Pee

Richard
Pee
Starbucks, November 12, 2008

Over the years I’ve completed scores of surveys about diabetes. How many pats of butter do I spread on bread? Do I hear voices? Can I feel my toes? I’m in San Diego for my annual checkup as part of the epidemiological study that’s now reached its 25th year. I’m in the white examining room at a small table, pen in hand, filling out forms between medical tests, when I come to a survey about peeing. Long-term diabetes can damage the nerves that control urination.

How often do I pee? How long does it usually take? Is my flow strong? Am I able to stop when I want to? I’m not sure. What’s a normal flow? How do you know how good you are at stopping? Do I dribble? Do I stop and start again? Do I really know when I’m finished?

I have lots of opportunity to ponder the questions, as I’m in the middle of a renal test which has me drinking a quart of water every half hour, peeing into a cup, and pouring the contents into a big plastic jug. The container, embedded in ice, has my name on it and looks like it’s filling with chardonnay.

If I can’t tell I have a problem, I figure, then I probably don’t have one, and so I check no to all peeing issues. During stints at the urinal, though, it crosses my mind that maybe I do have issues. Do I empty my bladder in the preferred-but-curiously-unstated way the survey hints at? Does my pee gush in a mighty torrent but one that can be halted sharply in mid-stream—and without residue? Oh my god, there is a bit of residue, I discover, when, toward the end of my visit, the clinical supervisor asks me to lower my trousers so she can measure my abdomen and compare the numbers to last year’s.

I undo my belt, unzip my fly, and let my trousers bag around my knees. I am holding my shirt up, so she can get the tape measure around, and I am looking down at Susan’s head, which is exactly at crotch level, when I notice a dark patch on my light blue knickers. The stain is about the size of a quarter and seems to be expanding. She is right there with it but doesn’t let on. I mean, what can she say? I keep silent as well, but I am aware now there is empirical evidence that I have a peeing issue, no matter what I’ve claimed on the form. Surely, she’ll be cross checking my answers when I’ve left.

Weeks later Laurie finds a particularly fine pair of pants in a sale at Macy’s. They are Alfani’s: 31 inch waist and 30 inch in-seam. They fit tight and look good, and we buy them, a light fawn color. I’m at work, unzipping myself in front of the urinal, when I discover that the zip is short, by which I mean I have to bring my penis up over the bottom of it to point my member, as they say, at the porcelain. It’s a bit of an effort to get a smooth flow, and as I push my dick back into my trousers and zip up, I suddenly feel a spurt of warm liquid around my middle. I look down with a certain horror: a large, dark shape is forming on the front of my pants, announcing to everyone who enters: This man has peed himself. Fortunately, no one enters. I splash water on the stain and duck into a stall to wait. Next time I fill out a form and come to the question: How long does it take your urine soaked trousers to dry? I will be able to answer: 20 minutes, even after you’ve blotted up the excess.

Do I have a problem controlling those last few drops, or do I merely lack technique? Where is the advice? It’s not as if you can solicit tips in public restrooms. Well, maybe you can, but I’m too shy, and I fear deportation. So I’ve improvised a solution: to dab a bit of toilet paper at the end of my dick after the pee. Since urinals lack toilet paper, I use a stall. Sometimes, I sit down. It’s restful, and the dribble matter, out of sight, is out of mind.