By Ken Carpenter
Age can be a funny thing, if it doesn’t drive
you nuts. Take the bladder, for instance. In my
case, please, take it and replace it with a
football or something. It has shrunk to the size
of a toad’s eyeball.
Such was not always the case.
When you’re a little kid, it is a good thing
your bladder is oversized, because it is really
easy to get sidetracked until somebody else
points out that you are squirming like a worm on
a hot griddle.
Suddenly, “Oh yeah!” and you head for the
nearest bush, tree or whatever to take care of
business. If there are any other squirmers
around, and no grown-ups to put a halt to it,
you soon have a line of boys counting down to
“Go!”
If you happen to be the one that reaches the
target of the moment, say that dandelion out
there about ten feet, you are king for a day.
Not that you earned anything, except maybe a
temporary and undignified nickname of some sort,
but you won something. Small victories should
always be relished like a rare treasure, even if
it is only King Urinator for a day.
Not that it has much to do with it, but many
groups of young boys have names for their
willies, or at least they did in the good old
days. Ours had Mortimer, Bosephus, Sid and
several others that don’t instantly come to
mind.
Aren’t you privileged to be the recipient of
such information?
Anyway, as is my way, I decided to do a little
research on shrinking bladders. I was surprised
to find conflicting reports on the shrinkage of
aging bladders. One 2005 University of
Pittsburgh study had the audacity to suggest
that “the idea that your bladder shrinks as you
get older is nothing more than an old wives
tale.”
No doubt the study was carried out by
20-somethings who can drink two quarts of water,
a 20-ounce Coke and a liter of OJ and walk
around a mall for two hours before it crosses
their mind that maybe a short trip to the
restroom would be in order before the drive
home. My bladder aches just to think of it.
Be back in a minute.
They studied 95 women between the ages of 22 and
90, and in their wisdom decided that bladder
capacity rarely changes. Instead, they decided,
many women are just cursed with an overactive
bladder. In fact, there are apparently over 17
million Americans with overactive bladders.
I take exception to a bladder study that does
not include any men. What? Are they afraid we
will all tell them the name of our willy and
want to engage them in a peeing contest?
Well, we might, I admit, and it sure would liven
things up
I am here to tell you right now that my bladder
no longer holds what it used to. I only thought
I knew how to squirm when I was a kid.
A blue whale’s bladder holds five and a half
gallons. Some creatures have all the luck. If I
was around all that water all the time I’d never
do anything but urinate.
I found one site that claims that bladder
capacity in a 30-year old is two cups and in a
70-year old about one cup. It seems more like it
should be four cups in the youngster and a
half-cup in the codger, but at least someone
agrees with me.
I am guaranteed to make a run for the nearest
facilities when I get around a running garden
hose. A torturous home supply store I went in
last year had a gurgling fountain set up in the
yard section, and I swear there was almost an
exodus of aging witnesses to it ambling toward
the restrooms.
While on a drive last week I was suddenly hit
with a “too much coffee” twinge that quickly
turned painful. I hit the gas and writhed my way
down the road until I reached a convenience
store. Five more minutes and I would have pulled
off the road and hit the brush.
As I quickly walked in, trying not to look
desperate, I noticed the fellow in front of me
walking in a tight-cheeked manner that looked
familiar. He was obviously in distress, and in a
panicky voice he asked the first man he reached
where the restroom was.
Steered in the right direction, he picked up the
pace, and I thought I heard a mumbled, “Please
Lord” pass his lips as I was forced to trail in
his footsteps. Luckily I knew the facilities
well, and was pleased there were enough urinals
and stalls to handle four customers.
I was not especially pleased to be shadowing a
man who appeared to be suffering some kind of
intestinal distress, though.
I walked in behind him and he wasted no time
hitting a stall door on the run, slamming it
behind him and immediately releasing a string of
cussword prayers because his suspenders were
apparently not co-operating. The fear in his
voice was very clear, and the race was obviously
on to see if he could drop trousers in time.
I did my own rush trip, substantially less panic
stricken, to the urinal and did my business as
quickly as possible. The uproar behind the stall
door will forever haunt me, but I will not
reveal any of that.
It does remind me that I have never shared my
own experiences with Irritable Bowel Syndrome
though. Stay tuned. |
