A couple of catheter plugs are resting on the dining table in my livingroom. Both of them light-blue in color, they have been within my sight for more than three years already. Every so often, I raise my index finger as I stare at them in all seriousness and utter the same words in a stern voice: “Never again!” As the weather is turning cold, this is my way of making sure that plugs like these two are history for me (“The Catheter Blues,” January 30, 2019; and “The Catheter Blues Revisited,” April 15, 2021). Ancient history, no less. And I protect my bladder from another harrowing inflammation with all my might. Sensitive to the cold, it deserves all the attention I can muster in the years to come. The older I get, the more attention this frail organ will undoubtedly oblige. But the plugs are always on the table to keep me focused. Three lengthy visits to a hospital in Rijeka are all I will ever need to ensure that there will be no more of them. Which is why I feel lucky to have kept the plugs for so many years. By now, they are close to my heart. My protectors, no less. Feeling kind of victorious after so many words contributed to my magnum opus on this cockamamie subject, I turn toward the plugs one more time with my index finger raised high: “Never again!” This time around, there is a barely visible smile on my face.