It's Man UP Monday! I'm proud to be a member of the Team Single Jingles Man UP Monday PARENT BLOGGING TEAM! Today, I'm doing my part to spread an important message about Testicular Cancer. This post is in support of the Testicular Cancer Foundation (Team Single Jingles) which provides education and support to young men in order to raise awareness about testicular cancer, the #1 cancer among men ages 15 – 35. It's important to know this ahead of time because I rarely talk about my genitalia.
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Every guy has a good story about testicles, either theirs or
someone else’s, and usually they elicit some amount of sympathy. Whenever someone
mentions they were whacked in the nuts by a baseball bat-wielding toddler, or
shares how some guy they know had his genitals squashed against the steering
wheel during a car crash, every male, young and old, within earshot will wince
as sympathy pains suddenly coursing through their groin and a wave of peculiar nausea
rises up in their stomach.
I, of course, am no exception to the above, and could, in
fact, recount a number of stories—mostly of others—that would make even a eunuch
cringe. Of these, the one that stands out from among the rest occurred while I
attended the Army’s Airborne School, a three-week meant to teach willing
participants how to get sucked out the door of a perfectly good airplane as you
kiss your ass goodbye.
On the day after our first a fellow student, who I never
talked with before approached me in the latrine.
“Can I show you something?” he asked. There was a worried look
in his eyes, and I didn’t know what to expect, which is why there was so much
trepidation in my voice when I said, “Sure.”
That’s when he unbuttoned his pants and pulled out his
privates. “Do you think I should get this looked at?”
At first I thought this would turn out to be some sort of crude
joke or perhaps worse until I saw the one inch tear the base of his testicles.
I winced and nearly threw up as he explained how when he jumped from the plane
earlier that day, the jarring yank that occurs once your parachute pops open
caused one of the loose harness straps running between his legs to slice into
his—well, you get the picture.
Under normal circumstances the answer to his question would
be obvious; however, to do so meant being recycled into another class to repeat
training. So demoralizing is this possibility that given the choice between
this and having your balls ripped off, one is faced with a legitimate
conundrum.
“Oh man, that’s a tough call,” I replied. “Could you tape it
maybe?”
He nodded his head. “That’s what I was thinking,” he said.
Then he pulled a wad of Army-grade toilet paper from his pocket and stuffed it
against the wound before buttoning back up and heading to the harness shed to
suite up for another 800-foot jump.
I’m not sure if this chap ever graduated, of if he ever had
children, but you can be damn sure I cinched down my leg harness tight enough
to cut off the circulation to my feet. I
didn’t need any further motivation for keeping what’s naturally mine, which is
why I recently went to see the doctor after my right testicle started hurting. My lone hesitation in this, however, came at the
thought of my doctor, Dr. Zhu, a middle-aged Chinese woman who stood no taller
than the average 4th grader.
The idea of Dr. Zhu inspecting my package with her tiny
child-like hands was enough to make me rethink my concern over the dull ache I
had been experiencing over the last few days. Fear of the unknown won out,
though, that and the impossibility of finding a make physician on such short
notice.
What if it’s cancer?
The thought both scared me and gave me a slight thrill over the attention I
would receive. Ignoring the fact that my symptoms failed to coincide with
testicular cancer, I started picking out colors for awareness wristbands I
would give to friends and sell through an Etsy store.
Whatever the case I needed to know the answer sooner rather
than later which is how I found myself with a miniature Chinese woman fondling
my testicles which at this point looked like two overly ripe, fleshy grapes
sporting the long, scraggly beard of a homeless Vietnam vet working the
intersection of MLK and JFK. In the vet’s defense, he probably smelled better.
Dr. Zhu did not go about her work quietly as she pinched and
squeezed the way people check for fresh produce at the grocery store.
“This hurt?” she asked.
“No.” The hesitancy in my voice more than conveyed my
embarrassment over the present circumstance.
“How this?”
“It’s okay.”
“How ‘bout now?”
I jerked away wincing.
“Ah, I see,” she said rolling a few feet back in her stool.
By her tone I knew something was wrong. It was only a matter
of how serious, and I braced myself for the worst while settling on blue for the awareness wrist bands.
Tossing her extra small latex gloves in the trash, Dr. Zhu
took a deep breath. “You have more than one par-ten-ner?” she wanted to know.
More than one partner?
The question was so absurd it hardly registered until I noticed she was waiting
for an answer.
“Whaaa? No. I’m married!” As I said this, it occurred to me
that being married could be taken as a flimsy excuse for why I shouldn’t have more than one partner,
but it did not rule out the likelihood.
Of the three possible diagnoses for my discomfort, two were
STDs including gonorrhea while the third meant I should be doubled over in
extreme pain. By simple process of elimination I started to doubt myself. What if
I did have an STD? How would I explain this to my wife? I visualized her setting
me on fire as I slept in our bed.
It seemed my doctor had her doubts too. “We order more test,”
she said, scribbling on a note pad. “You need urine test and ultrasound.” Then
she added patronizingly, “Just ah to make sure.”
During the car ride to the hospital my wife asked what Dr.
Zhu thought.
“Well, uh, she isn’t sure and won’t know until after the
tests.” I tried to disguise my nervousness which I hope would be interpreted as
trepidation over the inconclusive diagnosis. This same nervous feeling stayed
with me as I explained to the hospital admin checking me in that I was here for
a sonogram.
The admin quickly glanced at the doctor’s orders. “You mean
ultrasound.”
“Ultrasound, sonogram. It’s all just semantics. Am I right?”
I tried to joke, but the admin didn’t laugh. Instead she gave me a disapproving
eye as she read through what Dr. Zhu wanted to confirm or rule out.
After a two hour wait, a radiology technician lead me back
an exam room and told me to take off my cloths. He bore an uncanny resemblance
to Seth Rogen, and I wondered how often he got the lucky job of pouring a
thick, oozing goo onto another man’s genitalia in order to rub some plastic
device over every hairy inch. By the confident manner in which he instructed me
on the strategic placement of several hand towels meant to prop things up, I
figured it was pretty often.
Moments later Seth Rogen returned to find my unkempt
homeless vet setting prominently in a way that made me think it was holding a
sign promising work in exchange for a good shave. What followed were the most awkward and
intrusive twenty minutes of my life thus far. Thankfully, the technician made
no attempt at small talk. For dentists, a little conversation is fine, but when
it comes to touching another man’s balls, outside of a consenting relationship,
there are rules about such things, rules each of us was not about to violate.
With the procedure done and after nearly another hour in the
waiting room, the test results were in. Seth Rogen’s doppelganger put me on the
phone with Dr. Zhu who explained everything had come back negative, and the
source of my aching pain was nothing more than a fluid buildup that should go
away in a few days.
Although a part of me was relieved to learn I wouldn’t have
to tell my wife about a mysterious STD, another part of me felt slightly
disappointed over the blue wrist bands. My emotions, however, shifted to
both panic and hope. I forgot that I had scheduled a full physical with Dr. Zhu
which included a peek at my prostate. Maybe the wrist bands would be a
possibility after all.
* * *
Did you know that
Testicular Cancer is highly survivable is
detected early?
What can you do?
Request a
FREE shower card with self-exam instructions - it just might save a young man in your life!
And if you're feeling just a little
AWKWARD about this conversation, check out
this video from some parents who feel the exact same way!
Read more...
