If you hang one little boy for stealing a sheep then
other little boys will not steal sheep.
Once you have committed murder it becomes quite easy
to steal or tell a lie.
(I came across both
of those quotes many decades ago. The
first, I thought, was quoted by Winston Churchill in his autobiographical book,
"My Early Life" and was a
threat uttered to the young Churchill by one of the older boys or even a
master, but I cannot find the quote in an Internet search. I cannot remember
the author of the second quote and, again, I cannot find the quote on-line.)
On Thursday of this
week past, The Catheter, the
"Thing" with which I had become obsessed as front and centre of my
life, my constant and inseparable and insufferable companion, was removed. A
snip of the scissors to deflate the balloon in my bladder, a few tugs of pain -
a little pressure the doctor described it as before each tug - and it was out,
gone, consigned to a bin next to the bed. Night and day; chalk and cheese; just
like that - tug, tug, tug, plop. What sweet, perfect bliss to pee in my pants
instead of through a tube and into a bag that I had been carrying around, day
and night, 24-7, for 15 days exactly. Other than when lying flat on my
back I'd had an almost constant, somewhat painful, sensation of having a full
bladder that urgently needed to be emptied. Walking and standing were
difficult, but sitting was the worst. I was so
convinced that the darn thing must be at least partially blocked that I
persuaded the home nurse, bless her, to irrigate (read back-wash) the catheter
on one of her visits - to no avail. "At least we know that is not the
problem," she said, putting a positive spin on it.
My heart goes out to
all those poor souls for whom this is a life sentence - people in hospices and
elderly patients who have no hope that this thing will ever be removed, never
ever.
So, now I pee my
pants. Without the catheter experience to soften me up beforehand that might
have been quite traumatic bearing in mind the carrot-stick socialising process
to enforce conformity (the ostracism after peeing your pants as a child was
like a public hanging) but now It's quite easy, really; as easy as lying or
stealing after committing murder - the more so thanks to my Depends MEN GUARDS!
I can do it and nobody knows my dirty secret as I walk down the street or stand
up in church to sing the hymn.
This takes me back
to my Grade 2 year in school. We called it Class 2 in Natal back then. The
boys' toilets were being repaired so we all had to use the girls' toilets. One
little boy asked to "be excused." He was allowed to go to the toilet.
I thought it would be a good idea to see the girls toilets so I also asked if I
could be excused. The teacher said, "You don't really need to go. You just
want to see the girls toilets." Well, now. I was crushed and felt put
down. How did she know whether I really needed to go or not? True, I did not need to go, but I could go, and I would show her that she was wrong. I peed my
pants at my desk in the front row of the classroom. I still remember the warmth
and the wet and the smell and the thrill and then the embarrassment when the
little girl at the next desk told the teacher that I had wet my pants and it
was all over the floor under my desk and was still dripping down. Well, she
couldn't say anymore that I had not needed to go, could she. I still relish the
look of exasperation on her face. I never really got into trouble for that. She
wrote a letter informing my parents what had happened. They scolded my mildly
but I think they all gave me the benefit of the doubt.
