Bob had always taken pride in the things a man can control: his schedule, his word, his body. Thirty-five years behind the wheel and he could make the full run on one planned stop. That was just who he was.
Then, sometime after 60, he started waking up at night. Just once at first. Then twice. Then five times — stumbling through the dark, standing over the toilet, waiting for a stream that barely came.
"I was standing at urinals while other men finished and walked out. I couldn't start. I couldn't finish. And I couldn't explain it to anyone."
His wife moved to the guest bedroom. His routes changed to allow for extra stops. Three different prescriptions — none of them touched the real problem. Then came his grandson Tommy's fourth birthday party and a Ferris wheel that broke down.
Forty feet in the air, with Tommy squeezing his hand, Bob felt the pressure begin to build. Twenty minutes stranded. Then thirty. He told his grandson everything was fine. He held the boy close and stared at the gondola door and willed his body to cooperate just this once.
It did not.
That night, staring at the pack of adult diapers his daughter had left on his bed, something in him finally broke in the right direction. He made himself a promise: he was going to find a real answer.