When I went to sleep on Thursday, January 10, I was in the best of shapes, or so I thought. But I woke up in the middle of the night because my bladder was full. Actually, it felt as though it was about to burst. To my astonishment, though, I could not pee. I tried every trick until morning, but to no avail. The few drops that would come out every now and then only showed that my bladder was full to the brim. In the morning, I called the medical center in Motovun, and I was told that I had to call the emergency service. Which is what I did without delay. When the medics came to my house and heard my story, they asked me to lie down, took my pulse and blood pressure, asked me to pull down my pants and underpants, and inserted a catheter into my penis. In less than a minute, the plastic bag attached to the catheter by means of a long tube was full. And I felt much better. The medics gave me their written, signed, and stamped report and told me that I had to see with the local doctor what was to be done next. Their job was done.

On Monday, January 14, I went to the medical center at the bottom of the Motovun hill. This was my very first visit ever since I moved from Reading sixteen years ago. The doctor read the report, pulled the catheter out, and prescribed antibiotics for me, which I picked up immediately afterwards in the local pharmacy that is in the same building as the medical center. She explained that the drug would ensure that no infection could come from the insertion of the gadget, which often causes bleeding. She could not tell me what went wrong with my peeing, but she suggested that it could have to do with my bladder or prostate. I needed to see a urologist to learn more about the unexpected problem. When I returned home, I could pee, but the stream was unusually thin. And such a stream persisted through the next day. It was clear that I was not out of the woods. Seeing a urologist struck me as not only wise but also unavoidable. The sooner, the better.

On Tuesday, January 15, I went to sleep with a funny feeling, for my peeing was not up to par. And I woke up in the middle of the night one more time. My bladder was full, but I could not pee once again. The few drops that came out reminded me of last Friday. And so I called the emergency service at once. The medics came and heard my story, asked me to lie down, took my pulse and blood pressure, asked me to pull down my pants and underpants, and inserted another catheter into my penis. The plastic bag was full in no time. They left me with one more report for my local doctor.

I went to the medical center early in the morning, and I was told that I should see a urologist in either Rijeka or Pula as soon as possible. When I expressed my preference for the former, a much larger city than the latter, the local doctor came up with several forms required for such a visit for the next day. She also arranged my transport to Rijeka and back. This was rather uncommon in these parts, but I explained that I did not want to bother any of my friends with long rides and even longer waiting.

On Thursday, January 17, I went to Rijeka in an ambulance van. When we came to the hospital, the corridor in front of the urologist’s office was crammed with patients, most of whom were men roughly my age. I had to wait for a long time, but I was finally called in. The urologist came up with some standard questions about my medical condition, and then he had me take off my pants and underpants before lying down. He checked my bladder and prostate with a few instruments attached by wire to screens, inserted his finger up my colon, and concluded that I should start taking a drug that loosens up the bladder muscle that controls the flow of the pee. He also told me that I should keep the catheter for three weeks, but that I should attach it to the plastic bag only at night.

I returned to the local doctor on Friday, January 18, a week after the ordeal had started. She gave me the prescription for the drug recommended by the urologist, which I picked up in the local pharmacy a short while later. And the doctor repeated after the urologist in Rijeka that the catheter should come out only after three weeks under the new cure. That would be on Wednesday, February 6.

The first thing that crossed my mind in connection with the fateful three weeks was that I was planning to go to Zagreb on January 28, and that I would stay there for about a fortnight. Many chores awaited me in the Croatian capital. The one that was uppermost on my mind was the visit with my prostate doctor (“Prostate Biopsy,” January 19, 2018). My prostate was enlarged, but it showed no traces of tumor. On February 8, 2018, the doctor prescribed a drug to shrink the troublesome gland, which was to be taken for an entire year. Early this February would be the right time to check whether or not it had done its job. To be sure, my catheter could be taken out on my upcoming visit with the doctor in Zagreb, which could be arranged for February 6. The Wednesday, as it were.

But the fact that my beloved would eventually see me with a catheter sticking out of my penis made me really uncomfortable, not to mention sleeping by her side with a plastic bag full of pee right next to me. Extremely sensitive to anything having to do with the body, she would surely be very uncomfortable about all of the above, as well. Even though I immediately informed her about my predicament, and in requisite detail, the discomfort gradually grew as my departure to Zagreb drew closer. And there were no less than ten days to go since my last visit to the local doctor. Day after day, as well as night after night, I imagined the moment when my beloved would see me naked again. I imagined it in ever more gruesome detail, too.

On Monday, January 28, I took the bus to Zagreb in the morning. After a sleepless night, I had a knot in my stomach. My beloved returned from work several hours after my arrival. We hugged and kissed at the door of her apartment, and then we sat down for a talk. Not surprisingly, the catheter came up soon enough. I got up straight away and I fetched the plastic bag with a tube on the top and a valve for emptying it on the bottom. My beloved was not impressed. And then I pulled down my pants and underpants to show her the dangling catheter. At first, she stared at the medical contraption without a word. Two plastic plugs, one red and another blue, graced the two tips of the catheter, which swung back and forth in front of her nose. Whatever my beloved was thinking, I felt like an old man. Methuselah, no less. The truth be told, I had never even imagined feeling as old as I felt then and there. But then my beloved started laughing. She teased me about the enviable size of my penis in its new guise, and we both laughed. At long last, the catheter blues was almost over. Going to sleep with the plastic bag, as well as emptying it in the morning, would wrap up the pitiful story in just a few hours. And there would be much laughter all the way through.