April is Testicular Cancer Awareness Month, a cause that is very close to my heart—or more accurately—my groin. In an effort to spread awareness, I’ll be sharing the story of my testicular cancer diagnosis in a four-part series here on my weekly column. It’s the saga you never knew you needed to hear. Last week, the journey began with Part I: Lefty’s Rebellion.
This week, we’ll explore how numerous medical professionals touched my nether regions.
The day after the doctor’s office managed to miraculously find an appointment to examine concerning lumps on Lefty, I rolled up to the unassuming brick building—when a new thought hit me.
It wasn’t like this was my doctor who I had been seeing for years and had a solid rapport established. This was a brand-new doctor that I had never met before. Not only was this going to be the first time that I was going to shake his hand, I was also about to ask him to take that same hand and grab my sack. I wasn’t sure how I felt about another man touching me in my private areas.
When I checked in, the receptionist told me that I was going to be seen by a female nurse practitioner, which brought a simultaneous wave of relief from not having to have a man’s hand on my “boys” and a new feeling of panic. What if I found the nurse attractive? Would it be rude if my anatomical reactions took over? Or perhaps it would be more rude if I didn’t … rise to the occasion.
Luckily, this wasn’t an issue. Turns out that having your testicles examined with a gloved hand is … less than arousing. The nurse confirmed that there was indeed a lump, and I needed to get an ultrasound immediately. I pressed her for more details.
“What could this be?”
“Well, it could be an infection, a cyst, or—possibly a tumor.”
“A tumor? Like cancer?”
“The ultrasound will tell us more. I’m also going to prescribe an antibiotic to treat a possible infection.”
Fast forward a few days, and now I was in another doctor’s office, but this time it was a medical imaging facility. I’m walked in to the exam room and the imaging technician tells me she will step out for me to take off my pants, and then she’ll be back in to perform the exam. I remember thinking that was strange. After all, she was going to see everything when she returned.
So I dropped trou, turned down the lights, and let my boy Barry White spin on the record player.
Back in reality, I carefully removed and folded my pants, laid on the exam table, and covered my business with a towel. Again, not sure why.
If I was worried about coming to full attention at the first doctor’s office, my fears spiked even more when the tech came back in. She pulled out a bottle of gel and squeezed it onto the ultrasound wand.
“This gel allows me to move the wand around easily. It’s a little warm, too.”
Great—warming jelly on my nuts. Just what I needed. It’s at this point I should mention I was getting this ultrasound done on my lunch break from work. Nothing like going back to teach with a sticky mess in your pants for the rest of the day,
She first applied the wand to Righty, who wasn’t causing me any problems. There’s apparently a microphone on the ultrasound wand, and we listened to the blood flow of my right testicle.
You know how they say you can hear the ocean in a seashell when you hold it up to your ear? That’s false. It’s actually the sound of regular blood flow in a healthy testicle. Next time you’re at the beach, you’ll thank me for that bit of knowledge.
Now Lefty, on the other hand (or more accurately the other side), was a different story. I had recently watched The Grey starring Liam Neeson and a pack of angry wolves. The noises emanating from my left testicle could only be described as a deleted scene in which the wolves massacre the entire cast, crew, and catering department.
When the exam was over, I was given a towel to wipe myself off and one final word of advice.
“You—um—might want to call your doctor soon.”
No shit, Sherlock.
I never got the opportunity to call the nurse because she beat me to the punch. She said that the ultrasound had shown a solid mass on my testicle, so I would need to be referred to a urologist. I asked if that meant cancer. She said it wasn’t definite yet and told me to continue taking the antibiotic.
By the time I walked into the urologist’s office, I was used to the procedure: sign in, give my insurance card, take off my pants, get a little fondle on my fellas, and listen to what the doctor said. The biggest difference here was that my urologist was a male. Oddly enough, my fears from the beginning of this endeavor no longer bothered me. Apparently, by this point, I was cool with anyone touching me down there.
After the doctor examined me, he looked me straight in the eye and said the words that would forever change my life:
“Look, I’m going to be straight with you. Based on the ultrasound and what I just felt, you have testicular cancer. We’re going to have to remove the left testicle as soon as possible.”
Wow, talk about a swift kick in the nuts.
Or, more literally—
Nut.
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