Unlike the corporate-owned pharmacies that constructed over-sized buildings trying to impress customers with their deep pocketsfilled by their customers, Debbie’s Pharmacy is a small store located in small strip mall off the main drag.

Unlike her competition who turned their stores into overpriced junk stores with pharmacies producing so little of their business, Debbie Watkins’ pharmacy had no shelves crammed with toys, cards, cosmetics, or even band aids.

The small customer waiting area held no shelves, either, just three chairs and a small table with a floral arrangement. The counter supported some drug-relate literature and a register. The shelves behind the counter held hundreds of medications, mostly prescription, but a few over-the-counter pain relievers and similar items. It was a no-nonsense store that sold specific products without trying to trick customers into impulsive purchases.

The pharmacist, a small African American woman, wore her hair in a pixie cut and the gray splashes were a stylish emphasis. She was at least 30 years older than I was, maybe more.

“Here you go, Mr. Lane,” the pharmacist said placing a single plastic bottle of pills on the counter. “Your insurance covers only a 30-day supply, so you’ll have to return in a month.”

After putting the medication in a small paper bag, the pharmacist, Debbie Watkins according to her name tag, asked, “Is there anything else I can help you with? Perhaps some disposable underwear or briefs?”

My face felt as though it had burst into flames, and all I managed was a mumbled, “No. No thank you.”

“Please, Mr. Lane, don’t be embarrassed. I am, after all, a pharmacist so I know what the medication is for. And something disposable will eliminate any unexpected spots on your trousers or underwear.”

I understood what she was asking but had not idea how to respond. Not that the pharmacist was pushy or overbearing, just that I had no idea what I might need.

“Do you suggest anything in particular?” I did not stutter, but the words came out slowly.

“Well, there are three different types of disposables for men. Pads are the least noticeable, tabbed briefs, sometimes called adult diapers, are fastened like a toddler’s diaper, and in the middle are pull-on underpants. The pull-on style is, probably, the least convenient if changing is needed away from home. Do you have a preference?” Debbie’s precise explanations and her calm voice eased the worst of my nervousness.

But, when I stood at her counter as dumb and silent as a box of rocks, she brought out a pamphlet title Incontinence Protection and opened it up for me.

“OK, Mr. Lane. No need to be anxious, but I must ask you what type of underwear you usually wear- boxer styles or something more form fitting?”

“Boxers, of course,” I said without hesitation. The question was so unexpected I did not think about how to answer.

“Well, then, that leaves out protective pads which have to be held close to your plumbing to be effective.” She used a pen to draw an X through the example shown on the first page. There was a little twinkle in the pharmacist’s eyes. She was not laughing at me, just trying to ease my discomfort, and I chuckled.

Seeing me begin to relax, she continued, “The pull-on style protection is just that, you pull them on just like regular underwear. Most brands can be torn at the side seams when removal is necessary, but trousers must be removed to pull on a fresh pair. Although they are as absorbent as tabbed briefs, they seldom hold as much liquid so are prone to leaking if worn for extended time. Most brands are of a breathable, cloth like material, so they can be the most comfortable style.” Debbie’s head cocked to the side while I pretended to understand completely.

“Finally, the tabbed briefs. As I mentioned, they are often called adult diapers because of how one puts them on. They, too, are manufactured with a breathable, yet waterproof, material and hook and loop style tab fasteners. Other brands are made with plastic backing and adhesive coated tabs for keeping them closed. Diapers, generally, hold more urine than pull-ups, and you don’t have to remove your pants to take it and put on a fresh one.”

“Well, uh, thank you, Mrs. Watkins. Or is it Miss? Ms.?”

“Debbie, but if it makes you feel better you can call me Mrs. Watkins, Mr. Lane.”

“And I’m Mike,” I managed to reply.

“OK, Mike, I can tell you can’t make up your mind which style to buy, so would you like to try one of each?”

“What?” My eyes widened.

“Hold on just a second, Mike,” she said, and her head disappeared below the counter. She popped back up and put two, nearly flat, sealed packages on the countertop. “One each pull up and diaper. The door behind you leads into the restroom which doubles as a changing room. We use it to help with customers who need fitting of medical devices, education on how to use some, and a place a customer can try different styles of devices before buying. In this case, special clothing, such as diapers, are provided to help make informed choices. Both are sterile in sealed bags, and when you’re done trying them, you drop them in the receptacle in the changing room.”

How simple is that? I thought. Talk about customer service. I had listened to her spiel, so, in for a penny, as they say.

“Uh, sure. I guess.”

Debbie put one package on top of the other and pushed them towards me. “Take your time, and if you have trouble or need any help, push the large red button beside the sink.”

I stood there like an idiot.

“Ok, Michael,” Debbie said in a voice that did not invite argument, “it’s safe, and I’m right here if you need me.” She watched me pick up the diapers, turn around and walk through the door into the changing room.

The room was divided into three spaces; an ADA approved stall with toilet, a sink, and a changing area with two chairs and hooks to hang clothes on. I shrugged to myself and removed my shoes and slacks then opened the package with the pull-ons. Ups? There were instructions on the label, otherwise I would have put them on backwards. As an engineer I can figure out just about everything, so I chalked my confusion up to nervousness.

The underwear, the pullup, was light and stretchy. The absorbent material in the crotch wasn’t so much uncomfortable as it was different, a bulk I was not used to. The label said it was a medium size, but it seemed loose. I imagined it sliding down my legs if it held much liquid at all. Looking at the instructions again I figured out how to take it off by tearing the side seams. Mrs. Watkins had been right – I couldn’t figure out how to put on a new one without removing my trousers. Although I worked, primarily, in an office, I spent a fair amount of time traveling to job locations, and I could not picture myself pulling my pants off and on in a men’s room or port-a-potty to make a change if needed.

So, would a tabbed brief, an adult diaper, be better? I opened the remaining package and tugged out the diaper. It was thicker and heftier than the pull-up. The absorbent material covered a much larger area than in the pull-up, so would hold more liquid. Putting it on, though, proved to be a challenge. I am not married and have no children; in fact, I don’t know anyone who has children. What I’m getting at is that I have never changed a diaper on a child or an adult and have no idea how to put one on me.

The instruction printed on the label were clear and easy to understand but putting understanding into practice proved to be harder than I imagined. I pulled the thing between my legs then leaned against the wall to hold the back part in place, but getting the tabs aligned for most efficient fastening was nearly impossible. I sat in one of the chairs to keep gravity at bay but manipulating the bundle of absorbent material and plastic into a position I could fasten it all together seemed beyond my abilities. I was ready to toss the diaper in the trash and tell Mrs. Watkins I didn’t need any protection when a speaker just above the door sounded.

“Are you alright in there, Michael?” It was Mrs. Watkins. “You’ve been in there a while longer than most clients. Do you need some help with something?”

Embarrassed, but unwilling to admit defeat, I nodded. Several seconds later I realized Mrs. Watkins couldn’t see me nodding – at least I hoped she couldn’t. Looking at the speaker I said, “I think so. These tabs are pretty frustrating. What do you suggest?”

“Let me give you a hand, Michael. When I knock on the door, unlock it, and I’ll come in to help you.” Unlock the door?

I waited several seconds to make her believe I was unlocking the door I’d never locked then spoke towards the intercom, “It’s unlocked. Just knock so you don’t startle me then come on in.”

Here I was, dressed in sox and a polo shirt with a diaper almost fastened to my midsection. I was more concerned with how to fasten the diaper so it would stay in place than I was about how I might look to a woman I’d met less than an hour before.

Until she knocked and opened the door. What was I thinking? I tried to cover my privates, something the diaper failed to do.

“Hello,” she said as a preamble to keep me from freaking out. It worked, but I was still uncertain what to do. “Oh, my, you do need some help, but don’t worry, there’s nothing here I haven’t seen…or fixed…before.”

I could feel the heat spreading from my face to my chest and resisted when Mrs. Watkins tried to move my hands. Surprise! She slapped my hands away!

“If you need help, don’t hinder,” she said. Debbie did not sound angry, but her voice, again, bespoke authority that would not be questioned.

In a matter of seconds Mrs. Watkins had adjusted the diaper around my hips, refastened the adhesive tabs, then patted the front of the brief. Shocked by her no-nonsense approach, I kept quiet.

“Thank you,” I finally managed to say.

“Please, sit down, Michael,” she said. “We need to talk.” I sat in one of the two chairs and looked at her, not knowing what to expect. “I understand a hesitancy to accept assistance with your problem. Because it is associated with your prostate, you think women don’t suffer from incontinence, but you are wrong, and I understand, at least partly, what you are facing. If you want me to help, fine, and if not, that is ok, too. But there is no reason to be childish about it simply because I’m a woman or because I’m Black.”

Is that what she thought?! I’d never considered that nor been confronted with it.

“Ms. Watkins, I started and immediately ran out of words.

“Yes?” she asked and placed her hand on my wrist.

“I, I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. Really. I’m just nervous about what the doctor told me and, well, by the great customer services you’ve offered. I admit to being a little intimidated by you, but only because of your experience, and it has nothing to do with your sex or race.”

I was babbling, but she accepted my explanation without argument. I hoped.

“It is perfectly normal to wear protective underwear when you have any form of incontinence. It is also normal to seek advice from those who are knowledgeable about your condition. I am probably old enough to be our mother, Michael, but that is beside the point. I know what you need and am willing to help you.” The pause let her words sink in. “Do you want to go it on your own, Michael, or would you like my help?”

“I’m sorry for being such an ass, Mrs. Watkins, and, certainly, I’d appreciate any help you can give me.”

Mrs. Watkins stared at me.

“Please, Mrs. Watkins?”

She smiled, almost beamed with delight.

“All right, then, Michael. Pull your trousers on and let’s see how they fit over that diaper.”