So what the hell happened? My guess, anyone’s guess, everyone’s guess is that the original cystoscopy on 12/17 put a hole in the urethra, which leaked urine into the scrotum, which turned into an infection, which turned into the gangrene that was apparently trying to eat its way out of me. And so I ended up passing urine through a fistula, which eventually came out through the skin of my scrotum. Yum.
Five days in the hospital hooked to intravenous antibiotics of various sorts, and they finally sent me home with my lovely wife. But not before Katherine learned how to dress the wound. My take was that Katherine wasn’t feeling entirely comfortable with it, but we would figure it out. Plus, there would be a nurse coming to the house, for a bit, at least.
I guess hospitals don’t require you to be in a wheelchair going out. It used to be, no matter how mobile you might be, you got rolled out the door. But we were hanging out on the sixth floor, wondering when they were going to give us the final “tally ho!”. Instead, we just said to each other, “hurry, before they change their minds” and down the elevator we went. It was then that we discovered that someone forgot my shoes.
Once home, it most definitely was not smooth sailing from there. Katherine had quite a bit of frustration with how to pack the wound, the materials that we had, whether we were getting more, and getting an appointment with the wound clinic on top of all that. But thanks to Terry at the Evergreen Wound Clinic, we snuck our way in with an appointment, and they stocked us up with supplies.
As a side note, the infectious disease doctor who visited in the hospital, and is the clinician at the wound clinic, has the last name of Lopez de Castillia. I mentioned to Katherine that if that were my name, I would hire a mariachi band to follow me around for when I’m introduced. “My name? It is Dr. Lopez de Castilla. <cue mariachi guitar>”