So, because of hematuria, I find myself taking my trousers and underpants off in a small cubicle attached to a waiting room, placing them in the plastic bag provided and donning two hospital gowns, one with the slit up the back and the other more like a dressing gown to cover that slit. I put on my slippers and carrying the bag, retook my seat, next to my wife. Sat around are another man dressed as myself, waiting his turn next, and a man and his wife, who looked quite alone and fearful whilst her husband was reading a newspaper. Just when I was thinking that this was a male clinic, I deduced that the fearful lady was also waiting her turn. Was I fearful, I thought? No, not fearful, as apart from my wife saying that “it’ll be something and nothing” and the fact that I didn’t feel anything wrong with me, I have a lot of trust in the people and the system. They, and it, are suddenly just there for you when you need them. What I was anxious about was going through a very personal procedure that is very intrusive on all levels. But matters in hand take over. I remember years ago doing a static line parachute jump from 2500 feet for charity and I had no time to worry about the open aeroplane door, the banking of the aircraft, the fierce rush of air, the ground so far below and the instructor yelling ‘3, 2, 1 - GO’. I just focused on what I had to do - ‘1, 2, 3 - Check canopy’, and after untwisting the cords, I floated back to earth with a mighty bump. Apart from having just handed in a urine sample, all I had to do was let it happen. I didn’t have time to feel embarrassed or wonder how to protect my dignity. I knew it would be the most exposed and vulnerable I have ever been, so as my name was called, it was ‘3, 2, 1 - GO’
