Wow, what a night's sleep! Twenty three hours without getting up to pee once. That has to be some kind of record. Whatever Dr. Morell gave for my overactive bladder condition really worked, because now I can suck down a keg and hold it for days. I know Bessie is thrilled with the fewer diaper changes, too, so for once everyone is happy.
You have no idea what hell I went through every few hours at night, waking up as if I were holding back Hoover Dam. A couple of times, Bessie wasn't able to help me and we ended up sailing down the old Yellow River, if you get my drift.
Hey, these things happen as we get older, but confidentially, I've been a leaker all my life. It's not just me, either. Years ago, Bill was the one hopping down the hallway every five minutes to take a leak. Being at home was one thing, but being on the road with him was ridiculous. The motorcade could be in the middle of the New Jersey Turnpike and all of a sudden, he'd make everyone pull over just so he could pee. Motorcycle cops and the Secret Service goons would have to keep watch while he tiptoed over to the bushes. Then we all had to wait a half hour for him just to get the stream started, piddle out a few drops, and then hop back in the limo. It was very inconvenient for all concerned.
Finally, he went to a doctor who stuck his finger up Bill's pooter and discovered that Bill's prostate gland was about as big as his fist. Not good. Apparently, the nasty little gland is supposed to be the size of a raisin, or a hazelnut
I didn't go with Bill to the doctor, because quite frankly, I find those man issues disgusting and gross. So I just took Bill at his word when he told me the doctor prescribed massive doses of Proscar and physical therapy, which Bill explained involves some kind of interaction with large-breasted Hooters girls. That was back in the nineties, but Bill has regularly maintained that regimen ever since. He's always been a stick-to-it kind of guy.
Hey, whatever keeps him busy is just fine with me. I've got my own issues.