There comes a moment in a man’s life when he enters a room believing he is there for a “simple procedure,” only to discover he is about to reenact the male version of childbirth—stent removal from the bladder. The medical team refers to it as mild discomfort. I call it a spiritual journey, a rite of passage, and a test of every ancestor’s strength flowing through your veins.

As I settled onto that table, I began huffing and puffing like the Magic Dragon himself. My inner coach whispered, stay strong, and my outer self whispered, Lord, take the wheel (I'm Jewish). The nurse smiled with the calm confidence of someone who has never had a tube pulled out of their private real estate. She said, you may feel a little pressure. Pressure, that was not pressure; that was a lightning bolt of awareness that traveled through my entire family tree.

Then came the moment. The doctor tugged the stent as if he were starting a lawnmower (a little exaggerated) in July. My eyes watered. My soul questioned my life choices. I saw visions. I heard a choir. I briefly left my body and watched myself negotiate with the universe. Each second felt like pushing out a newborn kidney stone baby into the world.

And just like childbirth, the moment it was over, everyone in the room expected me to smile and say thank you. I nodded with dignity, wiped my forehead, and whispered, I have survived. If you wake up, you have a purpose, but after this procedure, you also deserve a medal, a parade, and a frozen treat.

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