The Leicester family is spread across the west coast from Seattle, Washington to Santee, California. Because we are rarely all together in one place we often share stories via email.
The latest missive about which we laughed till we hurt began with this:
“On Oct 28, 2011, at 8:28 PM, Stewart Leicester wrote:
“On my first dive trip we had a night dive and between the time we went down and came up an infestation of small, stinging jellyfish had swarmed the lights on our boat. We always make a stop at 15 feet for three to five minutes for decompression and when you shined your flashlight up at the surface it was literally covered with jellyfish. I read once that a good way to surface in situations like this is to take your spare regulator and give it a burst of air; the bubbles spread the jellyfish apart and give you an opening to surface without a dozen of them clinging to you.
“I was wearing my warm water wet suit which covers me completely anyway so I wasn’t too worried. I tried the burst of air thing and it worked great. I popped to the surface and had time to get my fins off and zip up the ladder before the jellyfish floated back around me — no problem. Everyone on my boat got out of the water unscathed but a guy on one of the other boats wasn’t so lucky.
“He was wearing a loose swimsuit and nothing else and one of them got up his shorts and stung him on one of his testicles — poor guy! Apparently he spent a good part of the night at the infirmary and he was pointed out to me the next day limping out to his boat.”[Editor’s note: if you’re silly enough to dive in the open ocean without a wetsuit, you get what you deserve.]
“I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t help but think “There but for the grace of God, go I,” so I stifled it.
“I am, however, more wary of jellyfish than I was before that trip!”
My sister, Mary replied:
“(Laughter) I’m sorry, but his TESTICLE? My loins hurt and I don’t even have any. Oh. My. Goodness.
“Stewart, you really need to start publishing. Your stories are the best ever. I’m still thinking of “inadequate urine” and I don’t even know the story! LOL
Since none of us had heard the “inadequate urine” story, we insisted, (gently of course, in that special family way), that it be told. And here, now is the “Inadequate Urine” story, told by my older brother, Stewart:
“When I went for my first urologist visit they warned me I was going to have to give a urine sample and to not “go before I left home” or some such — I’m sure you’ve had the same warning.
“Since I always have to go when I get up, I always forget their warning, relieve myself before showering and eating and arrive at the Dr. with no… uh… urge. I always manage to squeeze out a half Dixie-cup or so, but I can’t help but feel as if I’m short-changing them somehow.
“So THIS time I determined to wait. Naturally I forgot until it about two nanoseconds after I started to pee before my morning shower. Pissed off (no pun intended :-), I decided I had to be prepared, so I got a quart bottle of water and began swigging. 45-minutes later I arrived at the Doctor’s office, still with no… urge. In desperation I continued to partake of the bottle, 3 gulps at a time. Soon it was empty.
Shortly thereafter, I noticed the… urge. “Great!” I thought. So I sat there… and sat there… and sat there. The guy before me apparently had a lot of questions. Bastard. The urge continued to make itself known and, in fact, passed from urge to imperative with no intervening you-should-consider-looking-for-a-bathroom period.
“Brought this on yourself, you idiot” thought I, and attempted to return to my book.
Just as I was about to announce to the lady behind the window “You’d better let me give my sample now, or tell me where there’s another restroom” the door opened and the lady called my name.
I stood up and realized my efforts to ensure I did not shortchange the doctors in the… urge category had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. I couldn’t even stand erect.
It took most of my willpower and all my natural courtesy to not simply strong-arm the lady out of the way as I did the hunchback sprint to the now-visible bathroom door. Instead, because I didn’t see her holding the usual plastic sample cup, I casually asked, as if it didn’t matter to me whether they said yes or no, “Would you still like a urine sample?” “Yes” she replied, “There’s a large funnel just to the right of the door; please go in there.” She pointed toward the bathroom.
“Right. Thanks” I said, thinking “I hope the bottle at the bottom of the funnel’s big enough.”
If you haven’t yet experienced this, it’s kind of cool, they have a scale under the sample bottle hooked to a computer so it actually measures flow rate as the bottle fills.
I discovered an interesting fact about my personal physiology: the fuller my bladder and the more I have to go, the smaller the stream. I’m guessing my full bladder must press the urethra against something which pinches it off. Anyhow, no matter how hard I pushed, my envisioned relief of “pissed like a race horse” was in fact “slow and steady fills the bottle.” It’s painful, so I tried everything I could think of to make it go faster: I pushed, I breathed quickly, I breathed slowly. Nothing helped! No matter what I did, the flow rate didn’t change.
After standing there for (what seemed like) 15 minutes I was worried they’d insist there was something wrong with me because of my embarrassingly slow flow. As it turned out they didn’t care how I filled the bottle, just that I did, and they gave me a clean bill of health. They even have this cool ultrasound machine that measures the amount left in your bladder and I passed that test, too. (After my battle with the funnel, I could have told them that.)”
And there endeth the “Inadequate Urine” story, a typical yet noteworthy missive, one in a series of hilarious stories shared by a family with a finely honed sense of humor.