Bedlam Farm Blog Journal by Jon Katz

“To know how to grow old is the master work of wisdom and one of the most difficult chapters in the great art of living.”

— Henrie Frederic, Swiss Philosopher.

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I’ll call her Margery. I can hardly write about the gift she and Maria gave me; it is difficult. My father would have been horrified. It is time to talk about the impossible,   my bladder, with my wife.

She wrote me a beautiful message about a column after I wrote about the importance of talking with Maria about when I will die and leaving her alone on this raucous but wonderful farm.

I know from my female friends that men just never wanted to talk about it.

I do need to talk about it. I can’t do it well all alone. I think Maria needs to be prepared for my death. This is the last significant period of my human growth and spiritual development, and I intend to get it right.

Margery’s message was almost eerily timely.

She didn’t know it, but I was uncomfortable, ashamed, and frustrated about a problem I was having. A former bet wetter, I am increasingly susceptible to bladder issues, which, I am learning, are common among men my age.

There is nothing spiritual, I thought, about running to the bathroom. Boy, was I wrong.  I am determined not to live with my eyes closed and with my soul open. Easier said than done.

Margery wrote eloquently about the value of her talks with her husband, Tim. “My friends have a much rougher time than I do, and I can’t think they suffered greatly when their husbands died without saying a word about dying. “It came as such a shock,” she said, “they had no time to prepare.”

Margery said she and her husband Tim decided dealing with death was something she wanted them to do together. He’s happy they did. Still, she said, there were things the two of them could never talk about. And a man’s bladder is one of those things.

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One of my most enjoyable and touching friends tends to be an intelligent and articulate woman who has read my blog from the beginning.

That’s Margery.

She is a widow, and like other long-time readers of my blog, these women know the good and bad about me. She has watched me come to terms with love, aging, and the need to be open and honest about both.

They identify with me and relate to my relationship with Maria.  They have watched quietly and often with some disappointment as I learned how to make the blog meaningful. They tend to think I’m getting there, although they all know not to try to tell me what to write. They do not give unwanted advice.

They all said the same thing: they were so grateful they and their husbands had talked about death.

Now, to me and my secret.

I had some serious talking to do with myself, mostly in meditation. My father scolded and lectured me every night about my bed wetting, but he never once sat down to talk with me about it or took me to a doctor or therapist.

He was ashamed to have a bedwetter for a son rather than a baseball star or football hero. He worried I wouldn’t be enough of a “man” or a man. In all of my working life, I never heard a male discuss bladder or urinary problems, not at any age. I would never have dreamed of bringing it up.

Whenever I thought about it, I thought I would never, never wear diapers or other devices for aging men or talk about the problems I was suddenly having.

Even here, I squirm at the words:  I’ve started having some urgent urinary issues and sometimes can’t even make it to the bathroom in time. This has brought back the horrible moments of my childhood and the awful emotional crippling of men.

I know few doctors who will or can help with urgent urinary problems. I accept that I am committed to fewer medicines at this point in life.

In my life, I have always hidden or denied my worst fears and problems. The funny thing is once I acknowledge them and say them out loud; I become a warrior—the kind of kid my dad always wanted. I face my problems, determined to fix them. My determination almost always overcomes my anxiety.

Last night, after reading Margery’s message and thinking of Tim, her husband (he had emailed me once in a while), I looked at Maria and said, “Honey, I need to talk to you about something. I’m having bladder problems, and sometimes they get messy, and I think I need your help dealing with them openly and intelligently.”

For me, aging is about change as much as anything, and if I can’t change, that will make it awful and pitiful.

Maria is excellent in many ways, one of which is that there is nothing I can’t say to her without regret. Women have extensive experience taking care of their bodies.

On Amazon, I found hundreds of dollars worth of unique shields, patches, wraps,  clothes, patches, stickers, and underwear and was ready to buy one or more; this subject was eating me alive talking about it. I couldn’t sort it out. Maria did.

My weakness has always been grabbing more than I need, fearing it will disappear before I can get more.

While I squirmed and muttered, Maria gave me a bunch of ideas that she knew of, short of diapers, that could help me deal with the problem and feel better. I dodged and squirmed for a bit. What would she think of a husband needing help with his bladder? Would she ever want to have sex with me again?

I wondered.

Women do know much more about these things than men. I hope they get to take control over the earth before men destroy it entirely.

We were driving right by a Dollar Store. She pulled over,  left me in the car, went in, and returned with $2 worth of a simple, comfortable solution—so simple that I never would have thought about it or bought it.

She took it out of the package and showed me how easy it was to use (no diapers). This afternoon, I am clicking away, calmer, more careful, and safer than I have been in a long while.

Talk openly and honestly; there are no secrets in old aging. Maria knew from the minute I opened my mouth that something was troubling me and what it was.

This was an awful problem, but it’s no longer a problem because we discussed it. That is what love is about.

She talked calmly and warmly to me about what I was saying.  She laughed off my discomfort. “I don’t love you for how you look or how you go to the bathroom,” she said.

I love you for who you are. Back atcha.