Post 1

I recently contacted a charitable organisation, to tell my story. They seemed quite interested but as we tried to organise a conversation nothing came of it and yet again I have reached that point, as I have many times in the last few years, how do I talk about the fact I cannot wee? That one day I went to the toilet and nothing happened and 5 years later it still hasn’t. I have often asked myself is there any real need to tell it? I have decided there is. Men don’t talk enough about problems, we keep it quite and try to match up to certain traits of masculinity when the expectations of what a man is, are ever changing. We have weaknesses and flaws. Our insecurities often come down to image and perhaps performance. So what happens when a twenty-two year old has a seismic change with his manhood?

It was the summer of 2012 and I was back in London for the summer after a turbulent final year at university. I had overcome the usual hurdles of dissertation deadlines and the small matter of a malignant tumour being removed from my right leg. My recovery had been relatively smooth; I was fortunate enough not to need any further treatment other than the operation. Due to all the goings on I had extensions so whilst most peoples summer had begun I had to wait a few weeks more to do a few extra retake exams. I remember the amazing moment when I left that final exam knowing it was over, I was free. The feeling was short lived though as soon as I got home, my body began to shake and I was being violently sick. Perhaps the mental and physical exhaustion had overwhelmed me but I was soon in the back of an ambulance unsure of what was going on.

My stay in hospital was a short and unsurprisingly unpleasant. This was not the way I wanted to start my first evening away from education. My infection eventually cleared up and I was good to go home but it was the start of a rather uncomfortable summer.

I headed back to London to join along with the thriving carnival atmosphere and embraced Olympic fever. It was a great time to soak up the sporting success and finally be free man; in the knowledge I would be heading back to Leeds in September to start my next chapter in life, post education. I remember it was the week leading up to my birthday and I went to the bathroom, to have a sharp stinging pain, nothing coming out but a few droplets of blood. My body, which had felt quite, alien since having a tumour park up and now to have blood oozing out, compounded my fears even more. It felt grotesque but I was soon taken over my a flurry of vibrant shakes when I no longer felt in control at all and was soon on the way to hospital.

I was quickly examined but it didn’t take them long to realise the problem, it was a urine infection, which sounded quite harmless and they informed me they would be inserting a catheter. I had no idea what that was, which now seems rather a foolish. A catheter is a tube that drains urine from your bladder. You guessed it, it’s a tube that has to go up your penis to retrieve the water, because for any number of reasons, it was not coming out. In my instance it was due to a urinary tract infection (UTI) for short.

There is nothing quite like it, the invasion, the insensitivity, it all just felt so wrong. It felt like a bulldozer was tearing its way in, bashing through the walls of a high security unit to reach some unknown location. It was entering the unknown and crawling into every fibre. I am quite dramatic at the best of times but it felt like someone was planting something inside of me, it was horrible. I am writing this blog to try and be informative and open. I take no pleasure in a grim telling of the first time having a catheter put in, but its true. I have experienced many of the unusual prodding techniques hospitals use to make you better, but there is no shying away from the first time, its invasive and brutal. Suddenly there is relief though, you have hid the goldmine, water is realised and suddenly you feel free, whatever that was that went in is still there but suddenly you are working together.

You expect your body to do certain things naturally and I don’t think I am alone in expecting to, intake fluid and offload it in the normal way. Finding there was something stopping it, felt quite strange. What was even more unnerving was what was coming out. It doesn’t feel good seeing blood flowing into a shabby plastic container, whatever it is was inside of me and contaminated me, better out than in but it’s something, which is hard to get used to. So much of what has happened to me makes me feel slightly alien and this is the first moment I really felt it. I was in hospital for a few days whilst the infection cleared away, they eventually told me I could leave but with a bag attached to my leg. The tube would remain with the bag so I could carry on day to day. It didn’t feel like that though. How could I look the server at McDonalds straight in the eye knowing I would be peeing at the same time as talking to them, it did feel unnatural and strange. Having been on the ward for a few days I was the youngest person by at least fifty years, this was an old mans problem, not something a twenty two year old wants to be dealing with.

I left with my bag in, ready to go back to Leeds, but I suddenly didn’t feel as ready anymore. I felt like I was being held back, or certainly down by the bag and problems I was facing. It all felt quite uncomfortable and strange, it was only going to get stranger in the very near future.