Snickers

Snickers arrived in 2007.  We had owned a pair of Schnauzers (Fritz and Willie) and one died at age 15 and one at age 17.  Losing our dogs was tough and when Willie died I told Mary, no more dogs.  I don't want that sorrow again.  I left on a business trip and the day I got home Mary had a picture of a little puppy for me to look at, and I said - No!, no more dogs.  She then proudly announced that we would need to go to the airport the next day and pick up our new dog since it was being flown in from Missouri.   Hello Snickers, a Yorkie Schnauzer mix.

He wasn't my dog until Mary died, then he became my dog, and my responsibility. He was a great passenger when I was out on one of my drives.  He went walking with me every morning for 2 or more miles.  He was a good watchdog, poor lap dog, and actually pretty smart.

I had a dog walker who helped look after him on some days.  Snickers was a great friend and was my last tie to my previous life.  A daily reminder of good things and good times.In the spring of 2015 he started having some serious medical issues.  Pancreatitis.That was followed with a diagnosis of cancer.  The doctors operated on him and tried to remove all the cancerous growth.

It wasn't successful.  We also tried chemo therapy and we tried lots of meds.  I decided against Radiation therapy when the DVM could not give me any kind of good news or even hope.

One morning he couldn't walk.   I called my vet.  She cancelled a morning surgery to help me.  It was time, the suffering for both of us needed to end.  I got to hold him in my arms and cry him to sleep.  It brought back lots of pain from my past.  Just when I think I'm about to turn the corner, something else happens.

Running out of shampoo

This month I'm going to run out of shampoo.  I shower every day and I probably need a good tablespoon of shampoo to wash my thinning hair.  This month I'll run out of shampoo.  Why is that such a big deal?  I haven't bought any shampoo in at least 4 decades.  My wife always bought the shampoo, along with a lot of other things she managed.  My wife died 11 September 2012.  She was a bit of a hoarder.  She would buy stuff on sale.  She didn't seem to keep track of what we had on hand.  It was on sale so she would buy it.  After he death I began a purge.  Some things I doesn't know what I should do with them.  I have books and books of Postal Commemorative stamps that are only worth the value of the stamps which means I have to clip open and put tons of stamps on stuff. But in addition to lots of shampoo I still have at least 8 packs of forever stamps, and don't get me started on two dollar bills.   Anyway I'm running out of shampoo.  You can estimate anyway you want, but understand that I had a lot of shampoo stored in the bath closet.  It is another milestone.  A sad one, but nonetheless another milestone.  As each day passes I lose another physical contact with my wife.  Our dog has cancer.  He probably won't make it another 12 months, and he is only 9 years old, but that is another chapter for another night.

Last of my dignity - ADULT LANGUAGE!!

Having been raised in mid-America, I have a set of values imprinted by my Dad, my Mother and the morals/religion of the area.  An example would be appropriate here.   Every Thursday night I rode with Dad to Delphos to participate in a rifle match.  We either shot in Delphos or we traveled to the other team's home to shoot.  I was the only member of the team under the age of 18.  Actually, I think I was the only member under the age of 45.  The team consisted of a group of fine gentlemen who liked to shoot and were willing to help me learn.  I knew the first and last names of every team member.   It was easy, their first name was Mister.  On Occasion they could be Sir.  There was one individual on the team who was a Doctor.   All the other team members referred to him as Doc.   On a rare occasion I turned to the doctor and, in my big boy pants decided I too would refer to him as Doc.  I said, "Doc Yowell".  The last syllable of his last name had barely left my lips and the rest of the sentence was just forming in my mouth when I heard my Dad's voice, "That's Doctor to you!".  In a split second he was standing directly in front of me reiterating that the man's name was Doctor Yowell and instructing me to immediately go to Doctor Yowell, apologize for the familiarity and state his real title and in the apology.  It went something like, Doctor Yowell I'd like to apologize for calling you Doc.   Doctor Yowell protested and tried to wave his hand as if to brush it off while looking at Dad and saying it was ok.   Dad said it wasn't ok, Doctor Yowell had earned that title and deserved the respect.  As you can tell I haven't forgotten the event over 5 decades later.

So, I guess I'm explaining that I'm respectful, I try to be courteous, and I am shy/reserved.

Fast forward to October 2015.  The Veterans Administration has decided I need a 'Vesting' exam.   It implies that the VA is accepting me into the VA system (I've been going there for 10 years) and a physical for a baseline is required.  The physical showed a blood test result that indicated a "High PSA" value.  Based on that I was scheduled for a urological exam.  I get in to see the Urologist who promptly has me drop my drawers so he can conduct a digital exam.  He then looks at me and says that he felt a small abnormality and he thinks I need a prostate biopsy which is promptly scheduled for the first week of December.
There is prep work for the exam which includes antibiotics and "flushing" the intestines.
I arrived at the appointed day and time and a nurse takes me into an exam room and does height, weight, BP, Temperature and then tells me I need an antibiotic administered by an injection.  I said fine and she said that she likes to administer this shot in the buttocks because it is less painful.   I believe I can count all the times that a woman has seen my naked butt on just a couple fingers (no pun). OK, so I dropped my trousers and Yeeeoooooww!   Then I got dressed and headed back to the waiting room.

Several minutes later a mid-thirties female in surgical scrubs walks up and tells me that she is the urologist that will be performing the biopsy.   Really?  Okay?  Suck it up and put on the big boy pants, or rather take them off and put on a surgical garb.   Really?  A thirty something female has been given the responsibility to look in my shorts?   I don't know the procedure so this could be very embarrassing.   So the Dr's assistant shows up to get me prepped.   SHE is in her mid-forties and very cheerful.   She proceeds to explain the procedure.   I'll lay on my side, the doctor will insert two fingers into my rectum and feel the prostate.   Then the doctor will insert an ultrasound device into the rectum to "see" the prostate and to help position the biopsy sampling device.  Okay, I'm mentally doing math of fingers, ultrasound, sampler and I'm thinking a marching army is about to invade my ass. I walk into the "theater" and I'm instructed to lay on my side with my right leg slightly forward.  Then the doctor explains she is getting the lubricant and it might be cold and....Whooo Hoooo, Hold On Nelly.  Next I hear the doctor say "please relax".  She spends several minutes with her fingers then she says she is about to "introduce the ultrasound device".  "Please relax Mr. Goheen".  After several minutes she announces the my prostate appears to be enlarged.   The next step is to do the biopsy.  She introduces a "device" ands says I'll hear some very loud clicking each time she takes "EACH OF THE TWELVE SAMPLES!!!!!!!!"  It seems that they shoot some type of needle through the intestinal wall into the prostate.  After they remove all the equipment from my ass the doctor announces that she is going to put her fingers back in to apply direct pressure and she will hold that position for about 5 min.  After what seemed like and hour (4-5 min) she removed her fingers and told me to head back to my changing room and someone would check on me and get me cleared to go home.   As I stood in the changing room I felt something warm in-between my butt cheeks.   I figure it was lubricant so I headed to the bathroom as the nurse stepped in, gasped and pointed to the floor and asked me "Is that yours" as I spotted a broken egg size pool of blood.   I thought a second and responded, "it use to be".
She told me to sit down and she left to find the doctor.   The doctor came in looked at the floor, and said maybe we need to apply direct pressure some more.   However, the operating theater was being cleaned.   I'd need to lean over the chair in the room.  She left, got gauze, lubricant and sterile pads, squeezed out a bunch of cold lubricant on my butt and then dipped her fingers gauze in the lube and Woo Hoo here we go again.  This time she spent about 10 min in an awkward pose and we stemmed the flow of my life fluids. During this interlude she decided to ask me about my military career.  I provided a thumbnail sketch of my 29 years.  It was ah, guess, unusual to have a youngish female doctor with two of her fingers up my butt thanking me for my military service.  She noticed the bandaid on my butt and asked where it came from.   I explained the shot and she responded that she had never seen that before.   Hmmmmm

 She told me to report to any emergency room if the bleeding started again or I developed a fever.  In the mean time I should take stool softener for a week and abstain from any type of sexual activity.

They did set me up for a review of the results in two weeks.  The results were negative. yay.

I believe that there are young men (who don't need this procedure) that would probably have taken the time to get a date with the doctor while in the position.  That isn't me.  Am I old?  Or just a product of a different time and place.  I've been downtown D.C. and seen teenagers whip out their "manhood" and take a whizz in the nearest trash can, no embarrassment, no regrets, no modesty.   The times they are a changing.