Chapter 124: Officially a Doctor (3)

Just stabbing through a blockage?

This was…

This was practically torture, wasn't it?

Come to think of it, urethra-based torture methods did exist historically, so the comparison wasn't unfounded.

Well…

Itwould allow temporary urination.

"But does this even work?"

With the documents already gathered and the advantage of 19th-century spaciousness, Joseph, Alfred, Colin, and I huddled together to review the materials.

In my hand was what I assumed the late professor had used—a rod with a needle at the tip.

Not just a needle, though.

The outer sheath and inner needle were separate, allowing the needle to move back and forth while the sheath remained stationary.

It could also rotate…

In short, it was a primitive form of a drill.

"If they went this far, it must have worked…?"

Joseph spoke first, followed by Alfred.

We'd been reviewing the documents for a while, but the shock had only just worn off enough for conversation.

Not that we were squeamish—any man with a prostate would've been equally solemn.

Right?

"They must've kept doing it because it did something…"

Even Colin—the most refined of us due to his noble status—clicked his tongue.

Then, as if on cue, all three looked at me.

They'd always turned to me for difficult questions, but now, as a professor, their expectations felt even heavier.

They wanted an answer.

Unfortunately, I had to disappoint them.

The prostate keeps growing… Sure, it's thick, but this method is too crude.

Instead of answering, I studied the instrument.

For a 19th-century medical tool, it was advanced.

Horrifying, but advanced.

If inserted just right, it might've allowed urination—briefly.

Of course…

The urethra would be destroyed in the process, so blockages would recur rapidly. Any stricture would be catastrophic.

And this scenario must have played out often…

"No, it only worked temporarily."

"Good God…"

"You mean…"

"They shoved this thing in for that?"

Naturally, they were appalled.

As they should be.

Any human would react this way—must react this way.

Empathy was a doctor's essential virtue.

Though their heightened distress was likely due to instinctive male sympathy pain.

"Look here. The professor noted the limitations. If you insert a straight rod like this…"

Anatomical factors made it nearly impossible not to puncture something else.

Why?

Because the urethra bends internally.

Especially in older men with enlarged prostates.

In the 21st century, cystoscopes and flexible Foley catheters minimized such risks, but here?

No such tools. So… the design must account for anatomy. A slightly curved, blunt tip would slide in… Lubrication's another issue, but non-toxic options exist.

As I mentally drafted solutions, I vocalized the flaws.

Had I met this professor alive, he might've been thrilled—or stubbornly defensive.

"It'd puncture here. See these reports? Blood, not urine. The notes say to 'push down if resistance is felt,' but even then… Ah. Here—cases where urine flowed but they'd still punctured something. How… Oh."

The professor's records were meticulous.

Surprisingly astute observations, too.

This era's grim tradition…

If a patient died during surgery, payment to the family allowed immediate dissection, didn't it?

The professor seemed no exception. His notes described dissections revealing misplaced punctures—urine flooding abdominal cavities, leading to fatal peritonitis.

"So… it was just pain for nothing?"

"But if placed correctly…?"

"Right. If done perfectly… What then?"

Perfect placement?

Nearly impossible.

The rigid, straight design was the core flaw.

But hypothetically?

Still inadequate.

Sketch.

I drew a diagram.

Anatomically precise? Unlikely—this wasn't my specialty.

I could've drawn the anus blindfolded, but grouping the lower body as one system was absurd. Urological and gastrointestinal structures were entirely separate!

"Whoa…"

"Wow…"

"As expected…"

Despite my rough sketch, the trio gaped as if it were revolutionary.

Well…

Coming from 200 years in the future, not producing this would've been stranger.

I pointed at the rounded mass crushing the urethra.

"This is the prostate. I'll show you during dissection if we get the chance."

"Ooooh."

This was likely their first schematic view.

No surprise—prostate anatomy was notoriously difficult.

Bladder tissues decayed rapidly, and the prostate's size varied with age. In the 19th century, where most "experts" relied on half-baked knowledge, proper understanding was rare.

Add to that the… creative myths about lower-body functions…

"Anyway, when this enlarges, even a successful puncture would only provide weak flow. The pressure's still there."

"So… it's pressing like this?"

"Ah…"

"Then… these patients…?"

Colin had pulled the patient registry.

The professor had seen hundreds—names crossed out where treatment failed.

The implications were painfully clear.

So many had died for a futile procedure.

A heavy silence fell—until I noticed the professor had recognized the problem.

Another document proposed a solution.

A letter draft:

Dear Dr. Harry,

Unsent, judging by the scratched-out errors.

The contents were… unsettling.

As you know, I've treated over a thousand prostate cases. Yet fewer than ten saw true relief.

A stain—tear marks?

Likely.

But was it guilt or frustration?

A moral man should feel guilt.

"Best efforts" didn't justify so much suffering.

During my research, I heard rumors of retired sailors aging without urinary issues.

Huh?

Now that was interesting.

Surgery was a last resort.

Even as a surgeon, I didn't leap to operate for minor cases.

If sailors had stumbled upon something that suppressed male hormones…

Medicine.

After inquiries, I interviewed twenty retired sailors and soldiers—all symptom-free.

Hmm.

Flawed methodology.

If he'd sought out only those without symptoms, that was selection bias.

But—

They shared one commonality.

Oh?

A shared trait beyond symptoms? That could mean something.

Doubtful the professor understood proper research design, but even blind squirrels find nuts.

"Mmm."

Anticipation rising, I read on.

All had testicular injuries—gunshots, blades, or workplace accidents. Damaged testes, yet no urinary issues.

For some reason…

I dreaded the next line.

But my eyes, hungry for knowledge, devoured it anyway.

Could testicular loss and urinary ease be linked? Literature suggests castrati also age without urinary discomfort. I secured a castrato cadaver—his prostate was small. This gave me an idea.

No…

No.

Don't you dare get ideas.