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The Second Pitcher
THE SECOND PITCHER
By Francine
Preface: This is based on a quite real event, related to the
author by one of the participants. The names are fictional, however. It
is with erotic elements, but also one of romance and compassion.
Paul McCullom sat in the examining room, nervously awaiting the arrival
of his physician. Paul, at sixty one, knew he had a prostate problem, but
he hoped it had no complications. Yet, he had held suspicions, and now,
after an earlier examination, he awaited the further examination and
diagnosis of his physician.
After a few minutes, Dr. Pedersen entered the room and greeted Paul
warmly.
“Paul, I have the results of your exam and the tests we ran. You know,
of course, that as we get we do get disorders of the prostate;
and you did the right thing by coming in when you did. “
“That sounds ominous”, Paul responded, feeling the tension.
“Not as ominous as it could be, Paul. There’s good news and bad news.
The bad news is, you tested positive for cancer cells. I know that’s going
to upset you, but, fortunately, you came here early. The good news is that
it is quite treatable, and I am not even going to recommend surgery. With
radiotherapy, these days the chances of complete remission are quite good.
The cancer is in a very early stage, and if we start the treatments right
away, your chances for complete recovery are excellent.”
Paul was stunned. It sounded at first like a death sentence to him. It
took a while for the doctor’s recommendation and optimistic view to take
hold. He listened as Dr. Pedersen explained the treatment, not really
hearing, as his mind contemplated the awful truth he had feared to face.
He did hear the doctor’s concluding words. “I am going to arrange your
treatment at the clinic nearby that does this kind of work. My
receptionist will make the arrangements for you, and give you a sheet of
instructions so you will know what to do. I hope we can get you started
within a week. As I told you, the treatments will likely be five days a
week for about six weeks. But the prospects are very good. I ‘m glad you
came when you did, Paul.”
The doctor extended his hand in greeting. Paul sat, stunned and taking
it, for a few moments before gathering himself together enough to go back
to the receptionist. In a bit of a daze, he went to her, then waited as
she made telephone calls and completed paperwork. Smiling, she told him
what she had been able to arrange, after which he dragged himself to the
door and out to his car.
When he got home, he walked into the house and flopped in a chair. His
wife, Martha, just a bit younger than Paul, came in, without speaking, her
face asking the obvious question.
“Martha”, he began, “I hardly know what to say.”
“Is it what you expected?” Martha asked.
“Exactly. What I feared. But there’s hope - Dr. Pedersen arranged for
me to start radiotherapy next week. Six weeks of it, almost every day.”
He made a sour face and shivered.
“But Paul, radiation treatment is fairly common these days. We’ve known
many who have been through it. Did he make a prognosis?”
“Yes. Said my chances of recovery were excellent. Ooooh! Radiation
treatment! I hate to even think of it. They gave me a set of instructions
- makes it sound the treatment is as bad as the disease!”
“Be glad you can get it. You’ll get through it, lots of people do!
We’ll manage. The important thing is that you caught it in time and its
treatable!”
In a bit of disgust, Paul handed Martha the printed set of instructions
that he had been given.
“See what I have to go through!” His voice reflected his distaste.
Martha took the papers and read them thoroughly. She noted the therapy
was to start the following Monday, and Paul had been booked for an early
morning appointment, 8 A.M., every week day, for six weeks.
They talked little about it, for Paul found the subject depressing and
irritating. Martha studied the preparation rules carefully, and on Sunday
reviewed them briefly with Paul.
“Now, Paul, I’ll try to help you with this. They gave you an early
appointment so you can go into your office afterward - you probably won’t
in much later than usual. But from reading the procedure for preparation,
it will take a while. We’ll need to start around six.”
“Well, you know what I have to go through. Jeez, I hate to even think
of it. Yeah, I can probably get my office in the morning, but I may be
spending my time in the bathroom when I get there. If only there was
another way--- . Anyway, I think you’ll need to drive me to the treatment.
I’d be afraid to drive after the preparation they call for!”
Martha laughed. “Paul, do you remember when we were first married. You
teased me sometimes by not letting me go to the bathroom when I really
needed to. I went along with it, and even learned to enjoy your games.
This is just a little more intense! You can do it!”
“Martha, that was for fun. There’s no fun in this!”
“Well, maybe not for you, but--”
“Are you saying you’ll be enjoying it? Well, I hope somebody does. I
sure won’t!”
Martha reviewed the rules. “It’s not really all that bad. They tell
you that you must arrive at eight o’clock but you are to come in with a
very full bladder. Apparently that’s needed to provide the push on your
prostate to position it for the radiation. All you have to do, it says, is
drink about 40 ounces of water between six and six thirty, and not urinate
after six thirty until the treatment is over. Now, you should be able to
do that!”
“Would you want to?”
“A lot of women have to go through things like that when they’re
pregnant, if they want ultrasound exams of their babies. It’s a lot harder
when you have a baby sitting on your bladder!”
Paul shook his head. “After it’s over, it’ll take me hours to out
all that water. If anyone else hears about it, they’ll just laugh at me!”
“I won’t, Paul. And, anyway, it’s not a public event. I’ll drive you,
and, if you want, bring you back home so you can let out the water here
until you’re comfortable with going in. Walt’s been your partner a long
time, he’ll understand if you get in late!”
Paul was buying none of this. He dreaded the whole process, even the
discussion of it.
Monday morning, Martha was up early. Paul wandered into the kitchen,
fresh from bed, just at six. Martha was ready for him. On the table was a
large pitcher of water, filled with exactly forty ounces.
“All read for you, Paul. You just need to get it in you!” she
admonished him cheerily.
A bit grumpily, Paul poured a glass from the pitcher and gulped it down.
He refilled it, then more slowly drank the second. “I’ll finish it later”,
he said to Martha, as he headed off to the bathroom.
By the time he was back, shaved and partly dressed, it was nearly six
thirty. Martha greeted him, his attention to the time. “Need to
finish that pitcher right now. I‘ve got breakfast about ready, so you‘ll
have something in your stomach besides water. But, now notice, you don’t
get another bathroom break until after your treatment!”
He nodded a reluctant assent. By the time he finished the water it was
already a bit past six thirty. No more bathroom relief, he thought.
Nonetheless, he sipped on a cup of coffee and munched a bit of toast.
It was seven by the time he finished his meager breakfast.
“Anything else you’d like?” Martha asked him. “We’ll need to get ready
to go soon.”
“Yeah. But I can’t have it. I need to pee.”
Martha smiled at him. “I understand. It will get worse, too. Here,
let me rub where it hurts!”. Playfully, she put her hand on his abdomen
and massaged it gently. “Remember?” she asked. He nodded.
Martha left to dress herself. When she came back, Paul was walking
about nervously. “I realize it’s stressful, but it will be over soon!”
Martha encouraged him.
“I really need to pee, now. Oh, all that water!”
Martha could only smile.
They left a few minutes later, Martha driving. Paul was fidgeting and
squirming. “Oh, this is awful!” he observed as they pulled away from the
house.
“Wish I could help”, was all Martha could say. Paul began to grit his
teeth and moan a bit.
“Don’t see how I can wait!” he complained. As they stopped at an
intersection, he took her hand and placed it on his abdomen, admonishing
her, “Can you feel that? I’m hard as a rock down there, and I may have
hold it another hour!”
They made it to the clinic, where Martha parked and they went into the
entrance. Paul, in obvious distress, walked up to the receptionist.
“Paul McCullom”, he identified himself. “I was supposed to come at
eight.”
The woman receptionist viewed her papers.
“Yes, Mr. McCullom”, she replied. “For radiotherapy. Let’s see, Dr.
Pedersen arranged this. Now, you’re supposed to come in with a full
bladder. Is your bladder full, or do we need to hydrate you a bit?”
“Full it is”, Paul replied, softly.
“You need to have it very full for this. Do you think you are ready?”
Paul, embarrassed at discussing the state of his bladder with a
woman, answered simply, “I’m ready. Let’s not wait if we don’t have to!”
“I understand. I realize it can be quite uncomfortable.”
She disappeared for a moment, then returned. “All right, Mr. McCullom,
you can go right in.” She indicated a door, through which he walked
nervously.
A female technician greeted him inside.
“Mr. McCullom?” she inquired.
“Yes, indeed.”
“Please step over there, please. You will need to disrobe for the
treatment. You can do that now. You need, as you were told, a very full
bladder. I’ll need to check it as soon as you’re undressed. Let me know
when you’re ready.”
She busied herself with some preparations. Paul, standing partly behind
a small screen, removed his clothing in haste. Then, naked, he called from
behind the screen.
“Do you to check me, now? Do I get a gown or something?”
The woman turned to him. “I think we can just do you as you are. The
significant parts have to be uncovered for the treatment, so, if you don’t
mind…”
Paul came out from behind the screen.
“Just stand there, and I’ll check you!” she instructed.
She placed a gloved hand on his pelvic area, and pressed gently.
“You followed your instructions well. You’re quite full. I expect it’s
very uncomfortable for you, so we will try to get this over as quickly as
possible.”
He was instructed to lie on a table, as the technician positioned a
large machine over his lower body. It was cool, and he noted he was
getting a bit of an erection.
The woman noticed. “Don’t worry about that, I’ve seen it all. Now,
just try to relax while we get things adjusted.”
For a few minutes he lay there, trying to keep still, despite his badly
distended and now painful bladder. It was agony to keep from moving. The
time passed very slowly, but finally it was over.
“Now, that didn’t a bit!” she said, cheerily, when it was over.
“The radiation didn’t, but--”
She cut him off. “There’s a over there. I’m sure you’d like to
use it You don’t even have to dress first. I understand how it feels.” She
nodded towards a side door.
He bolted for the toilet. He tried to release his urine. The pressure
was awful, and it seemed another short eternity before his stream began.
Gradually it started, became stronger, and projected forcefully. The
stream continued for a time before he felt signs of blessed relief.
Eventually the discomfort diminished. Finally, his bladder empty, he
returned to the treatment room.
The woman technician glanced at him. “Feel better?” she asked.
“Oh, yes!” he replied, with just a trace of a smile.
“It’s over, now. You can get dressed and we’ll see you tomorrow!”
“OK”, he responded, disappearing behind the screen to dress.
In the lobby, Martha awaited him. “How did it go?” she asked.
“Agony. Pure agony. Until just a few minutes ago.”
“When you could pee?” she asked.
“You bet. Martha, this is awful. I don’t see how I can go through this
for six weeks!”
“I don’t want you not going through it. You need to get the treatment
completed!”
They went out to the car, to drive home. Half way there, Paul announced
he needed a bathroom break again. Martha smiled at him, telling him home
was just a few minutes away.
That evening, Paul considered the ordeal of the morning.
“One down, about twenty nine to go. I hope I can last that long. This
is going to be the most miserable time of my life. You going to up to
driving me? I don’t think I could drive myself, the way I felt holding all
that water. Just to think, I have to do it all over again tomorrow!”
Martha listened to his bitter review of the day. She understood his
irritation over the distress he was being put through, yet somehow she
wished he could view it in a more positive light.
Tuesday morning, they were up again early. As Paul came down to the
kitchen, his pitcher of water, all measured out, was ready. Martha stood
by, offering encouragement, as he began to drink it. His view of the
situation was even more glum than the day before.
“Yesterday”, he observed, “I though I knew how bad it would be. Today I
know. Aren’t you glad you don’t have to go through this?”
The remainder of the procedure followed the pattern. In the car, Paul
felt the pain of his expanding bladder and tried to squirm into some degree
of comfort, all the while emphasizing his discomfort to Martha.
Not until he came out of the clinic did his demeanor improve, and then
only slightly.
Martha struggled for someway to help Paul through the painful
preparation process he had to undergo daily. She understood his feelings,
but his constant stream of complaints she found unsettling.
Somehow they got through the first week, and for two days on the weekend
he could put the treatments out of his mind. Monday, however, it was back
to the routine.
“You might think”, he observed, “that after a week of stretching it
every morning, my bladder would get accustomed to this - but, really, it
hurts as much today as it did the first time. Oh, I’ll be glad to get this
behind me - if I ever do!”
The second week was really no easier for Paul than the first. Martha,
however, was showing the strain. She searched for some way to make him
more accepting of the situation. Finally, she had an idea.
There came the third week of his treatments. Paul, as unhappy as ever
with the prospects, came down at six for the process to begin one more
time. Grumpily, he sat down and reached for the pitcher of water, filled
with its requisite forty ounces.
Surprise.
There were two pitchers on the table. Both were filled to the same
amount. Two glasses sat beside them.
“What’s this?” exclaimed Paul in a bit of amazement.
“There are two pitchers today”, Martha answered gently. “Don’t worry
yourself about it, Paul. One is for me.”
He stared at her in dibelief.
“For you? Why in blazes do you need it? Are you getting a treatment
too?”
“No”, she answered quietly. “I’m just sharing what you have to do.”
For a moment Paul was at a loss for words. He stared at her. Then,
shaking his head, he replied, more gently, “What are you doing this for?
Do you think this is going to do you some good? You don’t need the
treatment - why go through the preparation?”
“Just because I want to”, was the quiet answer. “Now, we need to get
ready.”
Paul noticed, for the first time, that his was already dressed for
their drive. She poured herself the water in the second pitcher, and began
to drink it as she went about their breakfast chores and the clean up.
“Go ahead up and get ready, Paul. I don’t need to - I’ll be at the door
when you’re ready to leave.”
By the time they were on their way, Paul was giving little thought to
that second pitcher. . An hour and a half after consuming all that water,
his bladder was badly distended, as usual, and it was indeed sending pain
signals to his brain. His distress was upon him, and he treated Martha to
a running description of it as they drove to the clinic
When they arrived, as usual Paul went to the receptionist to check in.
He paid little heed to Martha, who, rather than take a chair as she usually
did, stood near the outer door. Had Paul looked, he might have noticed her
legs squeezed rather tightly together as she stood there.
Paul went in for his treatment, as he had been doing for two weeks, now.
He knew the routine.
After forty minutes or so, the procedure was complete, and returned to
the lobby to rejoin his waiting wife.
She was not there.
He turned to the receptionist. “Where is my wife? Did she go
somewhere?” he asked.
“Is your feeling all right, Mr. McCullom?” the receptionist asked
in reply.
“As far as I know. Why did you ask? And where is she?”
“She just acted a bit strangely. She never sat in a chair, as she
usually does. She just kept pacing the floor like an expectant father.
Then she asked me if I could tell her as soon as your treatment was
finished, even before you came out. She seemed awfully anxious to know. I
checked the technician, and she told me as soon as she let you off the
table. When I told your wife, she immediately wet into the ladies room,
and she hasn’t come out since. Is she sick?”
Paul’s mind suddenly began to click. “No, I don’t think so”, he
replied, “But she may be catching something from me!”
Shortly after, Martha emerged, and they drove home. Neither mentioned
the episode for the rest of the day. Paul, however, was strangely
reluctant to comment on his experience that day.
Tuesday morning, there were again two pitchers on the table. Paul
looked at them, but asked nothing. He watched his fill her stomach
with forty ounces of water, as he was doing the same himself. Somehow he
felt less like complaining. Instead he looked at his wife, downing the
last of her water.
“Martha, you know it’s a bit silly for you to do this. It’s not doing
you any good. You don’t have to.”
“I know”, Martha replied. “But I want to.”
“Why on earth do you want to?” he asked her, a bit more infuriated.
“Paul, I can’t make it any easier for you to go through this”, she
answered, then added, a bit hesitatingly, “but I can sure enough share it!”
He just shook his head, watching his headstrong wife.
It was almost two hours later as they pulled up to the clinic. Just
before they reached the parking area, Martha stopped at a crosswalk. As
she did, she reached over and took Paul’s hand. She placed it on the front
of her dress, a bit below her belt. Holding her hand over his, she
pressed. Paul suddenly felt the swollen hardness of Martha’s full bladder.
She added no statement, just parked the car, as usual, and followed Paul to
the receptionist.
Again, Martha made no comment to Paul. To the receptionist, she said,
“I need to walk around a bit. I’d appreciate it again if you would tell me
as soon as he’s off the table.”
The receptionist, a bit baffled, watched Martha exit the lobby and
nervously began to pace outside.
This time, Paul took a bit longer getting dressed. When he came out,
Martha was just emerging from the ladies room. Nothing was said to the
receptionist by either of them.
Paul somehow felt a bit reluctant to air his usual complaints. For some
reason, it just seemed inappropriate. He did not again mention his
treatments that day.
The routine continued through Friday. Friday morning, as Paul went in
for his treatment, the receptionist spoke to Martha.
“Are you sure you’re OK? You’re not acting at all like you did last
week - every day you seem so nervous- you’re not ill, are you?”
“No, I’m not ill. My husband seems a lot better, though.”
“His attitude seems improved. But I really don’t understand the change
in you. I don’t understand why you want to know the exact moment his
treatment is finished!”
Martha stood, fidgeting a bit. Then she blurted it out.
“It’s because my bladder is absolutely bursting. I can hardly hold it,
but I know he has to until the treatment is over. I’m determined to hold
myself as long as he has to, but I need to get relief just as soon as I
know he can!”
The receptionist widened her eyes. “Do you mean you’re coming in with a
very full bladder, just as he has to, and you’re doing it just to keep him
company?”
Martha nodded, her legs squeezed tightly.
“I wasn’t sure I could do it, but now know I can. You’ve heard that
misery loves company? Sometimes love requires misery!”
She headed for the door, nursing her distended bladder to hold its load
for a few more minutes.
END