Each patient gets a nifty bag containing surprisingly good socks with anti-slip grippy things and a gown. The gown is disposable and has all the standard access points, except they close with velcro instead of impossible snaps. A gizmo on the wall with a temperature control knob blows hot air into a hose that snaps into one of several ports hidden in the gown. The hot air inflates the internal plastic bags. A few seconds later, you look ridiculously lumpy, but in a warm, cozy way. And if you are easily amused, you have something new to poke at until a disturbingly cheerful woman carts you off to the choppy room.

I woke up in a dark hospital room. A real room, for overnight patients. "Hmm, this is not good." Looking around, I saw Matt sleeping on the window bench. Somehow, despite the drugs, I figured if Matt was calm enough to turn out the lights and go to sleep, things probably weren't as bad as they seemed. That, and I just peed.

I managed to dig the call nurse remote thing out and inform the voice at the other end of my unfortunately moist situation. A male nurse appeared shortly with clean towels and sheets. I tried to apologize for making a mess. He informed me that there was no pee.

"Where did all the pee go?"

"You didn't urinate, so it's still in you."

"Oh. How did it get back in?"

He responded by producing a bedpan. The bedpan remained as dry as the sheets, despite my best efforts. Time for a catheter!

A female nurse was recruited for the task. She failed. The original nurse took a shot. He failed. With the help of a new catheter, the third time was the charm. I celebrated by apologizing for peeing on them.

I probably passed out again because I don't remember anything else until the next morning, when Matt informed me of what happened. Apparently I alternated between screaming in pain until I received IV Fentanyl and asking about the dogs until the Fentanyl wore off.

The nurses frown upon such ruckus in their post-op wards, so I got myself admitted for the night. Their official rational was observation and pain management, but I know the truth: the other patients voted me out. Meanwhile, Matt tried to reassure me that dogs were being taken care of by calling doggy daycare and informing them of the situation. Oddly enough, I didn't remember this for more than seven seconds.

Once in the room, Matt spent hours arguing with the doctors over what dose of Paxil to give me. Most doctors are unfamiliar with the correct dosage for OCD, so they assume that the really high dosage is wrong. Ultimately, after threatening to leave me alone and drive home for the bottle, Matt managed to get me the correct amount. And more importantly, my theory about Matt sleeping implying everything being okay was validated.