Why are men so . . . mardy&;#063;

WHY ARE MEN SO MARDY?
by
Jan Harrison-Brown

I'm not proud to admit that I have had a camera or instrument inserted
into every orifice of my body.
During checkups and pregnancies, I've tried to look relaxed while my
lower garments where removed. Legs splayed ungainly in stirrups. Not to
mention my consultant inviting with open invitation, umpteen medical
students to come and take a look at whatever, he found so
fascinating.

So as you can see like many other ladies, my dignity went out of the
window many years ago; and then, more fool me, I was daft enough to
repeat the process, years later!

So, Why are men so . . . mardy?

This particular evening in question and not being of a family fortunate
enough to own three bathrooms and umpteen toilets. A general house rule
is, the bathroom is classed as a communal meeting place. Especially...
when I'm treating myself to a facemask and a soak in the tub.
There I was, lying in my luxurious bed of Marks&;Spencers new
fragrance bubble bath. Listening to a bit of Rod Stewart, as one does.
When hubby comes in, undoes his flies. Reveals all and points Percy at
the porcelain.

Well! I casually sit up and from the angle I'm looking at, ask, "Should
it look like that? It does look a funny color."
That was the start of it. . . Me and my big mouth!
For a few days no more was said. But: I had noticed a certain shyness
about him. Almost introverted. His ardor, somewhat lacking, (Which was
unusual). So after a more delicate conversation, an appointment was
made with the doctor. Five o clock, a week on Tuesday.
"Can't you fit me in any sooner? The national health service is going
to the dogs!" he ranted. "I could be dead by then." he argued! (I'm not
that lucky. I thought)
I smile sweetly at the receptionist, hoping she'd take pity on me.
After all it was me
who was really suffering. But to no avail.
At last, appointment day arrived. I waited patiently, knowing now, how
an expectant father really feels. I read almost every back issue of
hunting and hound before he emerged.
Traveling home he explained in graphic detail how he'd had a full
investigation of his bits and pieces and been asked to cough and
produce a sample. Drugs were prescribed.
Over breakfast the following morning he read out the instructions from
the packet, followed by a contingency plan should he happen to forget
to take a pill.
"Darling, you have a water infection, that's all!" I said. Flicking the
news paper and peering over my glasses.
That evening he was late from work. He'd called into the local Tesco
Superstore and purchased anything and everything that said anti -
bacterial, even down to the mouth wash... Though, I wasn't sure how
that would help.
His obsession went on for three more whole weeks.
Then one morning... I was flossing as usual, when a squeal came from
the other side of the bathroom.
"Oh my God...I'm peeing blood."
We both peered down, deep into the bowl to confirm his observation.
Yep! It sure looked like blood to me.
Thirty-two cold flannels later; he lay on the bed holding our
18-year-old daughters hand.
"I really do love you, honey," he said in a breath so quiet you'd have
thought it was his last. " That long haired, tattooed freak you brought
home last week I didn't really mind."
A tear rolled down her face. So touching, as she looked at me as if to
say, "Is daddy really going to die? Is he really going to pop his clogs
any minute and do I get his car?"
"Your hair is so . . . pretty, that unique shade of purple... and. . .
" (He coughed, I think for effect mainly, as he'd never coughed
before.) "If you really want to have body piercing... you know, to
express the real you... I give my blessing." Sudenly he sat up half way
and took a deep breath. . . She tenced. . . He caught hold of her in
his arms. To give her one last hug. "I draw the line at the naked man
tattoo, ok."
"OK Dad." She said, giving him a loving squeeze, before he dropped back
on to the bed. . .

His sad blue eyes then looked across to m me, "My will is up to date
love, and the insurance policies are in the draw, where you can find
them."
"Thank-you darling... for being so...considerate." I finally
said.

Two weeks later, and another visit to the surgery. He came out holding
my hand in a daze.
"Now, now," I said, "there's nothing to worry about. The doctor's
referred you to a urinary specialist. Something and nothing," I
comforted... "Part of your anatomy has changed shape and is swollen...
Fluid, Darling that's all!"
Sleepless nights followed. Unfortunately when he can't sleep, neither
can the rest of the household.
"My pee's gone a funny colour!" he said.
"Hmm, that's nice, sweetheart," I mumbled pulling the duvet up over my
ears and rolling over.
He visited the library and self diagnosed himself with everything from
leprosy to the plague. (They should never allow such books on loan,
especially, without the consent of a wife being present.)
His ailment was increasing in size. True, I was even a little
perplexed.
The next three months passed slowly, at last the hospital date arrived
and I just
knew this would be an excruitiationly long day. So - being, Mrs.
practical, packed a couple of my favorite mags and a large bag of mint
imperials.
Although he went pasty at the thought of being kept in. He asked, "Will
I need an over night bag?"
"This is the National Health Service, Dear," I explained. "Unless it's
serious you won't be rushed down to theatre like in E.R."

Like walking along the endless corridors of a condemned man. He hung
his head low awaiting sentence.

The nurse called his name. His colour, now a deathly grey, he passed
his jacket to me and I found it hard to release his hand. For the first
time I was scared.
"I love you," I whispered... and blew him a kiss before he turned to
go.
Occasionally, I caught the odd glimpse of his white gown. Standard
N.H.S. style, you know the one. Split up the back. However, I did feel
the Adidas trainers clashed somewhat. He proceeded from Blood pressure,
to X ray then over to be weighed. Carrying his hospital issue shopping
basket, with his clothes neatly folded in side.

I'd read my magazines from cover to cover and eaten two thirds of the
sweets when eventually, I was called to his cubical.

The Consultant wanted to talk to the both of us. For a split second my
heart missed a beat. I felt sorry that I'd wronged my loving, caring
husband. So desperately guilty for my lack of compassion.
Maybe, I was wrong... Maybe, it was more than . . . I thought. Maybe .
. .Oh God forbid . . . I didn't even want to think of the other maybes
. . .
He was sitting up on the trolley; his size eleven's overhanging the
edge. He looked so vulnerable as he lay naked with only a blanket
covering his meat and two veg.
Panic filled his eyes, "They want to operate." He was fighting back the
tears. Immediately, I was at his side and clutched his hand. My other
arm, laced around his shoulders. I looked across to the consultant. For
clarification and more information. I could feel my eyes burning into
his mind. . . tell me please is he going to be ok?
"I want to admit him." Oh my god! I thought. "As a day case," the
consultant said. Not even looking up, he continued to scribble notes in
his file. Finally he took off his spectacles and added, smiling like
Hannibal Lector. "Just to drain the fluid. See the nurse on your way
out, will you."
He shook both of our hands.

I was in shock . . .

Was that it? . . I didn't know whether to laugh: cry or smack my
husband or the consultant in the mouth.

Then a thought crossed my mind... I had to be brave. Admission was a
Friday in six weeks time. Could I really stand it any longer?
"Of course you can," said the little voice in my head. "Then it will
all be over."
"But six weeks, six whole weeks." Now my mind was split into two, they
were holding their own conversation.
"The family can revert back to normal."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Don't be silly, of course it will." I hear myself whisper.
"But how do you know?"
"I just know, I just know."
"Thank you Lord," I heard myself saying. "Thank you."

The big day arrived. I had this awful sick feeling in the pit of my
stomach. It growled and rolled fiercely. Truth is, I had difficulty in
holding back the tears as I waved goodbye from the doors of the
admittance ward. Leaving him in the capable hands of the nursing
staff.

The phone never stopped - all day. His Mum. His Sister, a couple of
close friends, even the neighbors, all concerned for his well
being...
"Yes he's fine," I say for the umpteenth time. "Apart from waking to
check if his manhood was still there, everything went to plan." A
script I knew off by heart.
"If you need anything just let us know," came the callers hollow offer
of help.
"We'll be OK, but thank-you anyway," I said cheerily. The cheesy grin,
stuck to my front teeth. "Love to chat - must go - have to fetch him -
Bye," Still trying to be as polite as I could as I lowered the
receiver.

When I arrived he was perched on the side of the bed, sipping
tea.

The sister went through the tablets, dressings and letter for the G.P.
bit, before he was finally discharged.
We said thank-you and goodbye. I gave the staff a box of biscuits and
popped ?20 into the charity box on the desk. A gesture for putting up
with him -really. Then we walked down the same corridor as before. This
time, he moved differently, rather strangely in fact, doctors and
nurses going both ways, weaving in-between me and a slow walking, open
legged, feeling very sorry for himself, man. (Similar to a constipated
orangutan.)

His recovery was slow. (I some how expected it would be!) And finally,
after the post pop examination our family did revert back to
normality.

Of course he had to over come his embarrassment and one or two crude
jokes. To which his tempo changed!

"A piece of cake." I overheard him telling a friend - "Nothing to it
mate, all those nurses swooning over me." Which brought about several
titters from around the room.
However, I found this all rather amusing! As I pass him yet another
cushion from the freezer and I distinctly remember, they were all male
nurses on that ward&;#8230; Well... except for the one... and she
reminded me of a shot putt player, big and muscular, with a
mustache.

Mind you... he hasn't gone so far as to ask...
"Does any one wants to see my scar.?"