My waterworks and the Shaman
“If you want a good night's sleep,” said former Prime Minister Jean Chretien, “skip the evening news.” But last week, needing my nightly Ukraine update, I watched it anyway. Wouldn't you know? CBC aired a special on colon cancer.
Which called to mind my own 1995 cancer ordeal and its accompanying water woes. Mine was only prostate cancer, curable if caught early. Yet to someone like me, in robust health with no family history of the disease, it was a shock. And that night those long-ago water worries haunted my CBC dreams.
You see, my first cancer symptom was altered urination. Back then, employed by Lands and Forests in Truro and living in the Old Barns area, most fine weekdays from June to October found me commuting on a five-speed Nishiki touring bike. Come mid-summer this was thirsty work, so I'd tank up before setting out. To my surprise, on arrival in town, I'd have to rush to the restroom. More than once, finding it occupied, I wet my pants.
Puzzled, our family doctor Alex Crowe ordered a PSA checkup. The bloodwork revealed above normal protein antigens. Suspecting cancer, he ordered a biopsy. Sure enough, it revealed aggressive cancer cells. Without delay, he booked me with Urology Associates in Halifax. On April 12, they removed the prostate.
One function of that organ is to help regulate urine flow. Without it, the patient needs catheterization, i.e., bladder drainage via plastic tubing into a plastic bag worn and emptied 24/7 until the surgery heals. For days my catheter dribbled bright blood; but no big deal.
Except, I was among the unlucky five per cent who develop periodic urinary blockages from overactive scar tissue. To prevent kidney damage, each attack requires a prompt hospital “ream job” of the urethra. My shutdowns came more or less biweekly for nearly six months. To say the least, this made travel planning tricky. After several postponements of my annual Newfoundland trip to visit family and do some landscape painting, I took a chance and went anyway. From my Fall 1995 journal:
On October 21st, Day 17 since my last ream-job, bladder still behaving, I drove to Gander to visit my brother Calvin and his wife Cathy, stopping en route at Clarkes Head to see other kin. The next day, he and I drove to Glovertown for supper with a mutual friend, Eric, a lawyer by trade, a sailor by avocation.
After a fine salmon supper, Eric took us down to the jetty to see his beloved sloop. Hearing a sudden low hum below, I asked what it was. “Bilge pump,” said he. “She's pretty tight; but like all boats, even wooden ones, she hankers for the ocean bottom. So when the bilgewater reaches a certain level, the pump cuts in. That evening he proposed a morning sail on Bonavista Bay. The next day dawning clear with a light westerly, we headed northeast out the fjord past Culls Harbour and, yes, Saunders Cove. Above us on either side, the lofty ridges were brocaded in scarlet and gold.
The breeze holding, no motor was needed. We could converse without shouting while he steered and I painted. Down to my last watercolour sheet, I flipped it and sketched the boat itself as seen from back aft.
October sunsets come early, so around 4:30 we tacked about and headed home, motoring the last leg in flat calm that mirrored sea and sky. Reaching the jetty at dusk, we had some trouble finding a berth among new arrivals, but at last, got safely moored.
Next day, before leaving, I gave Eric the two-sided watercolour. My gratitude wasn't only for our wonderful sail; it was because I felt finally healed. After all, it was now Day 18 since the latest ream job. True, my waterworks could seize up anytime; but something told me otherwise. When I mentioned this to friend Eric, he cocked one eyebrow in mock solemnity and said, “Well, I am a shaman, you know.” Shaman or no, I never had another blockage.