My urologist straightened up out of his distracted slouch and got excited. “The procedure that I propose to do to you is the fun part of my job. I’ve performed it as least as many times as, say, I’ve made love to my wife in the last year, and let me tell you, my wife and I, we still have the magic. Do you read me?” he said. “Almost more than I want to,” I said.
“I’ll snake a laser into you, aim and blast that bad boy to smithereens. I never miss. Around NYU Hospital, I’m known as the Wyatt Earp of the bladder,” he said.
“I hope you’ll leave the O.K. Corral intact. I’m not finished with it yet,” I said.
“A sense a humor. Good. In the short run, you’ll need it. In the long run, you’ll be singing my praises in toilets all over the East Village,” he said.
Coming out of the anesthesia in the hospital, I muttered long remembered sonnets, as if I could put myself back together word by word. “Would you like some apple juice and graham crackers?” a nurse said. I thought, what a disgusting combination. Then I remembered: that’s what they used to give me as a snack in kindergarten. My teacher wore her brown hair wrapped up atop her head and skirts that ended above the knee. She had her own name early on, and a married one later. I hadn’t really looked into any blue eyes before. I can still see hers.
I went to the urologist for follow up. He was in a mood. “One of the tragedies of our time is that patients are over informed about the procedures I do. You should hear the questions. One clown asked me if he might be left incontinent,” he said. “That was me!” I said. “Oh. Well, then you know what I’m talking about. I’ve never left anyone incontinent. I repair the human plumbing using tools that Einstein himself would have marveled at. These hands” — he held them up in front of him — “aren’t here. They’re ahead in the future,” he said.
“Shouldn’t you keep them close in case your wife comes looking for the magic?” I said. He ignored that comment.
Halfheartedly, he said, “I can give you something for pain.” My pain bored him. He’d done his job. He peeled off his examination gloves and tracked each toss into a pail across the room.
Douglas Collura lives in New York City
