked me what I had wrong, typing it all in on a small computer. She asked me about my medical history; this took a while, since I’d been in the hospital and had operations. She checked my vision with, without glasses, and with a pinhole. Then she asked me to cover my left eye, look at her left eye. She wiggled her fingers to the side of my vision, and said, “Looks OK.” When she did it on the left eye, it was obvious that most of my lower vision was gone! I could see some on the lower right. She held up a card with a grid, and had me look at the center. Luckily, the haze and fuzz barely got to the bottom of the grid. “We caught it early before the center vision was affected,” she said. She put a drop in my eye and then had me put my head into the machine with the microscope. She put a blue light into my eye to measure the pressure. “Eighteen both eyes.”

Dr. Evelyn Hughes came in. From her certificates I’d seen she had extensive education: bachelor’s degree from UCLA, medical school at UCSF, internship at Parkland Hospital, residency at UCSF, retina fellowship at UCSF. From the dates, she’d been in practice 10 years. Dr. Hughes asked me similar questions, and proceeded with the examination. She wiggled her fingers at the periphery of my vision. She had to move the fingers in the lower left area much higher, confirming the loss of side vision. In the dark she put a light in the right eye, and moving it to the left, she told the assistant, “See the left pupil dilate? That means that the retina in the left eye is sending less impulses to the brain and the pupil isn’t constricting as much.” She peered into the eye with the microscope, & had Kathy put drops to dilate the eyes. I waited outside for 20 minutes and Dr. Hughes tilted the chair back. Kathy put in more deadening drops. Dr. Hughes put on a headlight on a band around her head, turning a ratchet clicking to tighten it.

“That must mess up your hair,” I commented.

“Yes. All female eye doctors have to have hair do’s that won’t be mangled by the ‘indirect ophthalmoscope,” she said.

She held a 3 inch lens in front of the left eye and the light was incredibly bright. I had to look in all directions; my eyes watered. “I have to press on the eye,” she said. She had a small metal probe with a tee shaped end. More looking around and pressure on the eye with the probe. She repeated the examination in my right eye without the pushing.

Dr. Hughes took off the device & sat back. “Ted, you have a retinal detachment.” She took out a book with diagrams and explained that I had holes in the retina, and fluid had seeped behind the retina, separating it from the rest of the eye. I had to have an operation, soon. . “After we put you to sleep I’ll do the operation. I take out the vitreous, laser the holes, and put in a bubble of gas. The choroid—the layer exterior to the retina—will become inflamed and when it heals, will scar down the retina. The gas bubble, sulfur hexafluoride, will push the retina against the choroid. Technically it’s a retinal re-attachment by vitrectomy, laser, and pneumatic retinopexy.”

“Can you write that down for me?” I asked. “If someone asks me, I want to give them the right answer.” She complied, but I had to get coaching on how to pronounce everything. I memorized it carefully.

Kathy and the staff would check on scheduling. My own internal medicine doctor and other surgeries had been done in a hospital in the next city. They had to arrange for a physical by a doctor on staff at her hospital. The Urgent Care Center could take me in about an hour. I had to go to the hospital for pre-op lab and tests too. Kathy explained to me the surgery would be under general anesthesia, and I would have to stay at least overnight in the hospital to recover from the anesthesia and keep my head face down. I’d stay face down for a week, at least.

“I live alone, and I’m in Carlsbad. That’s twenty miles.”

“We should arrange for some post-hospital care,” she said. “You can’t drive home. Is there anyone who could drive you?”

“No. I could get a taxi.”

“Still you couldn’t cook and eat, get post-op medications. I’ll arrange for a day at a skilled nursing facility (SNF), otherwise know as a nursing home. The insurances won’t let you stay at the hospital more than overnight. The nursing home will cost about $200 a night. We can probably get that paid. A home health aide could come in 4 hours a day, two in the morning and 2 at night to get meals, shop and maybe drive you here. That’s $100 a day.”

I make enough money to take care of that, & I was familiar with the care at a nursing home. “If it’s only a grand I can handle it.”

Kathy told me that the surgery would be tomorrow. Dr. Hughes thought there would be no problem with the wait.

At the Urgent Care, I filled out all the papers along with an extensive medical history form. Other patients were coughing. One man held a bandage on his arm; he was quickly called in. After about 20 minutes a young woman in scrubs called me in to the brightly lit room with a large window opening to a walled off courtyard with plants. “Don’t worry. No one goes out there.” She pulled over a familiar combination blood pressure/temperature device on steel post, with four rollers. She stuck a plastic cover on the probe and placed it under my tongue, and then wrapped the blood pressure cuff on my arm. While the cuff inflated a beep signaled the temperature was ready. “98.2,” she said. The blood pressure cuff pressure was substantial, but slowly decreased to beeps & flashing lights from the machine, followed by a hiss as it finished. She removed the cuff with a ripping sound of the Velcro. The blood pressure and pulse were normal. She had me take off my shoes and step on a digital scale. She took my word for my height. “Doctor will be in shortly.”

The doctor was a surprisingly big woman. She was at least 6’ 2”, heavily boned, and appearing bulky under her professional skirt & white blouse, nylons and pumps, with the doctor’s coat. Embroidered on her coat was “Losana Afiteo, M. D.” She introduced herself, and added, “I’m from Tonga. Everyone always asks. However, many of us are Latter Day Saints, so we go the BYU, in Provo Utah. I graduated from the UC San Diego Medical School, and I never left.” She took my medical history, going over what I’d written. “I see you only have had a few things wrong. You have asthma. You were sick with the pneumonia for a long time. You had a combination hernia, varicocele and phimosis surgery, knee surgery, some bleeding when you wipe yourself, and athlete’s foot.”

“How are your lungs now?”

“I’m okay. I recovered from the Valley Fever after a couple months and stopped the medicine after 2 years. The asthma only bothers me in when I’m exposed to a lot of grass.”

Did you have any trouble with either of the surgeries or afterwards?”

“I had trouble urinating after each of the operations. The nurse had to catheterize me. I hope that doesn’t happen again. I was in bed for a while after the knee surgery and got constipated. I had to have enemas.”

“I’ll tell Dr. Hughes to write orders for these problems,” she said.

She squirted some hand disinfectant on her hands, rubbed them to dry them off, and started on the physical exam. She peered into my ears with a light and a plastic funnel, then into my nostrils. “Open wide and say Ah!” She looked in my mouth, and inserting an inch wide piece of wood—a ‘tongue blade—into my mouth she peered into my throat. I gagged and pulled back eyes watering. She stood back. When I recovered she said, “I’d like to look in your eye for my own education.” “Your pupil is still dilated.” She looked in.

“I’ll look up,” I said. The retina doctor said that’s where it is.”

“There’s a gray sheet where it’s supposed to be orange,” she said. “Pretty obvious something’s not right. I’ll listen to your chest now. Will you please take off your shirt?” I peeled it off.

The lady doctor put the cool flat diaphragm of the stethoscope on my neck and had me hold my breath as she listened to my neck. She had me breathe in out as she moved the head of the stethoscope over the front and back of my chest. She had me lie down and put the stethoscope over the heart areas. She loosened my belt, unsnapped my pants, pulled down the zippered & asked me to lift my hips. She pulled my pants down to just above my penis, much of the hair showing. She pressed on my belly, and then listened again. “Did you eat today?”

“No. The doctor’s office told me not to, just in case they did surgery today.”

“That’s why I don’t hear any bowel sounds. Let’s see where you had the hernia surgery.”

She pull the pants down farther, exposing half the penis. She probed over the hernias scars on both sides. “You said there’s a little pain on the right where you had the hernia surgery when you lift something. Lift up your head, hold your breath and push.” She had a hand on both sides. She must have felt something funny over the scar area on the right. She furrowed her brow. “It feels okay on the left but there is a little swelling on the right when you cough. Let’s check it from below. Will you please stand up on the little step please, and drop your pants.” She turned to don gloves.

I stood up and let my pants drop to the ankles and pushed the shorts below the knees. She turned & regarded my exposed genitals with the impassivity of the doctor who’s seen it many times. She sat down so her face was just a foot and a half from my groin. “I’m going to check the hernia from below,” she said. “You’ve had this done several times before by your surgeon.” It was then that I notice her fingers were huge, like the rest of her. She made fist, with the index finger protruding and gently placed it on the mid-scrotum, and then slowly but firmly pushed it up. I gasped as I felt her probe into my groin. It felt like a broom handle. “Cough please.” I coughed weakly. “Again.” I coughed harder. “I don’t feel anything, Ted. I don’t think you need to worry about that.” She picked up my penis, and pulled back on the foreskin. “It’s still pretty tight.”

“It was better after the operation, but over the last few years it’s scarred down again. It’s still better than it was before.”

She felt the spermatic cords and testicles for a few seconds. “The doctor did a good job with the vein surgery on your spermatic cord.”

“Turn around and bend over the table,” she said. “Careful. Your pants are around your ankles.” She held onto my elbow. When I was bent over she said, “I’m going to check the anus for hemorrhoids. I think that’s why you bleed a little when you wipe yourself. Can you reach back and spread your cheeks, please.”

I really felt funny shoving my butt in her face. I had the thought: ‘This job can’t be all that good. I wouldn’t want to get up in the morning, knowing I had to look a bunch of assholes all day!’

It didn’t seem to bother her. She lightly touched my hole. I felt her put some cold goo on my butt. “I’m going to examine inside you.” I felt some pressure on the outside, and thought about the big finger. I can’t compare it to my other doctor’s finger, but this didn’t feel worse than when I took a shit. She pushed hard then pressed on what I was sure was my prostate. It was a weird sensation as she felt around; it was only ten seconds but my penis stiffened up. The finger popped out. She wiped me off perfunctorily, and then asked me to stand up again, and turn around. She didn’t say anything when the erection was obvious.

She glanced down at the scar on my knee. “Sit down and let me check the knee.” She pulled the right knee around and then the left. “I need to move the legs around independently. May I take off the pants?” She didn’t wait for a response, but pulled off the shoes and tugging on the cuffs, pulled off the trousers, and then the shorts. Now I was nude, except for my socks. She had me lie down, pulled out slide on the end of table to support my legs. She flexed and extended the left knee while turning my foot to one side or the other. “The ACL on that side is definitely loose. The only thing that can be done is surgery. So unless you want an operation there’s no sense seeing the orthopedic surgeon.” She glanced at my feet. “What are you using for the athlete’s foot?”

“Some Desenex, once in a while.”

The doctor took a deep breath. “Worthless. Let’s see.” She pulled off the socks, exposing my feet. I blushed, not because now I was completely naked, but she was seeing that I had a lot of dead skin between the toes, on the sides of the feet and heels. She was standing at the end of the table, holding up a foot & spreading my toes. I knew her gaze included my whole body and crotch from below. “Desenex isn’t going to help,” She said. “Try tolfanate ointment twice a day. Change your socks every day. Maybe you should see a dermatologist.” She pushed in the slide and had me stand up. “You can dress now,” she said.

I still felt a lot of goo on my butt. “May I have some more paper, please? I, um, need to wipe off some more.” She offered a box of Kleenex; I grabbed four pieces. While I was wiping she sat back down typing on her computer. I guess watching a naked guy with an erection wipe his butt is just part of the job. She interrupted her typing as I finished and held up the garbage can. Pointedly looking me in the eye and not at my now softening penis she said, “I’ll dictate the note for your doctor, after I review the lab work. I’ll write out the request slips. Go to the hospital, check in and get lab work.” While she wrote out the lab slips I hurriedly dressed, somewhat embarrassed to be dressing while she was in the room, even though she had her head in the papers.

The hospital was nicely laid out. It was in the woods, on a hilltop. I drove up and found there was free valet parking. The entrance opened on a 15-foot wide hallway extending to the left. The floor to ceiling glass wall let in full sunlight. The registration area was 4 cubicles, on the glass side, and a 4-foot high, 8-foot long counter on the left that said “Registration.” The woman at the registration took my insurance cards. I was surprised that the doctor’s office had sent over all my personal information. She had me double check the print out. She scanned my insurance card & driver’s license. I only had to sign legal consent forms and financial agreements. I went to the lab, just 10 yards down the hallway. The lady in a white coat had me sit on a hard plastic tub like chair. There was a light blue padded arm that could swing to either side. I told her a vein on the right was better. She wrapped a rubber strap tightly around my upper arm, and then wiped off my inner elbow. She had me open and close my hand, making a fist. I could see the veins dilate and become visible. The needle had a handle with a sharp point on the other side. With a sharp accurate jab she found the vein. I gasped at the prick. She popped 3 glass tubes in succession over the needle filling them with dark blood. She pulled out the needle, pressed cotton on the hole, and wrapped brown compressive wrap over the cotton.

They directed me down the hall, to a large atrium 25 yards across with plants, a pool, artwork, volunteer center and food. Stairs on the other side led to another atrium with a skylight. I turned in my papers to a receptionist at a desk fifteen feet past the doors of the cardiology clinic. There were several rooms along the corridor; the lighting was muted compared to the sunlit atrium. My timing was good. A slightly heavy young Hispanic woman technician in a white tunic and pants was doing crosswords. She took a fresh computer printout from the receptionist. “Are you, Ted?” she asked. I nodded. “I’m Miss Leon. Let’s go to the cardiograph room.” The dimly lit 8 x 12 room had a table with a sheet. “Please disrobe from the waist up, and lie down on the table, please.” As I lay on the table, she continued, “I’m going to put these little stickers on your chest, arms, and legs.” She stuck the white foamies that looked like pasties on my chest, legs and arms, and then hooked wires to them. She ran the cardiogram machine. A long strip came out of the machine. She told me it looked normal.

That evening I got two phone calls from nurses in surgery and on the floor where I was to be sent after surgery. They wanted to know about allergies, medication, diet previous surgeries etc. I only have a penicillin allergy. .

The next day I took a taxi to the hospital. I packed a knapsack with an overnight kit, CD player, several classical music CD’s and a couple books. From my previous admissions I remember being cold, and using my fleece jacket. Even though it was Fall and still warm, the hospital climate control kept it too cold for someone wearing only a thin gown.

There was a special short-stay admission desk adjacent to the surgical suites. I had only a few minutes wait. The Asian woman nurse looked middle aged. She introduced herself as Sumiko Hori, a registered nurse. The cubicle was only 8’ long and six feet wide. There was a curtain in front. Some monitors, IV stands, dispensers for the gloves, receptacles for sharps and shelves lined the walls. The bed, on wheels had a top sheet and cotton blanket with a plastic sheet covered with ‘Care Bair” letters with teddy bear logos. I couldn’t figure what that was. There was a folded gown on the bed, with a large white plastic bag. “Will you please take off everything, and put on this gown?” I expected her to leave, giving me privacy, when I took off my shoes and socks. She didn’t. She just continued the interview, asking my name, birth date, etc. I started to unbuckle my belt. “Take off your shirt first,” she said. I pulled the polo shirt over my head. She paused to open the bag for me, and I casually folded it before putting it into the bag. She had me put on the gown. I opened the gown and slipped it on like a bathrobe. “The other way, opening it back,” she prompted. I took it off and tied the single tie at the neck. As usual it was barely large enough to cover the back. As I pushed off my pants and shorts I realized having the gown on first prevented exposure of my lower body.

She’d gotten down to the question, “What operation are you going to have?”

I replied, “I’m having, on the left eye a retinal re-attachment by vitrectomy, laser, and pneumatic retinopexy.”

“Exactly what the doctor wrote down,” she replied. “Are you a doctor?”

“No. I just memorized what she told me,” I confessed.

The gown came half way up the thigh when I climbed up on the table and sat on the edge. As usual, she wrapped the blue Velcro closure cuff around my arm & popped the electronic thermometer in my mouth. She pushed a sensor over my right index finger & taped it on. “This is the oximeter. They will constantly monitor you during surgery. Now I lay down on the bed. Mrs. Hori covered me with the sheet and blanket. I asked for my fleece jacket.

“Are you cold?”

“It’s always too cold in the hospital,” I replied.

“I’ll get you a warm blanket.” A moment later she returned with a warm blanket, placing it above the sheet, and then replace the plastic mystery sheet. “We have a warm air blanket that will help,” she said. I hadn’t noticed canister that looked like a vacuum cleaner with a corrugated hose. She plugged it into a fitting on the “Cair Bear” and turned it on. Four tubes, 5 feet long inflated, bringing in warmth!

Next Mrs. Hori brought a tray for the IV. She put the rubber tourniquet on my right arm. I told her a forked vein on my lower arm was where they put the large bore needle when I donate blood. After I made a fist a few times the vein popped up huge. She gave me a small lidocaine injection to numb the area. Next she slid a large needle in the skin and then into the vein. I could see the dark blood flow back. She pushed the plastic catheter into the vein, and pressing over the end with one hand, withdrew the steel needle, and plugged in the IV. I hadn’t seen the retention device before. The molded plastic holder fit over the catheter hub and the 3.5” plastic adhesive covered the puncture site and held down the tubing. She looped it back and put on more tape. She started putting in a series of eye drops in the left eye. “These are some antibiotics and dilation drops.” There was a wait, toasty under the warm air blanket.

About 45 minutes later I had to urinate. With the IV it wasn’t easy. Mrs. Hori put some socks with rubber grippers on my feet, and then I sat up on the right. When I stood up there was only a brief moment of exposure. I was able to hold shut the back of the gown over the butt. She held up the IV fluid bag, leading me to the toilet 15 feet away. She opened the door, and followed me in. ‘I’ll hold the bag for you while you go,” she said. As I stood at the toilet bowl, I glanced over at her, and she turned her head. I peed, and she helped me back onto the gurney.

Dr. Hughes arrived, in scrubs. She took a peek at the pupil, clucking approvingly, and then put a marker on the skin above the brow. “We want to operate on the correct, not the right eye,” she said. “I’m going to take out the vitreous, laser the eye and put in gas, like I explained.” Like everyone else she wanted to be sure I understood. “I’ll see you in the OR.”

The anesthesiologist was next. He was in scrubs with a gown, & green cloth hat. He went over the medical and anesthesia history. I told him it took a long time for me to wake up previously. The surgical nurse came and grilled me with the same questions and I repeated that I was having a retinal re-attachment by vitrectomy, laser, and pneumatic retinopexy. The anesthesiologist put in a sedative and I got very sleepy. They wheeled me into the OR. I could see the green clad orderly and the nurse at each end. The double doors to the suite hissed open. Weirdly, I focused on the tiles on the ceiling, hanging from the metal grid. I glanced up stared at pair of breasts belonging to the nurse at the head of the gurney. In the operating room, I was too torpid to move, so they transferred me to the table by pulling the sheets, blankets and all. All over the room were green towels and blue paper drapes covering tables, tray stands, and a basin. Next to the table was a plastic draped microscope Dr. Hughes would use to look into my eye. I could no longer keep my eyes open. I was aware of their strapping me down. The anesthesiologist said, “I’m putting you to sleep now.

“Ted. Ted.” I vaguely heard my name. I heard it again, several times, but I was only aware of the sound. I couldn’t move. Later, much later, barely alert, I realized I was being rolled over. My face was being put on a foam pad with a hole in the center. I was breathing from a nasal oxygen canula; the tube looped around my ears and 2 prongs in my nostrils blew the oxygen in my nose. Someone ripped out one side of the hole so there was an air hole. They kept calling my name. Finally I moved one hand. “He’s awake,” I heard a male voice say. I moved some more and they were satisfied I was awake. The nurses rolled me somewhere through halls, but no elevator, and I was transferred, in a dimly lit room to a bed. They kept telling me to keep my head face down. If you think about it, my head is on a special foam pad 4 inches thick. To avoid hyperextending my neck they put pillows under my torso and legs, and my toes hung down over the end of the mattress. They covered me up again with another warm towel. It’ was about 10:30 at night. I’d recovered from the anesthesia extremely slowly. I was uncomfortable. I couldn’t figure where to place the arms. My back was slightly arched. I fell asleep and was awakened for ‘vital signs’ several times. I thought I was in the ICU but the nurse just told me it was normal postoperative care to have frequent vital signs. At the shift change, the new nurse introduced herself as ‘Inez.’

By and by, they started asking me if I could urinate. The third time I had an uncomfortable pelvic fullness. I got up on my hands and knees, and tried to place the urinal. In that position, my scrotum and testicles were hanging down like those of our quadruped cousins a bull or a dog. I’m small, and the head of the penis barely poked out of the dangling sack. I fumbled around a few moments having trouble getting it into the urinal. I was still weak and had trouble staying up balanced on one arm, and had to prop myself up with both arms to rest the one.

The attentive nurse ventured quietly, “Do you want me to help?”

“Okay,” I mumbled.

Inez pulled out one pillow to gain more space, and the raised the bed. She still had to get down somehow putting her hands underneath. I could see her looking; my penis had almost disappeared. Her hands were a little cold. She pulled back the testicles and pressing on the scrotum on either side of my penis, popped out enough of the penis to put the urinal in place. After all that I couldn’t go.

“We’ll try again later,” Inez said.

Later meant 2 more tries. “Can I stand up?” I asked, after the third failure.

“The gas bubble is pushing the retina up against the eyeball, and this is a critical time for the healing. You have to stay face down.”

“My bladder’s been hurting for the last hour,” I whined. She relented, and carefully keeping my head face down, I slid out of bed, and stood facing the bed. In this position, I could take care of myself, but the gown, with only a single closure at my neck fell down, leaving me naked. I figured I wasn’t the only man she was going to see naked that night. However it was still no go in the peeing department.

“We’ll have to catheterize you,” she said. I didn’t want to hear that. “Have you had a catheter before?”

“Too many times. Once I was sick, and when I had a hernia operation. After the surgery I couldn’t urinate, just like now.”

Inez put me back into bed. “I’ll get the kit and some help,” she said. The full lighting in the room signaled her return. I could see, peeking, out of my good eye. The nurse opened the insertion tray on the bedside table, and peeling open the envelope, dropped the catheter on the sterile drape. I could see that it had a plastic envelope over the tubing. Now she put on gloves. She opened the back end of the catheter. The other nurse had opened the drain bag and held the tubing for Inez to connect the catheter. She poured the brown disinfectant from the bottle into a well on the tray.

“Please get up on your hands and knees,” she requested. The 2 nurses peeled back the covers. The gaping gown parted in the back, and fell onto the bed, leaving only my upper arms draped. Otherwise, I was naked. She peered underneath. “Slide forward a little. Fine.” With the legs at an obtuse angle, the dangling genitals were more accessible.

“Spread you knees apart more, please,” said the other nurse, pushing at my thighs. She was behind me, looking right at my ass hole. I felt sorry for her. She continued. “I have to hold back your scrotum and testes so Inez can get at your penis.” She didn’t have to say that it was retracted & small. I could look back. With one hand she gently cupped the testicles and pulled them up and back.

Inez, peering under said, “Two more inches.” Now I could see my penis, at least the head and half an inch poking out of the sack. She had her gloves, and placed a paper sheet on the bed. Next she held my penis by the shaft, and pulling, extracted another two inches. She couldn’t get the foreskin retracted. She used a pair of plastic forceps from the kit to grab a cotton ball, dip it into the brown liquid, and then swab the end of my penis with a circular motion, around the hole. She repeated this twice. “I’m going to lubricate the inside,” she said. She took a syringe with blunt cone-shaped tip, inserted into my penis, and injected about 3 cc’s of the jelly.

“Is that an anesthetic too? I asked.

“Just Surgilube,” she answered I hoped it wouldn’t hurt going in. Now she had the catheter. Only 2 inches of the dark yellow tip stuck out of the end of the plastic sleeve. She had her thumb and fingers on either side of the shaft, just behind the head and pulled it out full length, barely 3 inches. She gently inserted the catheter tip, but pushing past areas not accustomed to intrusion caused discomfort, not really pain. I gasped. I saw her manipulating the plastic bag so more of the catheter was exposed, and she advanced the tube. The next push caused some pain.

“Aaak!” I cried. I writhed. The motion must have caught the other nurse by surprise. As I almost slid out of her grasp she tightened her grip on my scrotum reflexly. That hurt worse. “My balls!” I gasped.

“Sorry about that,” she apologized, releasing the pressure on my testicles.

Inez more slowly advanced the catheter, finally coming to a firm area. “If you ‘push’ the effort often helps the sphincter open,” she suggested. She pinched my penis behind the head stretched out the shaft again and pushed the catheter against the sphincter steadily. After 10 second of pressure & discomfort, almost pain, the tube entered the bladder; the pain and pressure disappeared. “The urine is coming out,” said the nurse. In a few seconds the strain on the bladder wall was reduced and the fullness disappeared. I realized I’d been hyperventilating. She advanced the catheter up to the neck of the side tube. I realized it was a Foley catheter and she intended to leave it in.

“Can you just take it out?” I pleaded.

“We’re going to give you more IV Diamox. It’ll cause more urination. The catheter will keep your bladder empty and you won’t struggle to urinate.” She held the tube while the other nurse managed to twist around, get the filler syringe and inject what looked like ten cc’s. Inez pulled back the catheter to seat the balloon. She held it to the left against my abdomen while the second nurse taped the tube to my skin. She took out the paper under my abdomen, and replaced it with the wrapper of the tray, and then let me relax flat in bed. They rapidly covered me up and left me to my misery, trying to adjust my face against the foam pad. I fell asleep, but awakened with a back ache. I do yoga, so I got into the ‘child’s pose,’ on my knees, but bent over and face on the bed. It was fairly comfortable.

About 7 AM the new nurse, Clara entered my room. I was still in the child’s pose. “Good morning, Ted,” she said. She was a shapely curvy thing, the one you see in all the nurse fantasy comics. But she wore blue scrubs, not a white dress, blunting the excitement. The combination of still recovering and the tube in my penis made arousal not part of the scene. She took my vital signs, as usual. “Almost a liter & a half,” she said after checking the bag. Good thing you had the catheter in,” she said.

By and by dietary brought in the breakfast tray. The young lady was in a costume: black slacks, black vest with brass buttons, white blouse and a red bow tie. “You can sit up for 15 minutes for breakfast, and then it’s back face down again,” Clara said. I poked at the food. I don’t eat many pancakes. However I hadn’t eaten anything in 40 hours so I choked down some. I drank fluids to make up for the diuretic.

Dr. Hughes came in about 8:30. She removed the patch and putting on the head band mounted ‘indirect ophthalmoscope’ peered into the eye. She had me look in different directions while the intense light shone through the lens she held in one hand. “The retina looks on,’ she said triumphantly. “You have a big bubble of gas in the eye, that has to be in the upper right part of the retina. So you spend one third the time on you left side and two thirds face down.” She assured me Kathy made the arrangements to go to the SNF, and to get a home health aide. I had to have drops four times a day.

“To put drops in the eye, tilt your head back, then pull down the lower eyelid. Next hold the bottle right above the eye so you’re looking at it. Squeeze out one drop. If you miss, try again. The idea is to get it into the lower lid. Now close the eye once. Don’t blink. Blinking pulls the fluid into the tear sac. Put a finger in the corner of the eye to stop the tear ducts from draining the medicine. Close the eye for a minute.”

She showed me how to tape on the aluminum shield. Dr. Hughes had bent the slotted edges to fit the contours of my face. However I could adjust it to suit me. She liked to use two strips of tape running from the forehead angling down toward the cheek.

“Can I get the catheter out?”

“Oh, of course. Let’s see you on Monday. I have an office in Oceanside where I see patients once a week.”

“How about a shower? I haven’t had a bath in three days. I’m worried about getting my eye wet.”

Clara said, “No problem, if it’s all right with you, doctor. We have the adjustable shower head and I’ll keep the water out of his face.”

The doctor left to write the orders. Clara watched and made sure I could patch up my own eye and put me on my side. “I’ll check the orders and see what the doctor wants, and then I’ll come back and take care of the shower and the catheter.”

I heard a lot of yelling and arguing from down the hall. A man was clearly upset. Clara returned to my room after 45 minutes, with a load of towels and another woman, a nurse’s aide. “That was another of my patients,” she said. “We’ve resolved the situation,” she said. “This is Carmen, my aide. She’ll take out the catheter and get you showered.” RN’s didn’t give baths, aides did. So I wasn’t surprised Clara was delegating the job. I was looking forward to both.

I had a private room. The shower was in my suite. Carmen was a young slim 5’ 5” Middle Eastern woman; she wore loose scrubs, looking one size too large. Unlike Clara, she didn’t have much of a figure. She helped me out of bed, and holding the urine bag in one hand and tubing in the other led me to the bathroom. I slowed as my paper slipper loosened. The aide continued moving ahead of me so the rubber catheter tube pulled on my penis and bladder. She slowed, released the catheter pressure and said, “Sorry. Did I hurt you?” I shook my head. “Only a little.” I flushed a little, embarrassed to have a woman leading me by the penis. “Sit down on the toilet, please,” she said. She put on a pair of gloves and then opened up a new syringe. She continued, “Now hold up your gown please, and spread your legs.” I exposed myself as she looked on expectantly. She regarded my penis, still brown with the Betadine from last night and the tube with the clinical detachment of a plumber ready to fix a faucet. She plugged the syringe into the side port of the catheter, and pulled back on the plunger, sucking out the water and deflating the balloon. She casually picked up my penis, holding it with 2 fingers behind the head. I gasped as she pulled on the catheter, the tube slithering out of the end of my penis. She dumped the used catheter into a red ‘Biohazard’ container. “Can you urinate?” she asked. “There’s usually some residual urine in the bladder.” I pushed, and a few drops came out. It was like peeing ground glass.

“That hurt. I wished the night nurse had just taken it out.”

The shower was hot. “Stand up and take off your gown,” she said casually.

“Are you going to stay?” I asked.

“You’re barely twelve hours after a long anesthetic,” she said. “You could be unstable and fall in the wet shower.

I untied the gown and she draped it over a bar; now I was naked in front of a woman, though she was a nurse in uniform, which by societal rules, gave her non-sexual access to my naked body. She had no change in the expression on her face, regarding my nakedness with detachment. ‘Oh well, I thought. ‘She probably sees 3-4 naked men every day.’ Without prompting I stepped into the shower. The detachable showerhead attached to a plastic tube was hung on a stainless steel bar; Carmen had set it at my shoulder height so I would avoid the spray on my face. I allowed her to spray me all over. She gave me the towel and soap. She steadied me with one I lathered up the towel and washed parts of my face, neck arms a front. I could see her watching intently. I hesitated, but washed my genitals, carefully getting off the Betadine. As usual, I had to force the foreskin over the head; the manipulation caused a half-mast erection. I started to do the legs, but she said, “You didn’t wash behind.”

“I, uh, do that last. I don’t want whatever’s there all over the rest of me.”

She reached for the washcloth. “Sit down on the bench.” She folded down the hinged shelf. I sat down. “I’ll do the legs for you. You shouldn’t do that after the surgery.” Having to bend over to wash the lower extremities, she was inches from my groin. I was sure if seeing my genitals bothered her, she wouldn’t be an aide. Carmen scrubbed my back, and when she was finished, I asked for the towel, and did my back end. Somehow having her watch me wash my hole felt humiliating. She dried off what I couldn’t. I dried my back end using toilet paper. She gave me the gown back. “You’re going to the SNF so you may as well keep a gown on.”

Back in my room, I noticed that Clara had straightened out the bed. I lay on the left side watching TV, but it was only a half hour when Clara returned and gave me detailed postoperative instructions in a binder, with the appointment dates. “We’ll have the SNF get all your drops and send you home with them. Meanwhile roll over onto your face please.”

The transport persons came and I crawled onto the narrow stretcher, face down with my sponge. I didn’t get to see much in that position. It was a bouncy ride down the hall and into the confined elevator, and out the door. The sun hit my good eye, and I closed it. I could only feel them lift & tilt the stretcher, hear the clicking of the scissors supports folding, and the jostling as I was loaded in. The van wasn’t air conditioned, and was hot, but the ride was short. I don’t usually get car sick, but I felt queasy.

At the Casa Serena ‘skilled nursing facility’, I noticed a lot of very old people, what I thought of as a nursing home. In my private room, one of the 2 nurses—an LVN and aide—said, “We have some of Dr. Hughes’s patients twice a month, so we understand the needs and how to put in drops.” I slid over my bed from the stretcher. “Dr. Hughes says you can lie on your back and sit up for half an hour for meals, so it’ll be okay to lie face up for a bit while we do your admission.” They asked me all the usual questions: history, medications—I wasn’t sure of the new ones—and any symptoms, allergies etc. I wasn’t in any pain, but had some nausea. I thought I had an acid stomach. After the usual vital signs, blood pressure, temperature, the LVN said, “We have to check your skin. It’s just our admission routine. Some of our patients come from other nursing facilities and have pressure sores. So we have to check everyone everywhere.” She loosened the tie on my neck, and pulled it off, down to my groin. The two women peered everywhere carefully, paying close attention to elbows and other places pressure sores commonly occur. “I need to check you hernia scars,” she said folding the gown, down over my thighs allowing her to examine my groin. She peered carefully at the faded scar. “Not much left,” she commented.

“Any left over discomfort from the catheter?” she asked.

“It hurt when I peed.”

“It might be like that for a while,” she said. “There isn’t likely any damage to the meatus for a short time, but I have to look.” She picked up my penis, held it with two fingers of each hand, lifted it up and pried apart the hole.

The women proceeded to the legs, casually pushing the gown between my legs, leaving me naked. They examined the heels carefully. Then they rolled me over, facing the aide. She held me by the hips while the LVN cursorily examined by back and butt.

“I was on my stomach the whole time,” I said.

“I know, but I have to check everywhere.” Rolling me over, they put the gown on over my outstretched arms. Of course when I rolled over on my stomach the gown offered no modesty. They placed the special face holder, gave me pillows to lie on, and pulled a sheet over my body. When I was comfortable, they left me alone.

The room was airy and bright, with a patio view from the sliding glass door, but I was too miserable to enjoy it, having to stay on my face, and feeling nauseous. I only took a bite of the ham and cheese sandwich. I choked down some water, knowing I had been dried out by the diuretic. I got on my hands and knees and peed into the urinal once. It hurt like fire.

The nausea became worse. The nurse said she’d call for a medication order. Unfortunately 10 minutes later I vomited all over the bed. The small ‘emesis basin,’ alias a barf container, was too small, only holding a cup and a half. The dark color told me it was the coffee from breakfast. I was terribly embarrassed at the mess I made. The LVN said, “Good thing you’re here. You couldn’t take care of yourself at home.” She had a point. “Caring for you is our job. Don’t worry about the mess.” The 2 women first cleaned me up, getting off the soiled gown, washing off the sour smelling vomit, and then getting me a fresh gown. There was only brief nudity. It took them ten minutes to clean up the mess. I expressed my appreciation for their care when they tucked me in again.

Not long after the LVN came in again. She had a glove on her right hand. “I have the anti-nausea medication,” she said. “Roll over on your left side.” She peeled back the covers, exposing my butt. “This isn’t a shot,” she said. “It’s a suppository. Flex your top leg for me, please.” I pulled up the knee, realizing this position now exposed my hole. She pulled up my butt cheek and said, “You’ll feel the suppository and my finger.” It took only two seconds. First I felt the cool tiny suppository touch my hole and then it was in, followed by her much larger finger sliding in and withdrawing. She pulled the covers over me. “Hold it in. The medicine should work in a half hour.”

The nausea feeling had been much better after the barf, and after an hour, it was all gone. I slept on my face for about an hour. Then I was awake and began to be very bored. Dr. Hughes said I was to lie part time on my left side so the air would press on the right retina. I rolled over. The TV was up in the corner of the room. Bad luck. All I could to was to listen. I hung over the bed, putting a newspaper on the floor.

The rest of the over night stay was uneventful. Dinner was okay. The nurses helped arrange the pillows on the bed; I slept face down again. I had another night of discomfort from sleeping in uncomfortable positions. I got out of bed to pee—still burning from the catheter. In the morning, I had breakfast; the toast, egg and bacon, fresh strawberries and coffee seemed luxurious, even served on plastic institution ware. The LVN had me put medications in my own eye for teaching and had me re-tape the shield and patch.

As promised, a young woman in lilac scrubs came in mid-morning. “Good morning, Ted. I’m Nancy, your home health aide from Victorian Home Health. I’ll drive you home and make sure you’re okay. Did they give you a bath yet?” They hadn’t. “We have to go, but it’d be easier to bathe you here than at your house.” She left and re-appeared a few minutes later with one of the aides. They had in tow a chair made of 2½” plastic tubing, with wheels. “Okay, Ted. We’ll take you down to the shower. Have a seat here.” ‘Here’ meant a toilet seat in the middle of the chair. The aide had a large sheet she draped over me, and then whisked off my gown. They tucked in the blanket so I wasn’t exposed, and pushed me 20 yards down the hall to a 10 foot wide, 20 foot long room, crowded with wheelchairs and patient lifts. There were two shower stalls divided with a short wall and sliding curtains. An elevated bathtub had equipment stacked in it. They wheeled me into the first shower stall; it was wide enough for the chair and two persons. They donned aprons, then unceremoniously whisked away the blanket leaving me totally naked and exposed.

“Aack!” I gasped, covering up my crotch.

The aide said casually, “Can’t give you a bath with your clothes on.” With two women the bath was quick and thorough. After wetting me down they soaped up large washcloths and scrubbed me below the head. Unlike the hospital bath procedure, the aide washed between my legs for me. With an oversized washcloth she seized my penis, twisted the cloth around the shaft twice, then rubbed the scrotum twice, each side of the sac next to the leg once and back to my hole. The whole thing took no more than ten seconds. After hosing me down the tag team had me dried off quickly, covered with the blanked and back to my room in no time at all. Nancy assisted me to stand, holding an arm, while the aide took the bath chair and blanket.

“Do you want to sit down while I get your clothes, Ted?”

While Nancy got me dressed, the aide got the discharge papers. Tastefully Nancy helped me into my underwear first, then the rest of my clothing.

I curled up in the back seat of her car, on my left side so the gas bubble was in position. At home she settled me into bed. Nancy made life easy by coming in mornings and feeding me a large morning meal and leaving sandwiches for the other 2 meals. She gave me a daily shower, careful not to get water in the eye. I rapidly became accustomed to being naked going from my room to the bath and back. She bent my head backward over the kitchen sink to wash my hair, with a towel over my operated eye. The vision was weird. I could see the bubble in the center of my vision. However, the loss of side vision so prominent before was better.

Three days later I visited Dr. Hughes. After dilating my eye She looked into the eye again. The light was incredibly bright. “I need to do some more lasering:” she said. The assistant put me into the frame of the laser. It was a metal rectangle with an adjustable chin rest and forehead rest. Dr. Hughes put a lens on the surface of the eye. I couldn’t believe I could tolerate something stuck on the surface of the eye holding my lids open. “Look up and to the right,” she said. Numerous flashes of light, a few a bit painful, were zapping my retina. “Look more left.” More flashes. My eyes were watering, and I could hardly stand it as the minutes dragged on. Finally she popped the lens out of my eye. “I put in another 550 shots to be sure of the sealing.”

I had every 3 day visits, 200 more laser shots, and had to stay in bed another two and a half weeks. The bubble disappeared by a month. It had been weird: seeing this bubble in the vision, as if I had been looking through a bottle with a bubble in it. With new glasses, after 4 months the vision was again 20/20. I could still find, but wiggling my fingers peripherally, a small loss of vision.