The Worst Night of My Life
I couldn’t see the point of coming up with a title that was funny, eloquent or enigmatic; it was what it was. These events occurred on the night of October 15th 2003. I’d been in hospital for three months and was still largely paralysed; I couldn’t use my arms or hands, or speak. I communicated by using my left big toe to tap letters on an ABC board at the foot of my bed
WHICH LOOKS LIKE THIS
and I was fed and watered through a tube called a PEG, straight into my stomach. Oh, and Prince is a nurse. Enjoy!
Oh, no, I do not like this sensation one bit. Argh. Nngh. No. I thought my urine bag was full; that’s the only time I feel anything from the catheter, much like a normal need-a-piss tingle, except that it comes on much more quickly. But Jacob had a look and the bag was half empty…I keep getting this same feedback, though, this ooh fuck shit there it is again…’scuse me. This, well, it doesn’t matter but it’s Jesus what IS that?
Extra bonus: I’ve got company. Thea’s here, and so’s Academic Ben, who’s brought in Easy Rider on video (Rory will be pleased, he often encourages me to watch it. Do your homework, he says). We’re having a civilised conversation of the sort that, I’ve realised, anchors my sanity, but this thing keeps happening, making me grimace and scrunch up with curled toes. It’s spoiling the otherwise pleasant atmosphere. Hnnngh.
Ben and Thea leave, concerned, and Jacob puts me to bed, hand splints on, nicely tucked in. Should be fine.
No. It’s happening more frequently, and it’s worse. Not pain exactly, more like the agony of blood returning to a dead leg, but in my penis. My whole body shakes, my feet rattle against the footboard and my arms curl up. Strangled moans push through clenched teeth. I writhe, a bit.
Prince injects two hundred mil of water and a carton of banana Enrich into my PEG. The next seizure is so sudden and violent, huck! my stomach squeezes its contents straight up my oesophagus and out of my mouth. It doesn’t even feel like throwing up. Prince raises me into a sitting position and cleans up the yellow mess.
It keeps getting worse. I’m shaking almost continuously; I’ve just (slowly) relaxed from one spasm when another jumps me, the hand splints are pushing into my throat and I’m making these little eee screams with every breath. Confusion more than pain; I don’t know what’s going on and I just want it to stop please. I try to piss; I’d rather wet the bed than deal with this sensation. My feet churn the sheets and Nurse Horrible comes to tell me they’ve called a doctor so I can calm down now, as if I’m seeking attention. Fuck you, I mouth at her.
Shiver, shake, eee, rattle. Help. Please.
Some time around midnight the doctor finally arrives and she’s absolutely fucking gorgeous.
Looks like my libido’s intact then. Great, that’s just what I need now: The horn. Seated on my shoulder is a lascivious little green Lincoln imp, leering at the doc and going Aye aye! Phwoar, taste!
To be fair, he has a point. If his vocabulary extended much beyond She’s well fit and so on, he’d see a Vargas girl, just flown in on the nose of a Consolidated Liberator. Red curls and full lips; a lower-maintenance Rita Hayworth. No transparent negligee or Bakelite telephone, though; a fuzzy pink jumper with a neck only a touch narrower than her shoulders. The ID card and stethoscope slung round her neck look incongruous, like fancy dress props.
Look at the norks on that!
Shut up.
Well nice. They’re like platypus beaks.
Fair enough, they sort of are. They’ve got that upward curve…Hey! There are more important concerns here.
More important than breasts?
Shut up.
What’s more important than breasts?
Shut up.
“Stephen?”
I nod.
“I’m Dr. Gorgeous,” she introduces herself. “So you’ve been having spasms. Where’s the pain?”
NOT EXACTLY - I begin.
“Hang on, hang on,” she interrupts, “slow down.”
SORRY
“No problem. Now.”
NOT EXACTLY PAINFUL BUT VERY UNCOMFORTABLE
“Not exactly painful but very uncomfortable?”
I nod again; she replies with two yellow rubber gloved thumbs up. Lincoln returns the gesture, leering more than ever.
“OK, where’s the discomfort then?”
Oh dear.
PENIS
Heh heh
Shut up.
“In your penis?”
Nod.
“Let’s have a look, then,” says Dr. Gorgeous.
YES!
The imp starts wanking furiously, right by my ear. The horny little horns on his head look more pronounced than before; meanwhile my genitals are trying to become internal organs.
Jesus.
Go on, get on with it, she wants a look!
I form a wobbly bridge and Dr. G pulls my shorts down; she contemplates the Least Impressive Tackle in East London.
Is that the best you could do?
“Does this hurt?” she asks, somewhat rhetorically, pressing on my bladder.
“Nnngh,” I confirm (out loud!)
“And here? Should be a bit more sensitive.”
“NNNGH!” (even louder!)
“So that’s more uncomfortable than here?”
“Nnngh.”
“That’s what I expected,” she says, looking satisfied. Good! Her confidence is encouraging; she gives her verdict.
“I have no idea what’s wrong. I think you may have a bladder infection; I’m going to prescribe some antibiotics.”
Oh. She pulls my shorts back up, says ‘bye and buggers off. The Lincoln Imp stops busting off and we watch the doc leave.
Nice arse too.
Shut up. Great nose though, wasn’t it?
Retroussé, he says, surprising me. Although I suppose he is me.
You’ve got quite a beak yourself there.
‘S a perfectly normal nose.
Yeah…but you’re only ten inches tall.
The imp looks around and sighs. No more scenery here, he decides, and vanishes.
Prince, nightshifting, has been around since this nonsense kicked off. He comes over to check on me occasionally; he’s anxious, and not just ‘cause he’ll have a lot of paperwork to do if I die. Shut up, I might. Something’s really wrong here, I’m not messing about.
The splints on my hands are digging into my throat; a quiet nurse with a grade three cut takes them off and my hands curl into fists. Prince fans my face with a magazine. “I think your catheter might be blocked,” he suggests, and disappears into the storeroom. The short-haired nurse holds my hand, which occasionally clenches even tighter; I manage to suppress the noises but my feet still judder against the footboard. There’s a smell of bananas from the remains of the Enrich I spat onto the sheet.
Prince returns with a couple of sealed packs - technical stuff is afoot and I’m not about to miss anything; I watch him break the packs open and fit a T-junction between the neck of my urine bag and its tube, then plug one of the big, blunt feed syringes into the other side. He pulls on the plunger; it doesn’t move. We look at each other, exchanging absolutely no information. Prince returns his attention to the syringe and heaves on the plunger. With a loud tock the seal breaks and it comes out. Fortunately my bladder doesn’t implode and prolapse out of the end of my dick or anything.
Apparently the catheter’s completely blocked.
Prince. It’s quite a name to live up to, but he’s about to earn it. He looks at the tube exiting the end of my penis. “I’m taking that out,” he announces. “Deep breath.”
Oh mayn. Well, I can’t take the suggested deep breath, but I can, and will, grit my teeth. Nnng.
Actually it doesn’t hurt much. The catheter tube is slim and smooth, but fuck me, it’s long! About eighteen inches, unpleasantly slick and red at the end. I can account for the first few but the rest must have been curled up in my bladder, which is now eager to empty itself.
Mmm-mmm gets Prince’s attention, and a frantic, wide-eyed nodding motion towards my crotch lets him know what’s up. Either he’s firing on all cylinders tonight or he’s made a lucky guess, but he asks “Bottle? Do you want a bottle?”
Nodnodnod. Yes, I want a bottle, oh yes.
“Hold on,” says Prince - I’ll try - and runs off to the sluice. Returning with a urine bottle, he jiggles it into place.
And so. For the first time in nearly three months, I have a slash. The relief…the relief is…I’m lost for adjectives. It’s incredible. The result looks like bad homebrew, cloudy with a few fuzzy blobs drifting around in it. And you know what? I don’t care. Prince, I hereby promote you to King.
