This is the sound of relief.
Not the dramatic sigh you see in movies, but the quiet, unmistakable rush of water hitting porcelain without resistance. No tug from tubing, no bag strapped to my leg, no midnight panic about kinks or leaks. Just freedom. After eighteen long days tethered to a catheter—eighteen days that began on December 14th with a sudden, brutal urinary blockage—I finally peed on my own again.
And yes, it was glorious.
The backstory is simple and unglamorous: a perfect storm of prostate issues, inflammation, and bad luck landed me in the ER just before Christmas. Retention so complete I couldn’t pass a drop. Foley catheter in, world shrunk to the radius of that plastic lifeline. Eighteen days of showers with a bag taped to my thigh, of learning to sleep without rolling onto the tube, of explaining to houseguests why I kept disappearing to “check something” every couple of hours.
Then came yesterday morning: the cystoscopy. Scope up, look around, biopsy a suspicious spot, and—best news possible—no stent needed afterward. The urologist pulled the catheter, handed me a cup, and said, “Go try.” I walked to the bathroom like a man who’d forgotten how legs worked without extra hardware. And it worked.
First a trickle, then a proper stream. No pain, no hesitation. I stood there longer than necessary, just listening to that sound.
Relief, pure and uncomplicated.
Of course, medicine being medicine, there’s always a punchline. They sent me home with Pyridium — phenazopyridine — to calm the post-procedure irritation. If you’ve never taken it, imagine your urine suddenly deciding to cosplay as Tropicana orange juice. The first post-catheter pee wasn’t just relieving; it was neon. I stared into the toilet and laughed out loud, half from joy, half from the sheer absurdity. My body was free, but now it was putting on a light show.
Eighteen days of captivity taught me a few things we already know in our bones:
Freedom is measured in small, bodily victories.
Modern medicine is miraculous and humiliating in equal measure.
Never take an unobstructed urethra for granted. Ever.
So here’s to the sound of relief: the hiss of air when the catheter balloon deflates, the splash that follows, and even the ridiculous orange glow that reminds you you’re alive and healing. I’m back among the untethered. And if you ever find yourself on the other side of that tube, know this: the day it comes out, you’ll hear the sweetest sound in the world.
And now I have something to laugh about for the first time in 18 days.
PS Sorry I accidentally paywalled this.
