The Yellow Pages

 

Well, this isn’t pleasant, but then I suppose very little of the aging process is pretty. For instance, I did a piece to camera the other day for a literary magazine, and watching it back was surprised to hear my sonorous and attractive reading voice emanating not from a sexually viable aging roue, but from Bagpuss. Bagpuss the fat, furry, cat-puss, baggy and a bit loose at the seams, but the British literary community loved him.

I’m not wrong. My pink and whiteness, the slanted, apologetic eyebrows like a tepee shrugging off snow, the rumpled quality, as though I hadn’t sat in my chair but been tossed there by a bored toddler. I was a dead-ringer for the famous feline proprietor of a Bric-a-brac emporium.

That’s not how I see myself. In my mind’s eye, and despite the fact I’ve owned a mirror for many years, I picture myself on a continuum with Alain Delon, Nick Rhodes and Jim Jarmusch. Somewhere in there. The truth is closer to late film director Ken Russell, Tony Hancock and one of those sheepdogs that used to advertise Dulux paint.

This stuff is injurious to self-esteem, but it’s a glancing blow. I shave, so I know the true dimensions of my head. I bathe, so I daily confront the swollen horror that is the rest of my body – like someone filled the bath with porridge and lightly dusted it with the sweepings from the barber’s floor.

But I wear my hair tall to offset my Francis Bacon face. And I dress well, in dark clothing which ALWAYS works. You never see a fat Goth, after all. I can live with my sweating-brie physique because it mostly still works.

Except…

The other day I had a stomach-ache. Left hand side of the stomach. Didn’t feel muscular. No lumps or anything weird. Just a dicky tummy.

The next day, I really needed to piss. All the time. Just after I’d piss, I’d flush, wash my hands, come downstairs and think…I could do with a piss.

I drink a lot. I irrigate. Since I stopped drinking alcohol, I drink two pots of chamomile tea per night. I drink a pot of Earl Grey with breakfast, followed by a coffee. There’s usually a cup of cold lapsang souchong in the afternoon, a large glass of water with dinner, followed by a coffee. And I do piss a fair amount. Just not like this.

You know the relief of a really great piss? Of course you do – it’s one of the greatest pleasures in life. Is it better than sex? I don’t know, but it certainly seems to have confused a lot of people in the German pornographic industry. The shivery release of pressure, making your eyes cross and your teeth turn to rubber, as you force out whale noises of orgiastic pleasure. The relief. The expulsion of all that bad, bad stuff. Gone. Then comes the pleasure of topping it all back up again. Truly one of the great gifts of life: an unselfconscious easy passage followed by the gradual weakening of the flow, the delicate sprinkles which, if you’re a man, can just go anywhere, and you’re done. For a lot of people that’s the most satisfied they’re going to feel on any given day. I micturate competently. They can’t take that away from me. They’ll take my penis from my cold, dead hand.

But what if they could take it away from me? And by “they” I mean those twin bastards, Time and The Slow Erosion of Your Basic Physical Functions.

I no longer have the pleasure of release. I’m pissing but there’s no closure. It just stops. These are big, normal-sized pisses and, pretty much as soon as I’m finished, my body is telling me I need another one.

It’s a worry.

I’m pretty good at doing nothing and hoping whatever the thing is will just go away. As a strategy it's often worked, but not always. In my mid-twenties I was surprised to find I had three testes. That’s a bit off, I thought. Traditionally, I’d been keen on freebies and extras, but not when it came to gonads. I come from a large clade or infrakingdom called bilaterians, characterised by bilateral symmetry, which meant that three bollocks were an unwelcome surprise. The Roman legal principal of “testis unus, testis nullis” is all very well, but this was “testis tribus, testis nimis” and I, appropriately, I wanted none of it.

I waited for this rogue huevos to melt away – it didn’t hurt, it was just stubbornly, unnecessarily there – but it never did, and eventually a nice lady doctor had a look at it, diagnosed it as a hernia, and another nice doctor made a hole in me, stuffed the offal back inside, and sewed me up again. The neat scar is now buried somewhere beneath the stomach that’s currently giving me trouble.

I told Susan. She’s a nurse. We did a test to see if I had an infection. I was holding out for an infection. Infections can be cured without recourse to opening me up like an early Christmas present. She had some strips for soaking in piss and I certainly had some piss. Turns out it’s not an infection.

“It might be,” she said, “these aren’t exactly state of the art. You can buy them on Amazon.”

The other options for excessive urination are an enlarged prostate or diabetes, neither of which I’m keen on.

Still, there’s little point in burying my head in the sand. I had hoped to stave off old age until my sixties where it belongs, but people my age die all the time. They may always have done so, but I’ve only just started noticing, especially when it happens to family and friends.

I’m phoning the doctor in the morning.

 

I didn’t phone the doctor in the morning.

Susan had gone out with her friends for her birthday and the next day was feeling distinctly worse for wear. This happens perhaps twice a year and requires kid glove treatment, lots of hair stroking and making cups of coffee she won’t drink.

While she was recuperating, I decided to write a Piss Diary.

Why would I do that and what exactly is a piss diary? Well, I’d noticed that if I had something to do and wasn’t totally fixated on the workings of my bladder, I didn’t really notice it. Equally, the stomach-ache that accompanied the original attack of kidney twisting had gone and, besides, the urgency of the pissing seemed to have abated somewhat. For a couple of days it had been a twitchy imperative. Now…not so much.

I decided to chart my liquids, the ins and the outs. Here’s how it went.

Friday 16^th September.

3.30 pm. Piss.

6.30. pm. Piss. No fluids taken.

7.30. pm. Half a pint of Troughton’s blush lemonade.

11.00. pm. Piss.

11.00. pm. Pot of chamomile tea.

Saturday 17^th September.

12.30. am. Piss (small)

12.30. am. Second pot of chamomile tea.

2.30. am. Piss.

9.30. am. Piss.

12.00. pm. Pot of Earl Grey tea.

1.45. pm. Piss.

1.45. pm. Cup of coffee.

2.15. pm. Piss.

2.40. pm. Piss.

It’s now four in the afternoon and I’ve not had a piss for an hour and forty minutes.

What have we learned from this vigorous scientific study, other than I keep peculiar hours for a middle-aged man.

I think we can agree I’ve urinated nine times in twenty-four hours. During that time, I’ve had three pots of tea, one coffee and one glass of lemonade. Or, if we allow five cups to each pot, fifteen cups of tea, one coffee and a lemonade.

Note the study started sharply at three thirty on Friday afternoon and does not include the factors that led up to that first or even second piss.

According to these figures I’m pissing, on average, every 2.66 hours.

Is that a lot? I’ll ask the finest physician I know – Dr Google – what they think is an average amount of trips to the toilet in a day.

Oh dear.

Dr Google suggests that pissing six or seven times in a twenty-four-hour period is normal “for most people”, with the caveat that between four and ten times is fine “if the frequency doesn’t interfere with the person’s quality of life”. Well, I’m thinking about it a lot! I’m writing about it. It’s impacting on the sanity of my life.

I’m in the extended safety-zone, but I’m not happy. Let’s do what you should never do and look on the internet to see what it is I’m dying of.

Here are my options:

An Overactive Bladder. Well, duh.

But wait, the delightful causes of an overactive bladder are as follows: infections, obesity, hormonal imbalance and nerve damage. This explanation is really asking more questions than it’s answering.

Interstitial Cystitis. Also known delightfully as “painful bladder syndrome.” I think I can gladly discount this one as I don’t have a painful bladder. I’m happy to do so as Dr Google adds in a sinister fashion, “the exact cause of Interstitial Cystitis is not known.” I don’t need to be doing no painful mystery pisses.

Diabetes. Yes, well, I expected this one. “Undiagnosed or poorly controlled diabetes could lead to high blood sugar levels that could cause frequent urination”. Not that sexy really. And I could lose a foot. I use my feet daily, so that’s a wrench. People with diabetes can have breath that smells of nail polish remover, which nobody has mentioned I have and my friends are not polite, so I’m clinging to that, as diabetes could be a real contender here.

Blood Calcium Levels. One of the disquieting things about this investigation is the vagueness. Here blood calcium levels are the issue, but it may be because they’re too high or because they’re too low. Apparently, the outcome of both extremes is me busting for a piss halfway through watching The Holdovers. You really need to be in that blood calcium sweet spot to avoid sudden gusset irrigation. Also, what the fuck can you do about blood calcium? I didn’t even know there was calcium in my blood. I’ve reached this formidable age without realising my veins are swimming with rogue teeth. It’s a wonder I can give blood without chewing off the needlepoint.

Sickle Cell Anaemia. I think I can count this one out. It’s nice to be able to check them off. I’m aware this is white privilege in action. Sorry.

Prostate Problems. Yeah, this was the other biggie. But an enlarged prostrate may cause a person to urinate less. That’s not my problem. Perhaps I’m being simplistic. Certainly, my prostate was one of the things I first thought about when experiencing problems with my waterworks because a) American comedians of a certain age never stop going on about their prostates and b) I have never had a finger up my bum in a professional capacity (doctor, prostitute or customs official) which reveals, I think, a life squandered.

Pelvic Floor Weakness. But I do Pilates. I’m specifically armoured against pelvic floor weakness. My Kegels are beasts. It can’t be that. I could gain access to a Medieval fortress with my Kegels. Disco hips don’t fail me now.

Dr Google is now telling me that consuming a lot of fluids can increase urinary output, while not consuming enough can cause dehydration, and diminished output. And I imagine myself sat on Dr Google’s lap, and then they’re offering me a lollipop as I skip out the door.

“Gee! Thanks, Dr Google.”

“Dat’s okay, Chonny. Stay hydrated.”

“I will. Bye Bye.”

Alcohol and caffeine have diuretic effects. Here is a list of drinks containing caffeine.

Coffee, Sodas, Hot Chocolate, Energy Drinks and Tea.

In the last 24 hours I have drunk only tea, coffee and lemonade. I’m not even giving myself a fighting chance here.  I do wonder about the cleverness of drinking two pot of chamomile tea before going to bed. There is the myth that Native American Braves (are they still called “Braves”? It’s a nickname I’d be happy to keep hold of) used to drink water before going to sleep so their full bladders would wake them early in the morning and get the drop on the Pale Faces (am I allowed to call them Pale Faces?). I’m pleased to say my bladder never does this. My lie-in remains a sacred right and undisturbed.

Still, as we can see, I drink very little actual water, and every liquid I drink is a diuretic. And I drink a lot of it, nearly twenty cups of tea and coffee a day. Hmm. On top of this my pissing is down on the second day of the study. In the following 24 hours I pissed a mere eight times. Tantalisingly close to normal. And yet, it doesn’t feel quite right down there. The body knows. Or it makes out it knows. What are your sources on this, body?

Last year I illustrated a book, and my eyesight was fine. When I came to draw some Christmas cards, perhaps three or four months later, my eyes were fucked. I could no longer see the fine detail of my cross-hatching, and I am crazy for the cross-hatching. So, I booked an eye-test. I already have a pair of glasses for seeing near me and a pair for seeing far away. I also have distance contact lenses and, a relatively recent acquisition, varifocal contact lenses, which I'd never heard of until they were sold to me. But my eyesight had got worse, so I bought another pair of glasses. Round frames for a change. I really like them.

I was worried. Worried about wetting myself during the eye examination. Especially when asked “Is that better? Or does it feel better now? Better now? What about now? Or about the same.”

“About the same. Very much about the same.”

But blurred vision, failing sight, is another symptom of diabetes. I asked the optician.

“No,” he said.

“No what?”

“No, you don’t have diabetes. We’ve examined the photos of your eyes and there’s no sign of any damage. I would feel obliged to tell you to see a doctor if I thought there was the slightest suspicion of diabetes, and I do not suspect it. Besides, you could see well enough through the tweaked prescription, couldn’t you?”

I agreed I could.

“Well then.”

Regardless, I’m ringing the doctor in the morning. Promise.

 

I didn’t ring the doctor in the morning. 

It went away. I’ve long heard tell of the mysterious cold in the kidneys, a complaint clucking old women might be a martyr to in old movies. Was this it? Had I had a chill in me waterworks? Whatever happened, the persistent urge to urinate had departed. I was very pleased as I was flying over to England for my sister’s birthday and plane travel involves a lot of hanging around, sometimes an uncomfortable distance from a toilet. And I was fine.

Until I returned home. I’ve now developed other symptoms. So many new and exciting symptoms…*

 *These are unrelated to excessive weeing. I went strolling around London in inappropriate, fancy Dan footwear and paid dearly for it. Back, feet, knees and hips all in an agony of rusted stiffness. But I'm pissing like a champ. Phew.