In 1992, I was called for medical assessment to serve military service. Conscription was gradually being abolished at the time, and only half the number of young men were required to serve. Back then, there were three different types of boys. Those who couldn’t wait to servw, felt like Rambo, knew every unit and every weapon, and were enthusiastic about it. The neutral group, who would sit out the nine months and hoped to be assigned to a unit where they could do something they enjoyed. The last group were those who refused to serve at all costs. Strange stories circulated among boys our age. Like how you could pretend to be too stupid for the army, or pretend your eyesight was so bad you could barely see anything. But it was generally assumed that the medical examiners would be able to see through this. And that, as a revenge, or as an educational measure, they would assign you to the least attractive and strictest unit of the army. For everyone, the conscription assessment felt like a moment when nine months of your life, an eternity for a 17-year-old, were decided.
The fear of being assigned to an unattractive unit of the army was deeply ingrained, and the suspicion was that even if you were late for medical examination, you would be assigned to a drill company as a punishment and as an educational measure. I lived in a rural area of the Netherlands. Along with the call-up, questionnaire, and document list, we also received a public transportation ticket for the day of the assessment. The journey itself was already quite stressful for me. Back then, you had to plan the bus routes, train connections, and platform numbers yourself using public transport schedules. The final route, from the station to the militairy building, was specified in the call-up letter. The journey would take about two and a half hours, and I was very nervous. I was about to be assessed for nine months, an eternity! I had never made such a long journey alone in my life, and I felt insecure and small.
The planned journey by public transport went as planned, and I started walking in the town of arrival. Friends who had already been through the inspection said the building was very easy to find and impossible to miss. But I must have walked the wrong way when I left the train station. I was baffled and started to panic slightly. A scenario of being late for the inspection and all its consequences was already swirling in the back of my mind. I ran the last few meters and arrived sweaty and exhausted, exactly at the minute I was supposed to be there.
I felt the urge to pee already on the train. But everything went well; the train was on time, and I was supposed to arrive 25 minutes before my appointment. Plenty of time to use the restroom. The urge to pee wasn’t new. Throughout my adolescence, I often experienced sudden, painful urges. Every now and then I missed the toilet, but that was rare, and when ut happened I blamed myself for not getting to it in time or drinking too much. But the pain of holding in was often excruciating. I avoided situations where I couldn’t go to the toilet for extended periods, such as school trips. Short school outings, however, were unavoidable, and after a few wet pants, I often stuffed a small towel in my underwear. It wasn’t a full bladder, but rather a burst of urges I couldn’t control. I considered taking care of myself during the trip and putting a cloth in my pants, but I didn’t dare, even though I was going through a period of frequent bladder problems.
In the building there was no one to announce your presence, and you were expected to take a seat in the waiting room. There were about five other boys there, and I sat down in a corner, exhausted from running. The clock showed the exact time of my appointment, and I was afraid my name had already been called. Therefore, I didn’t dare go to the restroom, afraid I’d miss my call. I asked a boy if my name had been called yet, and when he said no, I was finally reassured and could relax. My thoughts were racing, and at that moment, I felt my crotch getting wet. Not a small splash, but I was peeing myself, and before I realized it, my crotch was already soaked. A puddle had formed in the hollow of the chair. In panick, I clenched my bladder and quickly checked under the chair to see if it had holes in the hollow, through which my urine would drip onto the floor. Fortunately, it hadn’t, and I glanced around nervously to make sure no one had noticed. I was crushed with emotion and all I could think about was walking across the waiting room and the others seeing my wet pants.
After a few minutes, I was called. With trembling knees, I stood up, covered my wet crotch with the bag of documents I was holding, and pulled my jacket down over my bottom. I glanced back at the seat of the chair. It was damp, but thankfully there was no longer a puddle of urine. My pants had already absorbed it. I felt urine running down my leg as, with my head down, I approached the close-shaven soldier in uniform. In a small room, I had to hand him the necessary documents. Every word was a command, and intimidation was apparently a way to make clear what the military was all about. He had a list of questions, but I couldn’t concentrate. I expected a snap at any moment, asking how I could dare to get out of military service by wetting myself, that they knew what to do with a troublemakers like me, who had no shame. But he only looked at my crotch and remarked that I could explain that to the doctor later, pointing to my wet pants, in a friendly, human tone. He asked if I wanted dry pants. I said no, but that I did need to use the restroom.
I cried my eyes out for a minute. I urinated and dried my pants and underwear as best I could with paper towels. When I was done, I could go straight to the doctor’s office. The doctor was a friendly man, not in uniform but wearing a white lab coat. He had already heard I’d had an accident and asked if this happened to me often. I lied and said no, mumbling that I’d gotten lost, been afraid of being late, and was nervous. I didn’t know if he believed me, but at least I didn’t feel like I was being seen as a troublemaker or a conscript. During the physical examination, he asked about the scars I had from hernia and varicocele surgeries and if I was experiencing any other discomfort. The physical examination was a standard checkup that didn’t take long, after which I could get dressed again. My clothes were still wet and cold, and it felt terribly humiliating to have to put them back on.
Next came an intelligence test with questions that had to be answered in writing within a certain timeframe. Another soldier, in uniform, stood in the next room. He explained the purpose in measured words. He added warnings to take the test seriously, as they would quickly detect any manipulation to avoid conscription. There I stood, a lanky 17-year-old with wet pants, before a towering man who looked at me with a life experience that was somewhere between disgust and contempt. There were several chairs in the room, which resembled a classroom, but I was directed to sit on a chair with a mat on it. Only later did I realize it must have been an incontinence pad. The questions weren’t difficult, and my confidence grew a little when I realized I’d probably done well and well within the time limit. At least as far as the test was concerned, no one could accuse me of manipulating the examination.
When I was finished, I handed the form to the tall soldier. He glanced at the form to see if I’d answered all the questions, then gave me a piercing look and told me I could go, but to take the chair mat with me. Flushing, I grabbed the damp underlay and put it in my cloth bag. I’d get the results in a few weeks, and with that, the assessment was over. Without shaking a hand, the door was opened for me, and I could leave. It was a warm spring day, and I felt dirty, smelled like pee. With clammy pants, I had to go home. I considered buying new pants or underwear somewhere, but I didn’t know how to change in a big city. The fact that I’d gotten lost earlier had also scared me, and I just wanted to go home. I tied my jacket around my waist and held my bag over my crotch. I sat down on a bench in the sun for a moment, hoping my pants would dry out a bit.
A few weeks later, I received a message from the Ministry of Defence stating that there was no medical reason not to perform my military service. What happened to me that day has always stayed with me. From then on, I was constantly afraid of a recurrence. I was on the verge of adulthood, but I had no idea how to cope. While friends enthusiastically completed their military service and took a step towards adulthood, I didn’t know how I could survive nine months away from home without wetting myself again. I became afraid, wondering if I shouldn’t have told the doctor that my bladder was weak and perhaps exaggerated my symptoms. But on the other hand, the Ministry of Defence could demand a second medical examination and likely also medical treatment to qualify for military service. This was even more frightening than the prospect of nine months of military service. After a few months, the redeeming news arrived that, given the number of conscripts exceeding the number of conscripts, I was on special military service. This meant that I wasn’t being drafted, but that this could still happen in times of crisis. In practice this meant that I did not have to do my military service and I was delighted.
Living with Ehlers Danlos Syndrome 