(Translation: Tuberculosis and The Boy Toy)
Boy Toy has had at least two bouts of bladder cancer that I know of: I helped him through his first diagnosis, surgery, and chemotherapy; for the second he was in Kooky Girl’s “care” (she uneducated and not as well-versed in medical and scientific procedures as I am).
In fall 2015, after he had completed his chemotherapy, he received several in-office instillations of Bacillus Calmette-Guerin (BCG) which is the germ that’s related to the one that causes tuberculosis (TB) and is a common therapy to prevent the bladder cancer from returning.
It is called “intravesical (i.e., “into the vessel”) immunotherapy” because the liquid containing the BCG bug is given through a catheter inserted into the urethra and into the bladder. And Boy Toy insisted that I attend all six of these procedures.
He’d empty his bladder in the urologist’s office then lie on the examining table with his pecker completely exposed. Then the nurse (who was sometimes male) would yank it up and push the rubber catheter past his sphincter and into his bladder. Boy Toy and I grimaced as we watched the tube disappear into his nether region and then the instillation of the BCG fluid drained into his bladder. Then the nurse would clamp off his dick to prevent spillage. Soon the tube and the clamp were removed and we were free to leave the office, but Boy Toy was instructed to keep the fluid in his bladder for at least an hour afterwards.
Boy Toy was also instructed to keep a jug of bleach near his toilet and douse it with bleach after peeing the stuff out, to prevent anyone from catching tuberculosis. And that’s what hit me: I am sensitive to the TB bug, and I didn’t want to take any chances with potentially lethal bacteria. Both my parents, as well as many aunts and uncles (all back in the 1940s and 1950s), contracted TB. My sister and I always turn positive on less-sensitive TB skin tests because of our genetic history.
So I wanted nothing to do with Boy Toy and his TB-exposed dick. I once privately asked his nurse (while Boy Toy was off relieving himself) if I was potentially in danger if Boy Toy and I fucked during his 6-week course of the BCG treatment. His answer: “If I were you I’d avoid sex.”
YAY! HALLELUJAH! I started doing the happy Snoopy dance! I’d just got a 6-week reprieve from having to fuck Boy Toy! I’d needed a break from the bladder cancer/chemo drama and I was getting sick of having sex with him and his stifling, over-bearing love. SIX WEEKS OF FREEDOM! YAHOO!
But, predictably, my “I-need-constant-sex” Boy Toy hit the ceiling when I told him I had to refrain to protect my own health. I lied and said I’d consulted my internist and he recommended I stay away from sex in the interim. He yelled and snapped and nearly threw things. “If I had known this I NEVER would have consented to this BCG treatment,” he cried. And then he cried, literally.
I told him, reassuredly, that doing the weekly BCG treatments would likely reduce the risk of his cancer returning (bladder cancer is one of the trickier cancers as it frequently reappears). He HAD to continue. We went back and forth on this, but in the end he completed his course of treatment.
After his last BCG instillation, we waited a week to “wash out,” and then celebrated with an overnight stay at a downtown hotel, fucking, drinking, and eating good food. But inside I was sad my “honeymoon” was over: the sex was stale, and I was gradually looking for a way out of the relationship. He was so over-the top-giddy at our hotel overnight, just look at some of the stuff he’d brought along to celebrate…
After our eventual and final parting a couple of years later, after he had taken up with Kooky Girl, I learned through the grapevine that his bladder cancer did, in fact, return. I don’t know how bad it was, but I imagine his course of treatment was the same.
Maybe they removed his bladder entirely? I don’t know. I don’t care. He’s not “my patient” anymore. And I’ve still never had TB.
A former mistress (26 years, on-and-off) describes the good, the bad, and the ugly of her long-term affair. Conclusion: Affairs aren't necessarily destructive if kept in the correct perspective. Our experience enhanced BOTH our marriages.
That is, until his marriage ended and we began to love each other. When the affair morphed into a relationship, well, that's when it stopped being fun for me. We have now irrevocably split.
Lately I've been writing about the man who took his place in the "off" years of that 26-year-long affair. He was a dynamic sexual partner but we, too, now have irrevocably split.
These are our stories.