I prefer the word "digital" when it refers to computers

Last Wednesday, while I was leaned over with my doctor digitally inspecting my prostate, I had a flash of inspiration. Okay, that isn't true. It was more a flash of searing pain, but I assure you I would have been much happier had it been the former. Happier still if the whole situation had been different.

Before continuing further, I must apologize to my poor sensitive readers for exposing, um, maybe that's not the best word to use in this context, for inflicting (much better) such and unpleasant introduction to this blog post. And no, recounting my rectal exam is not an attempt to live up to the name of this website, and I assure you that this post will become less sh*tty as it progresses (at least in one sense, though probably not the other).


The upshot of the doctor visit was that the intense pain I'd been feeling around a dozen times per day, slightly less at night, had to do with a prostate/bladder infection (apparently in men the one often leads to the other). I'd been having symptoms for a couple of days, but had convinced myself that drinking copious quantities of water and cranberry juice would rectify the problem. The morning of the third day, having a nearly 102 degree fever and constant urgent feeling of needing to urinate (though fortunately the intense pain upon doing so had lessened somewhat by then), I came to the conclusion that not only was this problem not going away, it may need something a little stronger to cure it. Not having sufficient quantities of distilled beverages on hand, I thought the doctor would be the next prudent move.

After blood-work, urinalyses, and the afore-mentioned exam I was given a Levaquin prescription and the assurance that this most likely will clear up with the antibiotic. And that "there is probably nothing sinister causing this." I don't think of myself as a hypochondriac, and I'm confident this little unpleasantness will soon be behind me. My dad on the other hand...

When my dad first heard about my problem he told me that men just don't get urinary infections unless they "sleep with loose women." At first I couldn't tell if he was trying to cast aspersions on my character or Ruth's, but instead he said that the only explanation was bladder cancer. Admittedly, there still is a very remote possibility that this is cancer, but that chance is vanishingly small. What gets me about this is that I already live with a greatly increased risk of cancer due to the "HNPCC" gene that I inherited from my mom. I know that that's why every time I sneeze my dad thinks I'm dying of cancer. I understand, it scares the shit out of me, and I know it scares him because he loves me. But everyday I live knowing that there is a near 100% chance that sometime in my life I'll have cancer. There is, at least, a good chance that it will be one of the more curable (or better yet preventable) cancers like colon cancer. Though I still live in the knowledge that someday I may get up and the blood in my urine won't be a bacterial infection, but for right now I wish that my dad was a bit more callous with my health, I wouldn't mind being told to buck up. To let the cancer of tomorrow stay there. I have enough to deal with today.

Sorry for the griping, maybe its the fever talking.

Upon hearing from Ruth that the antibiotic was once a day, my dad told her that there aren't any antibiotics that will work with only one pill per day.
Oh well. I just hope he isn't proven right, about either thing.

As far as my treatment goes, I haven't improved as rapidly as I'd hoped, but any improvement is welcome. Ruth has been exceptionally nice about the whole thing, including being patient with me when I didn't want to visit the doctor and cheerfully changing her plans once I decided I did. Then dealing with me through fevers chills and unending bathroom stops. I don't know what I'd do without her.

It is simply amazing how troublesome a lump of nearly useless tissue can become. Oh, and prostates can be a hassle too.