Big "C" Part 2 (standard:non fiction, 2620 words) [2/3] show all parts
Author: casio1933	Added: May 07 2008	Views/Reads: 2560/1828	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Going home

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

It  was her final plea,  "If you won't do this for yourself, please
think of me;  get up for me;  get out and go for me if you won't do it 
for yourself.”  That brought Dad to the  question of love.  Dad 
strongly believes the definition of love is "caring more for someone, 
their well being,  their welfare and happiness than your own”.  In your 
mind, the ones you really  love are more important than you.  That was 
the chord   she struck,  and Dad said,  "Well, I'll go for you”.  He 
got out  of  bed  and they rode out into the  country  for  about   
twenty‑five or thirty miles. 

Mom was talking.  Dad was still unresponsive.  After awhile,  Mom began
asking questions that could not be answered  "yes" or "no”.  He had to 
talk.  Before long Dad had a couple of  beers and began to get his shit 
back together. 

Dad's firmly convinced,  to this day,  that a person can die anytime he
decides to "stop living”.  After fifteen plus years,   it still scares 
him to think that he could do it ‑ "stop living”.  It scares him. 
 He's also glad to know,  if  living gets to be too much of a burden,  
he can put himself in a  state of mind that will let him die.  Dad says 
although he's  convinced  he can do it,  he's not looking forward to it 
‑‑  at least not any time soon. 

From the time the cancer was discovered, Dad was never afraid of dying. 
"There are many things worse than dying ‑ living with a slowly 
debilitating condition that takes a  toll  on your  loved  ones as well 
as yourself is one of the things  worse than death."  He doesn't want 
Mom or the rest of  his family to experience that.  No, the dying part 
had never bothered My Dad.  He believes death to be the "Ultimate 
Adventure”,  provided you don't overtly do anything to hurry it along.  
It's an adventure he wants to postpone as long as possible. 

 

THAT DAMMED CATHETER 

Mom's brother had invited Mom and Dad over to his house for a Labor Day
cookout.  The cookout ended.  The music and the beer drinking began in 
earnest.  The party held down by  the creek,  about a hundred yards 
from the house (and the  bathroom).  Dad  did not feel like walking up 
the hill to empty the bag every few minutes.  It was filling about 
every twenty to thirty minutes.  Dad had "staked out" a big oak tree in 
the shadows,  behind which he would drop his pants,  remove the bag, 
and empty it for the next round. 

The  party ended about midnight and Mom drove home,  Dad  was
shit‑faced,  he couldn't hit his ass with a flat hat  ‑  
he'd had a ball.  It was the first time he had been totally  relaxed in 
over a month. 

Before going to bed,  Mom made sure Dad was plugged into  the large
plastic bag that hung on the nightstand near Dad's side of the bed.  
She was exhausted from trying to keep Dad from  overdoing that night. 

Next morning,  Mom was up early.  She went into  the kitchen to start
breakfast.  After a while she went back toward the bedroom calling Dad 
to get up.  The first thing Dad saw when he opened his eyes, was Mom 
standing in the doorway of the bedroom.   Her eyes were wide and 
staring;  Her  mouth was agape and she was pointing to the nightstand.  
Dad rolled slowly to his right to see what the problem might  be.  His 
eyes flew open also.  The bag hanging on the nightstand looked like a 
balloon ready to burst.  Gingerly, Dad stood up and unhooked the bag 
from the drawer of the nightstand and slowly walked down the hall to 
the bathroom.  After his  antics of the night before, he didn't know 
what Mom would do if he spilled a half‑gallon of piss on her 
carpet. 

It was a Friday afternoon.  Dad had been home about eighteen days.  He
was in agony.  His nerves were on razor's edge.  The stitches  in  his 
penis had begun to tear the  skin,  (Dad's scared shitless of pain 
pills and refused to take the damn things).  He was getting to the 
point where something had to be done.  He called Joe.  "Joe, you've got 
to do something about  this goddamm catheter,  the stitches are tearing 
out, and  the  son‑of‑a‑bitch is about to kill me 
‑ I'm  ready to  take a hatchet and chop the whole damn works 
off.”  Joe said he was on the way to the hospital for emergency 
surgery.  He  couldn't see Dad until sometime later.  My Dad asked if 
it would  do any harm if he expelled the catheter now.  Joe  told him 
at this point there probably would be no harm ‑  the catheter was 
to be taken out on Monday anyway.  Dad  said,  "I'm going to take the 
damn stitches out myself, then”. 

Joe, "You sure you can do it." 

Dad, "I'm damn sure I can and right now too." 

Joe, "O.K. ‑ get some alcohol, wipe down the scissors,  tweezers
and the area around the stitches,  clip the stitches and pluck the 
thread out."  Dad thanked him and said he would see him on Monday. 

After hanging up the telephone, Dad headed for the  bathroom, calling 
Mom to see if she knew where the alcohol was.  Mom  thought it was 
under the bathroom counter, (it probably was).  However, Dad couldn't 
see it ‑ he grabbed a bottle of turpentine, the scissors, and 
tweezers and went into the bedroom.  "I couldn't find the alcohol to 
save my ass ‑ this will have  to do.”  He told Mom.  By this time 
he was in such  a  nervous  jerk,  Mom would not let him try to remove 
the stitches himself.  She waited until Dad had swabbed the area around 
the stitches.  She then wiped the scissors and tweezers,  snipped the 
stitches and plucked them out.  Even with the burning of the 
turpentine,  Dad said the relief was immediate by comparison it felt 
damn good. 

The  weekend went well,  but Dad could hardly wait to get to Joe's
office on Monday.  Removing the catheter wasn't much of a deal.  Joe 
had explained that the end of the catheter inside the bladder had a 
built‑in balloon.  The balloon,  intended to prevent expulsion of 
the catheter,  had been filled with water when the catheter was 
inserted.  Joe clipped the end off the catheter, let the water in the 
bulb drain out, and told Dad to take a deep breath.  While Dad was 
still inhaling,  Joe,  in one swift movement jerked out the catheter.  
Dad didn't even get a chance to say "goddammmm!" 

When  Joe had completed his examination,  he told Dad  everything looked
fine.  "There's no indication of any infection,  but you're probably 
going to the 'leaking' for a while.  I'll get you fitted with a 
portable bag or you may want to get some diapers so you can get around 
in public.”  Dad didn't think a damn thing of that idea and told him 
so.  "Joe,"  he  said "I've had that fucking tube stuck up my prick for 
nearly a  month.  I've felt contractions damn near strong enough to 
pinch the tube closed and I've seen how they worked it in and out.  I 
don't think I'm going to be leaking except  when  I want  to.  I'm 
going to go home,  drink a quart of beer and find out just how much 
leaking there's going to be." 

Joe thought that would be a pretty good test,  however he thought Dad
may be a little overly optimistic.  He hoped Dad was right,  "but,  as 
a precaution,  I'm going to stuff these paper towels in your pants 
‑ they should hold you until you get home, just in case you're 
wrong." 

 AFTER THE CATHETER 

There was no need for the paper towels.  Dad didn't leak  at all  on the
way home.  He sat at the kitchen table and  proceeded  to drink a quart 
of Country Club.  After a while  he was concentrating on holding it in. 
 He thought he was doing  damn good."  He sneezed and pissed in his 
pants.  My Dad was to find that, during the next few weeks, there were 
going  to be some surprises.  If he sneezed,  he pissed his pants.  If  
he coughed,  he pissed his pants.  If he laughed,  he pissed  his 
pants.  If he strained to fart,  he pissed his pants.  He  pissed  in  
his pants when he lifted the garbage can.  Even  with all that pissing, 
he was glad.  Usually only a few drops     leaked out and there was a 
hell of a lot of time to be spent  not sneezing, coughing, laughing, 
farting or lifting things.  By the time Mom got home that afternoon,  
Dad had about decided he didn't need diapers,  so he took his first  
ride without any protection.  He and Mom rode out to their lot in  the 
new subdivision.  No houses were under construction and roads hadn't  
been cut.  The little  Subaru  wagon  (ugly little bastard) made the 
trip down the old logging road without  mishap.  They strolled through 
the  woods,  visualizing  their dream house nestled in the woods.  Now 
‑ Dad had discovered, before Mom got home, that he probably would 
piss his  pants  if  he farted.  When he felt the urge  building  to 
break wind, he began to concentrate on holding back the water.  With  
all that concentration he succeeded in not  pissing in  his  pants  
‑  he shit in them instead. 

The thin effluents streamed down his leg all the way into his shoe.  The
lot was heavily wooded and there was no one around.  Dad backed up to a 
tree, dropped his pants, and asked Mom if she would bring some tissues 
from the back of the wagon.  Mom was trying  desperately  not to let 
Dad see her laughing.  She was about  half way to the car when Dad 
shouted,  "Bring the whole damn box”.  Mom  broke up.  She was shaking 
with laughter and the tears were streaming down her cheeks by the time 
she got the box of tissues to Dad.  He didn't think there was a 
"fucking  thing funny about it”.  By the time he had used most of the 
box of tissues,   he  began to see the humor of his circumstances.  He 
didn't get the kick out of it Mom did, but it was kinda funny  ‑  
after it was over.  Dad didn't shit his pants very  many times after 
that and it was never as funny as the first time. 

All‑in‑all,  it hadn't been too bad a day.  The catheter had
been out about eight hours.  Dad had pissed his pants about four times 
and shit in them once.  He hadn't had any leakage while  he was relaxed 
or just walking about.  He  felt  good  about  that.  He  was going to  
damn-well  whip  "this  damn  thing”.


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