Many years have passed, but the memories are still here.It was the summer of 1959, and I was ten years of age; my parents noticed a small lump showing on my back; a visit to the hospital where my brother had been treated for clubbed feet revealed it to be a shoulder blade, and my parents were told that if something wasn't done, I'd end up in a wheelchair and referred to as Quasimodo.So I went into hospital two days after Christmas, and into a body cast from the top of my head to just above the knees (with a small wooden bar between the thighs for traction) the next day. Ten days later, six vertebrae were fused surgically, Almost needless to say, my digestive system slowed up due to the antibiotics and inactivity, despite laxatives and several disposable enemas, sommetimes administered by a nervous young male nurse.But on the third night after the surgery, two mature female nurses came into the pediatric ward (which I had to myself that night; it was a Sunday) and brought with them what I was too young to recognize as an irrigating can. They explained that a little warm water and soap might work better than the squeeze-bottles, and propped me up on two hassocks, on my back with a bedpan underneath.The ladies appeared to be enjoying their job, but there was no "inappropriate touching", such as lubing my little "rosebud" with a finger, and I don't recall any arousal in my "water works" which wouldn't sprout any hair for nearly five more years -- I was very much a "late bloomer" sexually. And since I'd experienced very little penetration -- not even rectal temps -- it wasn't until one of the ladies prodded in the hole cut to allow my stomach to expand after eating and commented "Better stop; he's getting pretty full." that I realized I had been taking on water for a couple of minutes.After I had expelled, and with better effect than the disposables, the two ladies left and spent quite a while kibitzing at the desk. But the irrigator and nozzle had been left in plain sight, and I began to wonder how this penetration of an intimate part of my body could leave me feeling a lot better.A few years later, as Mother Nature finally made up for lost time, I found an unused combination-type bag in a cabinet, and began to experiment with myself. And by the time I finished college and began a job which would keep me moving around for a few years, I had my own equipment, usually stored in the trunk of my car.It was the beginning of a long and satisfying arrangement.