Tag: Foley catheter

Monday’s Theme Music – A New Day

Ashland, southern Oregon — Monday, June 29, 2026.

Our summer continues with its cool style. 56 degrees now with heavy cloud cover, 76 F is the forecast high.

Removed my Foley catheter this morning. ‘Bout the third thing done after emptying the bag and drinking some water. Well, fourth, as I checked the post-op notes to see review instructions and ensure I wasn’t overlooking anything. Then turned on the shower, stepped in, and made the cut to the balloon port of the tubing.

I could feel a subtle but dramatic change inside. Two gentle tugs and the catheter slipped from of my body. I unclipped the drain tube from its perch on my thigh and got busy getting clean. After unclipping and washing, I then removed the sticky cath-lock that had held the tube to me. Emptied the bag in the toilet and put it in a trash bag.

Sitting is so much more comfortable. As I reflect on my latest medical journal, I’m reminded that my issues have been temporary and mild compared to what so many others endure, and I have the means and access to have my problems addressed. This is how it should be for everyone. So often we make it more difficult than it needs to be.

It’s a new day but it’s another day of Trump. Trump is claiming great attendance for the Great American State Fair. But evidence is stacking against him, things like facts, truths, videos, and photographs. Trump staked a lot on this, as he always does as part of Operation Epic LOOK — SQUIRREL! But like his other efforts, he’s faceplanted again.

The Supreme Court issued some shocking decisions last week which ignored basic tenets established and followed through our 250 years of history, like, if Congress writes a law and that law is legal, the Executive Branch can’t just ignore it. Among these were Mullin vs. Doe regarding Trump’s impulse to remove Temporary Protection Status from Haitians.

Trump is hugely against mail-in or absentee ballots, even though he used them. That’s part of TDS: Trump Double Standards. What’s good for him is not good for you. Trump claims mail-in ballots are used to steal elections because of historic trends against him seen in mail-in ballots. It can’t be that people are legally voting against him. No! Trump’s ego won’t accept that. Therefore, they must be fraud.

Fortunately, the Roberts Court for once agreed with established law and dismissed Trump’s hysterical claims, though it was but 5-4.

Your Trump Quote of the Day:

Trump claimed that he wants to be remembered as a peacemaker and unifier in his inauguration day remarks of 2025. But as his remarks of 2026 show, he does not do anything to be a peacemaker or unifier. Any parent will tell their children, if you want peace, you don’t begin by starting fights and calling other people names. Yet, that’s what Trump does. He has, in essence, failed to learn a lesson taught to children.

Trump keeps complaining that mail-in ballots are unsafe or that they’ve been used to steal elections. That’s been investigated and dismissed. But again, Trump refuses to learn. Trump refuses to acknowledge the truth or facts.

It’s a new day but it’s the same Trump, and will forever be so, a person concerned only about himself.

For this new day, a little reminder from ACO:

I would modify this to clarify, Trump must go. But the rest of her comments hold true: the dark money and radicalization enabled by social media, the bizarre conspiracy theories, general anti-knowledge trend, and the rampant racism need to be addressed.

Today’s theme music is “Feeling Good” by Nina Simone. Many others have covered this song but I prefer this cover that she released in the 1960s.

The song came into my morning mental music stream after I stepped out of the shower after removing the catheter. Feels like a new day, if you know what I’m saying.

Hope your day is a new day in hopeful, peaceful ways.

Having my first coffee in four days. Here we go. Cheers

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Post-Op Update

TL/DR: My bladder cancer surgery went well yesterday. Two tumors were removed. I’m at home in recovery and awaiting biopsy results. We don’t know when they’ll be in.

The longer version…

I’m standing up to type. I have an 18 French Foley catheter in me. It’s inflated with saline solution.

Sitting is hugely uncomfortable. Taking a few drugs for that but whenever I sit, an enormous urgent need to pee wells up and doesn’t end, even as I see urine going down into my collection bag.

All went great yesterday. First, just as we were leaving the house, the surgery called and asked if we could hurry in. If we could, my surgery would be moved up by an hour. Yes! Let’s go.

I head to the Self Check-in Kiosk. A young volunteer rushes over to help me. She’ll type for me. Okay. I read faster than her, so I answer before she finishes asking. We zip through.

My wife and I laugh about this whole process. Weird to have a self-check in that isn’t a self-check in. We’re sent over to another area. This is where my wife gets her information about waiting for me. We go into the waiting area. We’re only there for three minutes before Sophia arrives to take us back.

She confirms my name and birth and gives me my wrist band, asking me to confirm it’s right. I strip down and answer Sophia’s questions. Bowel movements, eating, drinking, then she left. Another nurse came in, Sarah, and asked questions, verified information, checked my BP and pulse, and put inflation leggings on my calves. I wondered to them, when will we get Tricorders? She laughs.

Everyone always looks at my wrist band and ask me to say why I was at the hospital – *TURBT* — Transurethral Resection Bladder Tumor with Gemcitabine bladder instillation — name, and birthday. Did I do the Hibiclens shower the night before? Under Sarah’s guidance, I wash with more wipes, get into my gown and the bed. BP and pulse taken, IV port installed. Then…waited.

My anesthesiologist, huge, grinning guy, came in with his questions and explanations. It’s a three-minute drill.

My surgeon comes in. She looks like a little blue and raspberry Samurai warrior in her surgery garb.

Another nurse came in, Sarah. She was wheeling me to the operating room. During the ride, I mentioned that she was my second Sarah of the day. “Yes, it was a popular name during the eighties,” she says.

I reply, “Yes, Michael was popular when I was born.”

Sarah answers, “I was going to be Michael. They thought I was going to be a boy.”

“Were you named after a specific Sarah?”

“No, my brother picked my name. He said he would only play with me if I was named Sarah.”

We arrived at the surgery and introduced to more team. Slid myself from the bed to the operating table. Ugh. Much less comfortable. “There’s a hole in the table,” Chris says as I move. “Aim your rearend for that hole.”

Alrighty.

Monitors were attached. The anesthesiologist said, “I’m administering your anesthesia now. Deep breaths.”

Three deep breaths later, I was gone.

Awakening, I think, oh my God, I have to pee. I’m scrambling to get out of bed. Except there’s a bar in my way.

A nurse grabbed me on the other side. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Go back to sleep.” She pushed me back down. I remembered, oh, yeah. I’m at the hospital. Man, do I have to pee, though.

I’m in the recovery area. Looking around. “How long am I going to be here?” I ask the nurse. She glances at the clock on my monitor. “Another twenty minutes.” I checked the time so I can track it myself.

Other recoverees are wheeled in. We’re half-surrounded by curtains and equipment but I can see three. I can’t see Grace, but Grace doesn’t hear well, so I hear everything that they’re telling Grace.

I’m in space 18. The guy in 19 is awake. I wave at him. He seems to be looking at me. I wave again. He waves back. I smile, give a thumbs up. He does the same, then lays back and closes his eyes. They wheel him back out ten minutes later.

A new woman is wheeled into 17. Her bare shoulders and upper chest are exposed. I wonder what’s going on with her. A nurse or tech wheels in an x-ray machine and tells her that she needs to get some shots. I expect the curtains to be pulled. They’re not. I look away, trying to give 17 some privacy. She’s wheeled out a little later.

I check the time. Still ten minutes left. Man, recovery time is going so slowly. Classic first-world complaint.

Sarah the second returns to wheel me back to my room. “How long have you been doing this, Sarah?” I ask.

“Three years.”

I nod. She’s a vet.

She maneuvers me back into my original little room SUU 3. Paula, another nurse, comes in to begin my post-op care instructions. She asks if I have anyone with me. “Yes, my wife.” Paula goes out and has someone go find my wife in the waiting area.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressing. Absorbing instructions. My penis is attached to my groin’s right side via a tube stuck on my thigh so the tube and collecting bag can go on my right, because that’s how I get out of bed, on the right side. It’s a bummer because I hang to the left. Sorry if that’s TMI.

I’m given mesh underwear to put on. A pad is thrust in there to absorb bleeding, and there is bleeding. Then I dress.

Paula explains how to use the catheter. I’m familiar with it. The one difference this time is that I was given chemo. Gemcitabine was instilled. It’ll take 48 hours to flush. I’m instructed to flush twice after emptying the bag, and to be very careful because of the gemcitabine.

Four medicines have been prescribed for pain, the urge to pee, and stool softeners.

I later read two tumors removed. Largest was a posterior papillary bladder tumor measuring 2cm x 3cm.

We’re back home by 4 PM. I have a light lunch, then read and nap for several hours.

It often burned when I urinated last night and this morning. That’s faded a lot, thank dog.

Per Paula’s instructions, I showered last night. My penis tip was caked with drying blood, and pubic hairs were trapped in it. Once that was washed off, a lot of discomfort went away.

I’m due to remove the Foley catheter on Monday. Get in the shower, cut a valve off, let the saline drain, jerk the catheter out.

It’s good to have something to look forward to.

9

Foley Memories

I’ve had two Foley catheters installed in me in 2019. The Foley has a long tube that’s snaked up your urethra and into your bladder. A balloon filled with fluid in the bladder keeps it anchored in place. Meanwhile, the catheter extends from the tip of my penis to a clip on my leg that holds the catheter in place. Another tube is connected to the catheter’s exposed end. That tube is attached to a collection bag. The installed Foley let me pee, so the bag is emptied when it fills. In essence, I was just about always peeing when the Foley was in, which amused me. I liked to drink a beer and say, “Look, I’m multi-tasking. I’m drinking and peeing.” I thought it was hilarious. Nobody else did.

As background, I had the first Foley installed because I couldn’t pee. My prostrate gland had enlarged (BHP), blocking my urethra’s access to my bladder. That meant that I couldn’t urinate. The result was a medical emergency.

The second Foley was installed after a cystourethroscopy and direct vision internal uerthrotomy. Essentially, scar tissue from the first emergency was blocking about ninety percent of my urethra. While I was still peeing, because I’m now on Flomax (Tamsulosin), the cysturethroscopy was a proactive measure to prevent another medical emergency. It has a fifty/fifty chance of working. We’ll know more in a few months.

While I was conscious during the first time a Foley was installed, I was unconscious under deep conscious sedation for the second. That was mostly because the cystourethroscopy required them to delicately cut the scar tissue in my urethra until they reach healthy tissue. There would be pain.

The procedure went great. After fasting, reporting in, being prepped, and waiting, I was wheeled into the OR, given the anesthetic, and was gone. I woke up a second later, it seemed like, and it was all over, except the aftermath. That’s where the Foley came in.

Like the first time, I had two bag options for the Foley. One is a bag that attached to my leg. That let me walk around more freely. It’s not a big bag, and had to be emptied several times a day. It also couldn’t be worn at night. The leg bag had to be worn below the knee, which meant I had to loop the tube around the leg but leave it loose enough that it didn’t pop free of the catheter, and had enough give to move.

The larger bag, which hangs separate from my body, must be worn at night. It also must be dragged around. That makes it inconvenient. I kept it in a clean plastic garbage bag and hung it inside a small waste basket. No, we didn’t put any trash in with it. It was only used to hold my urine collection bag.

I did need to discourage the cats from investigating. They were always walking up to the waste basket and trying to look into the bag with a “What the hell is this?” attitude.

I appreciated the smaller bag and the flexibility it allowed, because it freed me up. I admit, though, walking around with felt like someone was using a saw on my pecker’s tip. Every once in a while, too, a little blood could be felt squirting out. I monitored the blood levels through the days, watching as it decreased. The first day’s blood, after the surgery, was about a quarter cup. Ruined my underwear, but I was wearing old underwear which really should’ve already been tossed. By the last day, it was very light spotting.

Opiates had been prescribed for me for pain management after the surgery, but I just shrugged the pain off. It was mostly mild discomfort, at first, like someone was trying to pull something up out of my pecker. Sometimes, there was also light stinging. Not of it was a bad as a bee sting for me, though.

I sometimes fantasized about having a longer tube attached to the big bag. Although the big bag meant that I was tethered in location, the leg bag wasn’t that comfortable. If I was wearing the big bag with a longer tube, say twenty feet, I could leave it hanging in the waste basket in a central location while I walked around. I also speculated about putting wheels on the waste basket or putting it on something wheeled, but it was only five days, and I’m lazy. Walking around with the big bag meant picking it up every time that I moved more than three feet. Oh, the inconvenience.

Each morning and night meant a routine of cleaning off blood, showering, and then switching bags before dressing for day, or getting into my sleep clothes. The first time that I had a Foley, I went into the hospital and a nurse deflated the ball and ripped it out. The second time, I did it myself, per their instructions. Just grab hold and yank, right?

But first ensure you deflate the ball holding it in place, right?

Right.

All went well, and I thank the doctors and nurses who took care of me. All were friendly and professional. Sometimes, the system works as designed. I’m one of the fortunate ones, because it did.

 

 

2

Mixed Bag

I’m free of my lodger, the Foley catheter that’s lived in my urethra and bladder the last thirteen days. Its removal was a relief. Sadly, though, I also had to say good-bye to Sloshy.

Sloshy was the nickname bestowed upon my leg urine collection bag. I wore that bag sixteen hours a day while the Foley was in me. During that time, Sloshy and I grew very attached. I found him to be a warm but shy personality. He rarely intruded on me except to slosh sometimes. He never said anything bad about anyone or anything, and never leaked, dribbled, or squirted. I don’t know if you can give a urine collection bag any greater praise than that.

I felt Sloshy’s sloshing was his way of chuckling. He had a great sense of humor and was often amused by how I drained him or swapped him with the night bag. I think it says a lot about him that the cats were interested in him, attempting to smell him and rub against him. Sloshy was for getting closer to them, but I kept them away. Of a voracious curiosity, he wanted to see more of the world than just the inside of my garments. I tried accommodating his dream by discreetly raising my pant leg when I was out in public so that he may have a look around.

He knew his time had come. Before we separated today, I spent a little private time with him, and then introduced him to the staff that were there to take him away. All agreed that he was the finest urine collection bag that they’d ever met, and also the first to have a name.

My most fervent hope for anyone else that ever has a bag on their leg is that it’s as fine a bag as Sloshy. A person could do worse.

***

Editing Note: I really did name my bag Sloshy and told the medical staff about it. They went along with it, making an entry in my records that my bag was named Sloshy. And, they did agree, they’d never heard a bag be given a name before. Well, there always needs to be first, right? I’m just sorry that I never took a selfie with Sloshy to share.

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