I planned my entire day around bathrooms.
I'll never forget the first morning I woke up in wet sheets, three months after my radical prostatectomy.
The surgery had gone "perfectly." That's what they told me. The cancer was caught early, the margins were clean, and within six weeks I was supposed to be "back to normal."
But I wasn't.
I was wearing through four pads a day. I knew the location of every public restroom within a ten-mile radius of my house. I'd cancelled a fishing trip with my son. I'd stopped going to my Tuesday morning coffee group. And I'd quietly told my wife that I didn't want to travel anymore — not until "this passed."
When I asked my doctor, he said the same thing he'd said at every follow-up: "It's normal. Give it time. Try Kegels."
So that's what I did. I squeezed when I was driving. I squeezed at red lights. I squeezed during television commercials. For four months.
And nothing changed.