Snow Angel (warning - long)

Tuesday was mostly a hospital day. My Mom picked me up at the Nashville airport at 10 in the morning. I had spent the previous night packing questionably clean clothes and books as well as tidying up my office/apartment room. Anyway, our first stop was the fertility clinic.

Unfortunately, the first visit there didn’t involve me jerking off into a cup. My masturbation appointment had been scheduled for the next day at 1 PM. No, we went to ask questions and fill out paperwork. I hadn’t taken into account not having my own car and the two hour drive from my house in Jackson to Nashville, so I rescheduled for Friday morning.

As I filled out the paperwork, I found that most of the clauses didn’t apply to me; the disclaimers focused on past pregnancies and partner involvement. However, the last form dealt with the handling of my sperm. The disclaimer notified me that the clinic was able to dispose of my seed in a regulated fashion if I failed to pay the $350 annual storage fee. It also informed me that the clinic accepted no responsibility for birth defects resulting from my frozen sperm. Also, they would not be liable for mishandling, mislabeling, or losing any storage specimens.

That last part unnerved me. My insurance doesn’t cover this type of clinic visit. The first visit would cost around $700, and they were telling me that I couldn’t expect any assurance of my sperm being properly handled?

Here’s a though experiment: Sue works at said fertility clinic. Her only medical experience is a C+ in her high school anatomy class, but her Uncle is one of the hospital administrators. People aren’t sure what she does on a day-to-day basis, but Sue does brew a mean pot of coffee. One day, the clinic has run out of cream…end thought experiment.

I pointed out the clause to my Mom, who was sitting beside me in the waiting room.

“Hmmm – let me see. They’re saying that if you die, then you could choose to have whatever you stored destroyed or you could leave it in someone’s care. Like if you left it to Dad and me and if we ever found a surrogate,” she said.

“No, I meant the part above that,” I replied and pointed to the paragraph above in smaller font. I understood the bottom part perfectly. That part had two options labeled A and B. If I took option A, then the clinic would destroy my sperm upon my death. If I took option B, then I could bequeath the sperm to a person of my choice. It was very simple; if I died, however improbable that might be, then I could revoke my sperm club membership or have someone else pay the annual storage fee.

“Oh, I see what you mean. Are you going to ask them about it?” my Mom asked.

When I asked the receptionist and pointed to the paragraph, she frowned. “I’m not sure about all that. Hey, could you answer his question about this part?” she called over to an associate further behind the service counter.

The associate frowned at the form for about five seconds. “It means that if you pass away, then you have the option of us disposing of it or leaving it in another person’s name,” she said.

I gritted my teeth. Why was everyone drawn to the death clause? I just didn’t want them to fuck up my viable sperm while I still live. I didn’t appreciate the assumptions. “No, I meant the part above it that deals with the sperm being possibly mishandled and there being no accountability,” I replied.

“Oh, I don’t know why they included that. We’ll store it properly,” the associate replied while the receptionist nodded.

I told them that I would bring the form back and sign it on Friday before my appointment. As my Mom and I left the waiting room, I tried not to crumple the form. There were no assurances, but it was odd that the last sentence before the death clause was the one that I focused on the most.

It was a little before noon and my next appointment for a CT scan wasn’t until 1:40 PM, so we killed time at a Border’s. I started reading this book called Room by Emma Donoghue; so far it’s about a five-year-old child who has known nothing but an eleven-by-eleven room and his Mother – somehow, that made me feel better about not getting out so much. I was about to buy the hardback but then my Mom whipped out her Kindle, so I bought the electronic version for half price. Technology’s a bitch for some businesses.

Speaking of technology, the first piece of business back at the hospital was to get a CT scan. I had received one earlier, but that was after my first surgery and while still under the influence of anesthetic. All I remembered was a pretty nurse, being naked under the sheet, and a warming sensation. For CT scans, there are two options: no contrast or contrast. For contrast, there are also two options: drink a solution of have it injected directly. I had the latter done in both cases.

This procedure was done at Vanderbilt Hospital, a huge collection of buildings. There were so many buildings that my Mom and I chose the wrong one for parking. We had arrived at the location that I would be at in approximately two weeks for my surgery. As I grimaced at her hesitant driving and awkward parking job, we wandered along the basement depths of the parking structure in search of an elevator. The elevator led to another floor with four elevators. We looked at our map in confusion before a short man with a gimp started asking us questions. He was wearing an attendant’s uniform and told us that our desired location was about 6 blocks away. He called another attendant to transport us there.

Have you ever ridden in a limo? Stop feeling so smug – you have little to no concept of luxury, you complacent barbarian. The vehicle that picked us up was a four-seater golf cart. My Mom and I smiled at one another as the large woman driving it swerved around SUVs and took us through concrete corridors lined with industrial piping. I recalled being strapped to the back of a two-seater golf cart driven by some of my high school friends and speeding down a ridiculously steep hill. I was 17 and still wearing my neck brace; we flipped the cart on the way down, but that’s another story. Golf carts are the heavenliest of vehicles, so never pass up the chance to ride in one.

Let’s get back to the CT scan. I originally thought that I be drinking a contrast solution this time around as I watched a pale, thin woman wearing a bonnet over her bald scalp sip on a large cup filled with the solution plus ice. Everyone in the waiting room had taken numbered paper scraps from a red dispenser, similar to something you might see at a SuperCuts. I was number 46, one over my lucky number. Instead of handing me a cup, the Nurse who claimed me prepared an all-purpose IV attachment as she eyed a sizable vein on my left forearm.

“Name-birthday?”

“Robert-Egan-seven-thirty-eighty-seven.”

One thing you may have noticed about Nurses is that they always ask you a question before they stick something into your vein. Perhaps giving a response to the question is a way for your brain to not register the needle plunging into your arm. I rifled out the response so I could concentrate. I like the way the needle slips under the skin as well as that slight shock that I’ve been given a temporary second mouth, a portal to the outside world! The Nurse proudly informed me that I could keep the needle attachment dangling from my arm for the duration of my hospital visit so that I wouldn’t have to be re-stuck.

“Name-birthday?”

“Robert-Egan-seven-thirty-eighty-seven.”

That was the required password before each new procedure. I suppose that it’s a security measure to protect against identity-stealing freaks whose idea of paradise is a day filled with waiting rooms and getting stuck with needles. Anyway, I had brought my two-mouthed self over to the CT scan area, which essentially consists of a sliding gurney that passes through a thick ring that bathes whatever passes through its center with high doses of radiation. The truly unnerving part for me was when they injected the actual contrast solution. Within seconds of the injection, there was a sharp metallic taste in the mouth and nostrils.

“Take a deep breath and hold,” a computerized voice chanted over the humming of the machine as the gurney slid through the portal. I held my breath and tried to think healing thoughts. As the radiation and contrast solution interacted, a warming sensation spread through my veins. It felt as if I had wet my pants while inhaling drain cleaner.

“Breathe,” the computerized voice commanded. I obeyed, and we completed this cycle several times until the fire in my body faded. I refrained from asking the technicians in the viewing room what they thought, since they’re not allowed to tell me anyway. If I had chosen the surveillance option instead of the surgery, then I’d be doing this every three months for the next five years.

“Name-birthday?”

“Robert-Egan-seven-thirty-eighty-seven.”

I took a chest X-ray, which was a breeze after the CT scan. “He’s done,” a technician murmured after repositioning me several times. What the fuck did he mean that I was done? I kept silent and shambled over to the third or fourth waiting room of the day.

“Name-birthday?”

“Robert-Egan-seven-thirty-eighty-seven.”

A Nurse Practitioner asked me preparatory questions for anesthesia accommodations, I had an ECG taken, and finally, I was informed that the needle and IV attachment that had been trailing from my arm for the last few hours could not be reused for my upcoming bloodwork.

“Yellow alert – inclement weather expected,” a loudspeaker positioned along the linoleum-lined hallway blared.

“Oh, I just hope it doesn’t snow,” the Nurse Practitioner moaned.

I nodded and stared at a small, coffee-colored splotch on the otherwise creamy skin of her left cheek. “The thing about snow is it can be a good thing if you don’t have to drive or work or do anything, so I’m ready for it,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes, but she smiled and a dimple reshaped the cheek splotch into a Pac-Man. I didn’t say that I hoped it fucking snowed until the sky was empty and we were blasted into the next Ice Age.

“Name-birthday?”

“Robert-Egan-seven-thirty-eighty-seven.”

“You know, I can tell that you have a really positive attitude. Most people are dragging their feet and glaring when they come in.” This came from the Nurse who had just reaffirmed that she couldn’t re-use the needle attachment still dangling from my arm.

“Oh – huh- thanks. So can I take out the needle since it’s useless?” I asked.

“No, we’re not allowed to remove it here. You’ll have to go back to the Nurse who put it in,” she replied. I gave her an extremely positive smile and looked to the biohazard disposal box to my side. “Make it quick.” She looked over her shoulder.

I tried to slide the needle out surely but swiftly. I got the swift part down and dumped the plastic catheter in the disposal. I had mixed feelings about there being no impressive geyser of blood. The Nurse stuck me with a new needle in the other arm, drew three vials of blood, and told me that I was finished.

That was it; I was told that I would find out the results within the next few days. However, my Mom called one of the Nurses at the Urology clinic, and she informed me that I could call the Nurse the next afternoon for the results. If any of the tests showed a detectable spread, I would be unable to go to surgery. Chemotherapy and potentially nuking my sperm would be my main option. I slept while my Mom drove me home. She’d been there with me every step of the way.

I’d been doing fairly well about watching my alcohol and nicotine consumption. I hadn’t ordered a drink on the plane and had only chewed two pieces of my nicotine gum. I was at home enjoying a small glass of wine and seeing how long I could hold off before chomping on another piece of gum when the phone rang. It was my Aunt calling for my Mom.

As I sipped my wine, she never left the kitchen, so I heard her end of the conversation. I realized that she had told her entire half of the family about the cancer without consulting me. She narrated the events above and then started making sperm bank jokes that involved words like “deposit”, “withdrawal”, and “interest.” They were lame jokes but all in good humor. She saw me wince-smiling and decided to crack another joke.

“Oh, and of course all the girls will like R even more since most of them aren’t interested in having kids. Oh, he’s glaring at me now.” My Mom walked to the other end of the kitchen and continued her conversation.

I drained my wine and set the delicate glass down so that I wouldn’t crush it. She finished her conversation. “How’s the wine, dear?” she chirped.

“Hmmm- so all the O’Connors know. How many other people have you told?”

“They’re family. We share everything.”

“That’s nice. Yeah that’s really nice. I’m glad you can use my experience to get some more attention from your family.”

“What? It’s not about me. We talk; my sister was also telling me about her dog that has a neurological condition.”

“I see – you were telling each other about your pets. Hey, thanks for cheapening my experience.”

“Robert, they’re family. They care about you.”

“Oh, that must be why they’re so eager to talk to me. Oh wait, I haven’t spoken to a single one. It’s about you.”

We both fell silent. I reminded myself that I hadn’t played my cancer card too often. I’d only told about a dozen close friends. I’d let both of my jobs know that I had to take a medical leave of absence, but I hadn’t mentioned specifics. I hadn’t said a word to my mentor in my writing group for school; I didn’t want him to give me biased feedback on my work.

It wasn’t about embarrassment. I’d lost a nut, a hard-boiled egg probably now festering in a biohazard disposal box somewhere. So what? I was thankful that I got to keep my other one, and I laughed at all the good-natured, one-balled jokes. My Mom thought the ultimate source of my rage was physical.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed about, R. We’ll get through this,” my Mom spoke.

“Listen, I don’t give a shit about having one ball but don’t you goddamned make a joke about me not getting to have kids. Do you got it? Do you fucking understand?” I realized that I was screaming when the dog in the kitchen started barking.

“R, come on, you’re 23. Have you ever really even thought about having kids just yet?” she replied.

“NO NO NO! You’re making assumptions. This might be hard but take 10 seconds to think. Pretend you’re 23 and you’ve got balls. You found out you had cancer, lost your right nut, and broke up with your girlfriend in less than a week. Now they want you to jerk off into a cup ‘just in case.’ Your Mom tells everyone. You can joke about my one ball all you want but don’t you fucking dare make a joke about me not having kids.” I kept pulling the cancer cards out of my sleeve and slamming them down on the table. My hand was red and throbbing. My Mom was crying.

“You’re right -It was about me, I didn’t think, I didn’t know,” she sobbed.

My shoulders slumped. I thought that I had wanted her to cry. She’d been with me to every hospital visit, smiling and waiting. I’d been blogging about this whole experience and commiserating with friends this whole time. Couldn’t she have someone to talk to? This wasn’t my just my experience.

We hugged and she agreed to not make jokes about me possibly never getting to have my own kids. She also reminded me that I shouldn’t be ashamed about my condition. I sighed. She still didn’t get it. We are all alone, but she was there for me, offering support as best she knew how. I drank another glass of wine, chewed through four pieces of nicotine gum, and went to bed.

The next morning, both of my parents had gone to work. I looked out the window and our backyard was covered in white. It had snowed, a relatively unusual event for Jackson, Tennessee. I didn’t have to work. I didn’t have to drive. All I had to do was make a call later that day. Thus, the snow was a good thing, so I decided to make a snow man.

Upon making this decision, I drank coffee, read books, and lazed about. When I looked back outside, I saw that most of the white had vanished. No! I ran outside to investigate and the dog, an eight-month old Australian Shepherd, followed. There was a seven by fifteen foot patch of snow that had survived the rising heat by hiding under the shade supplied by a row of short pine trees.

How much longer did I have? There was no time to find gloves. As I began to roll up the first ball of snow, the dog attacked my creation. I had to put her inside and start over. I had finished the base and was moving on to the torso. I had to pause every thirty seconds or so to shake and rub some warmth back into my hands. When they got really cold, they started to burn, and if they got too warm, they started to burn. The trick was to warm my hands just enough to keep handling snow burn-free.

Halfway through rolling up the torso, the growing snow ball picked up a piece of dog crap. I didn’t want to waste my limited snow, so I shrugged and put the poop-covered side atop the snowman base – perhaps it would a sort of organic paste, additional paste for the entire structure. I added a snow headpiece, took a few steps back, and noticed that the entire structure was leaning to the left. The snowman toppled and shattered before I could catch it.

This was a test. A test of what? No time! The snow wasn’t going to cut it on its own. I would have to build a snow cyborg. I noticed a broken, wooden pallet leaning against the fence; one large crosspiece was still attached like a pair of wings. There was a half cylindrical piece of thick tree bark lying next to a tree stump. I also found a classical-style, plastic face with a depression above its rolling locks; it was a sort of plant holder, meant to be hung along a garden wall. Instead, it had been shot several times with a BB gun and thrown into the trees many years ago by my little brother and me.

With these props, I created my snow cyborg. I told myself that that the patches of brown in the snow from my earlier, failed snowman were just earthen smears. I also found out that some of the plants near the pine trees were covered in thorns. This was because the smaller branches from these plants had either fallen off or been cut, and they kept jolting my numb hands into wakefulness from under the snow at odd intervals. I abandoned the traditional but unstable 3-ball style. My snow cyborg’s base was a huge bubble butt, and I fused this to the next piece and the next until I had a sort of rounded stair step progression. I leaned the broken pallet with the winged crosspiece against the curved backside for support. I smoothed out the front and jammed in the huge bark piece. Each side of the bark was kept in place by a clump, arms clutching a shield. I set the plastic face on top the bark and filled the depression with snow to hold the small thorn branches, dangerous dreadlocks. I tapered the front of the base into several spikes along the ground, extensions of a flowing dress. Finally, I took a few steps back and jammed my hands into the pockets of my sweat pants.

Who was I fooling? That wasn’t no snow cyborg – I had just fashioned an angel.

I went back inside and found my cell phone. The burning had left my hands as I positioned myself at a window that allowed me to see my snow angel. I called the number for the Nurse.

All of the tests showed no detectable spread. I can have the surgery.

Shifts (ten!)

So I decided not to give any of the four possible numbers for the hot dog girl a call back. It’s not just the fact that my second date with the same lady was a complete turn-off; I know that there are about three billion other women, and at this point, I’d probably talk to most of them, provided that they were of legal age and still had most of their teeth. Yeah, I think that’s part of the problem; I don’t know what I want. On one of the online dating sites that I joined I put “whatever your lifestyle, please be happy, fun, and interesting.” What the fuck does that even mean? Could I claim to be happy, fun, and interesting?

My only friend in Chicago right now is a tenacious, tall, gay, black man in his mid-40s, who has a love for exciting food and thoughtful words. We attend the same low residency MFA program in California. He doesn’t live in the actual city of Chicago, but he comes up to run errands once a week. We get coffee or drinks and shoot the shit for a couple of hours. Don’t get me wrong – he’s an awesome friend, but I could do with more than just one friend in this big place.

It’s Friday night, I’m alone in the apartment, and there’s no one for me to call up and say “hey man, what’s going on – you want to get drinks somewhere?” Boohoo – so go out and make some fucking friends. Whenever I walk into a bar by myself, I feel like Jim Carrey in Cable Guy, where his eyebrows raise up and he gets that hopeful maniac grin when someone calls him “buddy.”

I’m realizing that I shouldn’t be so worried about finding my special someone/ meeting a girl to rock my world/getting my dick sucked. Sorry ladies, SuperBall’s gotta take some personal time. I need to find out what makes me happy, fun, and interesting and hopefully make some Chicagoan friends along the way.

I’m not sure what else to write. If you’ve been following the previous parts of the SuperBall journey up until now, I’ve basically been talking about my junk this whole time. I’m writing right now so that I don’t go to the liquor store a block away. Yeah! That’s what I’ll talk about.

Even as I was last writing about the supermarket that wouldn’t sell me liquor and passing by the liquor store on the way home, I was getting drunk. Sorry for any typos there. I waited until later that same night, congratulated myself on visiting the liquor store at a respectable hour, and bought a fifth of vodka. I congratulated myself when I called it a night and there was almost half of the bottle left. At three in the afternoon the next day, I told myself that it was five o’clock somewhere before finishing the rest. There definitely had to be less than half left in that bottle, since I wasn’t feeling much. I visited the same liquor store and congratulated myself when I only bought a small bottle of rum.

I don’t have a drinking problem, and I’m not an alcoholic. I have a substance fixation, and I’m an addict. Alcohol wasn’t even my drug of choice for the most part; it was more of a background noise, a refreshment to go along with whatever other drugs were hanging out with me for the day. Now, I congratulate myself for just drinking and not throwing something else into the equation. It’s slowly dawned on me that congratulations aren’t in order. I’ve just been gradually drinking more and more since graduation. There’s no growth. It’s just been a shift.

It’s been the same with cigarettes going on ten years now. I switched to chewing tobacco then switched back at least a dozen times. I decide that I liked chewing tobacco better but smoked when my gums started to hurt and dipped when my throat started to ache. I finally started chewing nicotine gum about five months ago. I haven’t smoked or dipped since then, but I’m still completely dependent on nicotine. There’s no growth. It’s just been a shift.

I think this could be the part where I blame all this on having cancer. That’s simply not true. I’ve known about that for less than a month, and this has been going on for years. What is this? This is a refusal to grow and finding clever ways to sidestep whatever difficulties make me doubt that decision. I shift and forget until I have to make my next move. Perhaps the best part about having to deal with the upcoming surgery and whatever else may follow is the knowledge that I have to stand my ground.

I was lamenting earlier the fact that I don’t have many friends in Chicago. I’ve made and kept great friends elsewhere, so why can’t I say the same for here? If I spent the same amount of time going out and meeting people that I’ve spent getting drunk and playing video games in my apartment, then I don’t think that I’d be writing this.

Shit needs fixing – where to start? Maybe I’m not sure how to be happy, fun, and interesting on a regular basis because I haven’t taken the time for sadness, hard work, and yes, being boring.

My ex-girlfriend has suggested that I seek help. I don’t want to do that for a multitude of reasons. I think a bit of that is due to stupid pride, but mostly, I think it would be more mind-numbing than helpful. I don’t want to go to any support groups. Even though I’ve spent this whole time complaining, I don’t want to listen to strangers do the same. I don’t want people to pat me on the back and say “we’ve all been there” before trying to one-up me with their own stories of self-destruction. I don’t want to talk to a Psychologist. We’ll talk about how things aren’t black or white but merely grey. We’ll do our best to talk everything away.

What I’m saying is that we are all alone. We’ll never be able to know exactly what our fellow human beings are thinking or feeling. We can stretch empathy to its limits, but, short of telepathy, we’re shit out of luck in that department. This is not a bad thing. It means that no one can stand your ground but you. That doesn’t mean that you should become a recluse, drink your own pee, and store your toenail clippings in an empty pickle jar labeled space dollars. Friends are there for a reason, but, ultimately, any growth has to be your own journey. We are all alone together, and that is a good thing.

Plus, I don’t need to put myself in some artificial, specialized setting to know that I have problems. I need to get the hell out of my apartment and start being alone with other people. Also, I need to stop drinking so much. It’s been two days since I’ve had a drink, and I know that it doesn’t mean anything. I’ll also have to find out why I’ve been drinking so much along the way.

As I started writing this, I got up from my desk and put on my jacket. The liquor store is less than a block away, and I’d only be getting a little bottle of rum. I don’t intend to be substance-free for the rest of my life. I just don’t want to be substance-dependent. That’s plenty growth for me. Hell, I’ve probably got it under control by now. It’s been two days! Sidestep sidestep. The bottle of rum is really small, I swear! Shuffle shift. I took my jacket off, sat back down, and kept writing. I think it’ll be OK to have a boring night. I’m going to brew a pot of coffee – hopefully that’s not too much of a shift.

Trial and Error (part 9)

Today is the morning after a failed second date. Today is also the day that they refused to sell me liquor at my neighborhood supermarket. Let’s talk about the dates first.

This woman I went out with was not the hot dog girl at the movie theater; I still need to call her. No, this person was someone I met by replying to a Craigslist personal. She was a 37-year-old mom with a beautiful smile and intriguing eyes. We exchanged a few pictures and kept telling each other how nice we looked, but we also hit it off in our email conversations. We exchanged ideas about books, vices, and music, and after two days, we also exchanged numbers. I’ll call her Jean.

Jean asked if I wanted to hang out at this cool dive bar that I’d never visited. I one upped her and asked her to go out to dinner beforehand. We met on a Sunday night outside the place. We both told each other how nervous we were, and that somehow broke the ice. She looked just like her picture, but I hadn’t expected her to be so thin. Even under the sweater and the jacket, I could tell that she was very slender.

We had plenty to talk about over dinner to the point that the waitress had to come by several times before we could decide on food. My date was allergic to wheat/gluten, so her choices were limited. We both ordered whiskey although it was more of a beer place. I ordered a duck reuben sandwich and salad, while she ordered a side of potatoes and fries. I remarked that she must really like potatoes, and we started talking about a man in Washington State who ate only potatoes for sixty days. There were no awkward silences.

Jean kept offering and sometimes shoveling potatoes onto my plate from her side dish. I convinced her to try some of the meat off my duck reuben, and she took a rather small piece. We barely touched the fries. I said that I’d get the check if she’d get the drinks at the dive bar. Jean handed me a CD of this Swedish rock band whose name I can’t pronounce or even spell before heading to the bathroom. The check was handled and still no Jean. I thought that she had left until I saw her jacket was still on the chair. Fifteen minutes later, she came back to the table smiling.

We took a cab to the bar, and I got the feeling that it would be OK for me to kiss her. It didn’t feel like the right moment, and I hesitated. Jean was going back to school for music and sound production, so the bar was more of a music venue. There were painted car doors, detached baby doll heads, and possibly ironic artwork hanging all over the walls. I told Jean that the bodies for the doll heads were hidden behind the bar, and when the place closed, the bodies would come to life and choose a head. The bartenders didn’t have to clean anything because these creepy elves would handle it. She laughed, an adorable series of gasps complemented by her eyes looking down at the floor.

No one was dancing as a band played an experimental, elongated tune that may have involved a fiddle. I hadn’t worn my glasses, since I hadn’t been wearing glasses in any of the pictures that I’d sent via email. I didn’t want Jean to think that I was a fraud. People in the crowd stared at us and moved away until we had a three yard radius surrounding us. I realized that we’d been talking the whole time while everyone else was silently, motionlessly enjoying the music. It was definitely a hipster crowd.

During one song, which included a high-pitched singer and what may have been an accordion or a mini-fridge, Jean asked if she could my hand. OK, this is the right moment, I told myself. By this time, we were standing under a green light near the sound control board. In the green glow, she looked closer to 17 than 37. I kissed her cheek. She responded by kissing my neck. It was nice?

The only part was she wanted to keep kissing and kissing and kissing. I was having a good time and obliged, although I wanted her to buy me more drinks since I’d bought dinner. We’d been kissing for a good 20 minutes, and I was starting to feel self-conscious and slightly bored.

I suggested that we get another drink, and Jean suggested that I wait on the bar’s only couch while she got some. I did so, and she came back with a small glass of Bourbon. If you’ve read this far, then sorry that I haven’t given you any dialogue up until now.

“We can share,” Jean said. She set the glass of bourbon on the armrest and went back to kissing me. We tried doing the tongue thing, but there wasn’t symmetry or rhythm, so I started sucking and biting her lips and playfully smooching her long, shapely nose.

“Here, I want to try something,” I said as I broke away. I took a swig from the bourbon, swallowed most of it, and swished the last bit on my lips before kissing her again. The Bourbon kiss was more interesting. I also found that I liked it better when she was kissing my cheeks, ears, and neck, so I kept turning my head.

“You have money cheeks. I just want to spoil you and kiss you all over your body and give you massages,” she cooed in my ear.

I told her that would be fine. We joked about money cheeks. I was having a good time, but I was trying not to get impatient about the Bourbon only lasting a few kisses. We’d been kissing for about an hour on the couch. There was a pool table right across from the couch, and I must’ve tripped at least four hipsters playing while trying very hard to look like they didn’t care about what they were playing.

“Do you want water?” Jean asked.

“Yeah, my mouth is getting sort of dry. You really like making out,” I said.

“I don’t make out with just anyone,” she said.

“No, I wasn’t saying that. I was just saying that I like that you like making out. I appreciate your enthusiasm,” I replied.

Jean left to get us some water, and I said I’d go with her to get my own drink. My passive aggressiveness paid off, since she told me to stay on the couch while she got some water and more Bourbon.

There was about another half hour of Bourbon-flavored kisses. Finally, she decided that she needed a Bali Shag cigarette, so I joined her outside. I was chewing nicotine gum, and I’m not going to smoke anymore for obvious reasons. On the way out, a hipster in a stupid, green flannel shirt approached us.

“So do guys think you have anything left for home?” he asked and smiled to himself.

I turned to Jean. “I don’t know, it can be hard you know. Do you think you’ve got anything left?” I said.

“ Yeah, I think so,” Jean said.

“Huh, because we were wondering whether or not to give you guys tips,” the hipster said.

“Yeah! If you want to give us tips, we’ll take them. I won’t say no to money,” I replied.

The hipster looked confused that we weren’t ashamed at the prospect of being offered money.

“You know if you aren’t comfortable with giving us tips, then you could buy us drinks. Do you want to buy us drinks?” I asked.

He didn’t reply and stuffed his hands into his pockets as we put on our jackets. I really wouldn’t have said no to another drink. Jean smoked. We came back in, and I bought myself a huge bottle of Arrogant Bastard when she went to the bathroom. Unlike at the time at the restaurant, she wasn’t gone for 15 minutes.

We danced for a few minutes to this DJ who only played funk.

“Do you want to go back to the couch?” Jean asked.

“Oh, it looks like other people have claimed it,” I said. Those people got up, so we made our way back to the couch.

I cradled my beer and tried not to count the kisses. I’m one of those people who doesn’t always close his eyes when he’s about to kiss. I sometimes like to see the other person’s face as they move in. Jean’s pale, smooth, elfin face looked very trusting, and her bottom lip would flatten out as if she was about to put in a mouth guard. She kept telling me how gorgeous I was and how lucky we were to have met. I felt like I had to say something back.

“You have beautiful eyes, and I can tell you have a beautiful soul,” I said.

The utter content on her face scared me. I wanted to add something like “It’s pillow talk, baby,” but I succumbed to more kisses instead. I also blurted out that I was still living with my ex-girlfriend. She said that was OK, and thanked me for being honest. We went back to kissing.

Throughout the whole affair, I couldn’t get a feel for her body underneath the layers of skirt and sweater. I felt in some places, but the most I saw were her legs; they were pale and thin like a doll’s.

Still, I thought we had an excellent time. I liked that she kept listening to my stupid stories, laughing at my lame jokes, and complimenting my looks at a time in my life when I really needed it. We eventually took a cab back and almost got hit by a minvan. As the taxi driver cursed, I was invited to cuddle back at her place, and I wanted to, despite the hours of kissing. I realized that it’d look bad for my current living situation with my ex-girlfriend to be gone the entire night on a first date.

At least, that’s what I told myself. I knew that I was having a good time, right? Jean and I agreed to go out for a movie the next night, since we both agreed that we’d hit it off.

24 hours later, I was in Jean’s apartment. Guess what we were doing? Yes, we were making out. I was kissing halfheartedly by then, but I was a horny mess.

Before getting into the apartment, I met her at the grocery store where she was picking up meat for her cat. The feline had an allergic reaction to all the other affordable, brand name foods, so her Vet suggested the meat over buying an expensive, allergen-free brand. Oh yeah, I also found out that she had three cats.

I forgot their names, so I’ll call them Larry, Moe, and Curly. Larry was a fat, grey, Garfield-esque cat; Moe was a badass tabby with a mangled ear; and Curly was entirely black except for a small patch of white on his chest. Larry and Moe were on the bed as Jean and I kissed and unbuttoned each others’ shirts.

I told her about having only one testicle. I hated saying “only one” but it came out that way. Her response was “so what?” I could tell that she noticed the scar on my stomach, but she didn’t mention it.

To make a twisted story perhaps more bearable, I’ll cut to the chase. Jean and I went down on one another. Her technique was skilled and compassionate, but I was too distracted by the thumping against her bedroom door.

Jean assured me that it was the third cat trying to get in, but I kept wondering if it was her 18-year-old son trying to gain entry. Thankfully, I never had to meet the guy, since that would have been awkward on several levels. I imagined lying about my age, but it still would’ve been strange to have that interaction, that unspoken eye contact that I was getting things from his Mom that he should never imagine.

Finally, I was able to let go and hit climax. It wasn’t quite the vibrating door or the two, watchful cats on the bed that held me back. The woman with whom I’d had an amazing first date was shockingly skinny. She had beautiful skin, but I could count her ribs. I kept remembering her long trip to the bathroom during last night’s dinner. There was a map of the United States along the wall closest to the bed, and I kept staring at it, wondering what the fuck I was doing there.

We finished and cuddled. She massaged my back and butt in an attentive, heartbreaking fashion. We smoked a bowl and talked about everything and nothing. We had originally agreed to go to a movie that I’d picked, but none of the clocks in the apartment were set to the right time. Instead, we agreed to catch dinner at a nearby pub, since I’d told her that I was hungry.

In addition to going to school, Jean more or less worked as a full-time waitress. She had formerly worked at the pub we went to, and she knew the waitress there. This compelled the waitress to give us intimate details about her recent personal life. I didn’t care. I busily ate peanuts from the table bowl as they talked, since I was hungry. Finally, we both ordered burgers.

Jean and the waitress jokingly described my burger as a face-melter, a gut-buster. I’d ordered the bleu cheese burger and wolfed it down. After that was gone, I started looking at Jean’s plate. She had removed the buns from her burger and hadn’t touched the fries…again. I would call it generous to say that she sliced and diced about a third of her cheese covered patty. She noticed my look and explained that she disliked feeling full and that her stomach sometimes had strange reactions. We didn’t make eye contact, and I nodded embarrassedly.

At the same time, I wanted to jam the rest of that hamburger patty down her throat. I was pissed that she had at least one overweight cat at home and that she had bought a good amount of meat for another one. I said nothing. When she reached for my hand, I let her hold my elbow instead.

We got our check. I laid down my last twenty and went to the bathroom. When I got back, I asked Jean if our change had come back. I then found out that waitresses tip each other inordinate amounts. I reluctantly explained that I didn’t have any money to buy an L train ticket back home, so Jean handed me a bunch of singles without counting them.

We made our way back to her apartment and followed a similar line of conversation. Curly, the cat with the allergic reaction, had wandered back to the bed. He started scratching his ear as I tried to pet him. The scratching escalated, and Curly tore at his ear while meowing violently. Finally, he shook his head and sprayed some sort of feline mucous on my forearm before sprinting from the room.

Jean wanted to kiss and cuddle. I noticed that her arms were as thin and doll-like as her legs and covered in impressive veins. I complimented the veins of her arms as I traced them.

“Be honest, do you find me attractive?” Jean spoke. She looked at me seemingly without judgment or expectation.

“You know, I do find parts of you attractive. You have a beautiful face and a wonderful personality,” I answered reluctantly.

“Oh, OK.” Jean’s eyes traveled back to the floor. I felt like the total dick that I was.

“I’m sorry. It’s just,” I began

“No, it’s OK,” she retorted

I spent the next five minutes trying to tell her how beautiful her eyes were, but it was probably more damaging than constructive.

At that point, I just wanted to smoke another bowl, so I hung around. Moe, the cat with the mangled ear, stared accusingly at me from the bed, but she perked up when we blew smoke in her direction.

I felt brutally honest at this point. Jean asked me if I liked her jeans; they were the type of jeans that come with pre-fabricated tears, which I hate. I told her about a threadbare Army shirt that I’d loved and cherished for a dozen plus years. I told her that tears should be earned and not manufactured. I was a complete jerk.

Before I left, there were a few more smooches to the side of my mouth. They felt motherly and sorrowful.

“Thank you,” Jean said as I stepped to the other side of her apartment door.

“Thanks,” I said as I closed the door.

I think we both meant it, but that doesn’t change that fact that I’m a jerk who won’t admit that he’s a jerk and doesn’t know what he wants.

OK, so don’t forget the earlier mention of me being denied liquor at the supermarket. This is the morning, rather afternoon, after that failed second date. I have a 25 page research paper due for school in 2 days, and I have about 5 pages and plenty of research leftover. I decide to make something delicious and satisfying that I haven’t had in awhile: macaroni and cheese with tuna fish. As I procure those items, a fifth of vodka somehow finds its way into my shopping basket. I take that whole mess to the self-checkout line.

When the vodka bottle hit the scan strip, I take my ID up to the monitoring cashier. She looks at my ID for about 3 seconds.

“I’m sorry sir, but your ID has an under 21 line posted on it,” she says.

“Yeah, but look at the birth date. I’m 23,” I reply

“I’m sorry sir. I can’t take that,” she says.

“Listen, I’ve lived in this area for 3 months, and I’ve never had a problem. What’s changed?”

“Most cashiers would take this, but I’m a trainer. The rules say we can’t take an ID with and under 21 on it”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. I stride angrily back to my self-checkout spot and plop my fifth of vodka back into the shopping basket. The trainer cashier comes over to my scan area to take the item off my bill.

“This is silly. This is ridiculous. I’ve never had this before. Look, I can show you my debit and credit cards. They have the same name,” I spout.

“Sir, I have to follow the rules as a trainer,” she replies.

“OK, so what if I brought a passport. No under 21 on that, right?”

“If you had brought the passport first, then that would’ve worked. But I’ve seen the under 21 on you card, so I couldn’t take it.”

“Oh, I see that’s how you operate. That’s how you operate. Does that make sense to you, following those rules? This is really dumb.”

The trainer doesn’t reply. She removes the bottle of vodka from my scan area and lumbers back to her desk. I realize that it’s about 2:30 in the afternoon. I give her a look of death as I file out with my under 21 groceries.

I also realize that I’m not so indignant over her blind adherence to meaningless rules as I am over the fact that I won’t get drunk as soon as I’d thought. There’s a liquor store on the way home, right before I turn off to my home street. I pause at the crosswalk and don’t pay attention to the traffic signals. I finally decide to walk the street home.

There’s this need for instant gratification everywhere. I think I’ve gone into dating with that expectation, and I’ve realized that his parallels my drinking habits. I must always feel good; otherwise; I must be doing something wrong. I know that time is limited, but I think I can stand to wait on those decisions.

Lesson (part 8)

I’ve already gone back on one of my promises to myself. It starts in the bedroom and moves to the bathroom. I’m convinced that I’ve felt a lump on my left testicle. I hover over the toilet and can’t stop feeling myself up.

“ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod”

I try to convince myself that it’s just a bulging vein and not another lump. That works for about three seconds before I’m back to probing my left nut. Please stop.

Perhaps some higher power is sending me a message: I am not fit to procreate. I would only be adding to the world’s overpopulation problem, and I’d make people miserable along the way. Maybe there’s something in my DNA that would spawn miniature Hitlers, Mussolinis, Kim Jong-Ils shouting and spreading insanity. I’d drop them off at Burger King and the cashier would chuckle nervously when they ordered human flesh. I chuckle nervously myself and feel what may or may not be a bulging vein. Stop it.

I’m now inspecting my left testicle with both hands, trying to see if there is a lump under that vein. My ex-girlfriend has told me about women experiencing false pregnancy symptoms (http://www.womens-health.co.uk/false_pregnancy.html). These women are so convinced that they are carrying a life within that their abdomens swell and menstrual cycles cease. The mind can be a terribly funny thing. Stop.

Both the Urologist and Oncologist have told me that the chances of getting a tumor in my remaining testicle are almost non-existent. The testicles are separated by an inner wall so the cancer spreads upwards instead of sideways. Statistics are helpful, but this is my experience. So that being said, do I really believe that SuperBall’s got a lump? I’ve been in the bathroom for at least fifteen minutes now, and my ball is starting to ache from the incessant touching – or maybe the aches are caused by the tumor? STOP.

I have a new pair of corduroy pants; they are the first pants with a button-up fly that I’ve owned. I put those on so that I’ll have to think about what I’m doing as I slowly unbutton for another check. This all started over the holidays, and I’ve got a similar holiday story.

I was 17, a senior in high school, and driving back from my best friend’s house. It was the first morning of Christmas break, and although there’d been drinking the previous night, I was sober if slightly hung-over. Why do these parts always begin with a holiday hangover? I was taking a narrow curve while messing with my stereo to turn up a Blue Man Group song. A large SUV was coming the other way, taking up its lane and then some. I swerved and skidded into a driveway.

Other than having my forearms scraped by the airbag, I was fine. The car, on the other hand, now had its front right wheel parallel to the ground. To make a long story short, my parents, my little brother, and I eventually arrived back on the scene. My Mom and Dad were surprisingly understanding about the whole incident, and we agreed to meet at an Asian Buffet for lunch. I have very nice parents.

Here’s the catch. My Dad drove my little brother and me home first, since we agreed that we should pick up a camera to take pictures for insurance. I sat in the back seat for the ride back. As we were turning left across a lane to enter our neighborhood, a car came across that lane at about 60 miles per hour. We were broadsided on the passenger side, mostly on the back door. My Dad and brother were lucky to come away with only a few cuts and bruises. My neck was fractured along the C5 and C6 vertebrae. I was told that I was lucky to have not been paralyzed.

I had to wear a neck brace for the next three months, and there was this mounting frustration that I wouldn’t be fit for my last high school season of track. I had been the fastest 800 meter runner on the team last year. That’s not saying much, since our high school only had about 400 students. Running was one of the few activities that I took seriously.

I loved the 800 meter race because it was the perfect combination of speed and endurance. The race was two laps around the track. Some of the runners would always sprint the first lap and then die off when they realized there was still a second lap to go. The second lap was my favorite part. 400 meters left, 300, 200… GO! Once you left that straightaway and hit the last curve, you couldn’t hold anything back. You had to fly or die.

I had to start my last track season a little late, but it was my best season ever. I ran my fastest races and made it to the State competition for the first time.

Am I bragging? Of course. That was one of the proudest moments of my life. Now I’m wondering if I can find the pride to not keep checking my remaining testicle like a madman. I’m also wondering if there’s significance to these events happening over the holiday season. Is someone or something trying to teach me a lesson? If so, then I’d better learn damned fast, since it seems to me that there’s been an escalation in the teaching method being used.

One more thing. I don’t think of myself as a confrontational person. People can elbow me out of my space at the bar or cut me off in traffic, and I don’t shout or honk. That wasn’t true in the 800 meter race. Sure, there were some guys whom I could never pass, but I’d be damned if I ever let anyone pass me on that last lap. Some runners would look back when they heard the footfalls and heavy breathing. You couldn’t do that. You had to fight that urge since it messed up your stride. In those last 400 meters, there’d almost always be some excited coach from an opposing team jumping up and down to the side of the track as I passed. He’d be yelling something along these lines:

“You got him. Pass him. He’s got nothing left. He’s dying.”

That hasn’t happened yet.

SuperBall (part 7)

All the guys want to be me

All the Ladies want to be with me

They call me SuperBall

OK, perhaps that’s not quite true, but I’m moving closer to a sort of truth. Have you ever felt a secret grief or a hidden passion that you swear no one else has ever felt before? Your chances aren’t good. There’s someone before who has felt the same way or has dealt with it better than you could have. Don’t panic – you’re doing the best that you can, right?

I wish that I could give you an immediately uplifting story. I wish that I could skip the part about drinking fifths of vodka in a night, forgetting to make myself dinner, and joining free online dating services.

An epiphany is like an orgasm; you can’t just stamp your foot and demand that it come for you. I don’t have time; we’re all running low on time. I don’t have time to give in to fear. I don’t have time to argue. I don’t have the time.

Here’s a nice bit of story: it hasn’t even been 2 weeks since I’ve been half-neutered, but I managed to get a girl’s number at a movie theater. This was the first time that I managed to actually ask for someone’s number and receive it. Here’s how it happened.

I went to see Tron: Legacy, but I walked the few miles to the movie theater to get some exercise. The only bad part about that was I got there 10 minutes late, and they weren’t showing the movie since I was the only person seeing it. The good part was I got to talk to the cute girl who sold me the ticket, and she suggested that I kill time at a bar until the later showing.

I was the only person in the bar for the first hour, but people (all older gentlemen) trickled in for the sports games. Finally, two girls came in and they started talking specifics about football. I know next to nothing about football, so I finally screwed up the nerve to ask them what it all meant. I said that I was trying to write a detective story where football players all around the country are getting injured (this happens anyway), but then one of them is murdered. The PI on the case discovers that some of these other injuries were intentional and linked to a high stakes fantasy football league. I asked the girls for their numbers in case I had any more football questions, and they laughed at me. I don’t think it helped that I was very drunk at that point. It was time to go see Tron anyway, and now I have a detective story to write.

Back at the theater, the same girl who sold me the ticket kept making fun of me for being drunk. She said that I should get her patented hot dogs, so I did. She brought the hot dogs in to me while Tron was playing (the movie theater was empty except for another couple). In the dark, the hot dogs looked misshapen, but I figured they were just movie theater hot dogs. It turns out they were covered in peppers. Past that initial shock, they were actually quite good.

I couldn’t really follow Tron due to my drunkenness and not being able to stop thinking about the hot dog girl. As soon as the credits came on the screen, I vaulted out of my seat and complained about my movie experience to her. I said that the hot dogs were excellent, but the actual movie had too many special effects and plot twists. The only way I could feel good about that night is if she’d let me take her to dinner next week. The only problem is I was being stupid and trying to impress her; I said I’d memorize the number instead of copying it down… I forgot part of the number; I know 8 of the digits for sure, but the other 2 could be a 3 or a 5. I guess you could say that I got four possible numbers that night.

Her name is Becca, and she has very dark, mischievous eyes. She’s 20, and she’s turning 21 in about a month. It’s too bad that I’ll be dealing with the surgery then. Hopefully, there will be a dinner or two before then.

Hopeful? Yeah, I suppose I can find the time to be hopeful.

Grown Ass Man (SuperBall part 6)

You know, I’ve never been brave. I’ve been careless or reckless but never brave. That’s just a nice way of saying that I am a coward. When I try to conjure up some remembrance of courage, I’m drawn to missed opportunities, past failings.

I remember arriving at a high school football game to find that a drunk jerk had punched my little brother in the face after he’d made a smartass comment. I walked up to the guy and talked to him while other high schoolers circled in, waiting for the fight. There was no fight since I walked to the bathroom, splashed my face with water, and watched myself shake with impotent rage. I spent the rest of the night getting the guy to apologize to my brother, but it was a half-assed, sloppy apology. You might say that I chose reconciliation rather than conflict – don’t feed me the shit. I should’ve punched the guy in the face on first sight.

Less than six months ago, my girlfriend and I were walking to the L train station. Three guys were loitering along the way. One of them said something to the effect of “I like your hair, baby” (she has dreadlocks). They called out after us “do you use shampoo?” Not once did I say anything or even give one of the guys a hard stare. I just clenched my jaw and looked down; I didn’t even hold her hand or put an arm around her waist. I am a coward.

Even before I lost my right nut, I was worried or scared about whatever little idea happened to be on my mind for that day. It gets tiring. I do nothing and hope for change. It’s the path of least resistance with a healthy helping of self-loathing.

I have three options for future treatment now that the tumor has been removed: “light” chemotherapy, surveillance, or a major surgery. The first option isn’t really an option, since there’s about a 1 in 3 chance that the cancer has spread. Chemotherapy at this point would likely be overkill, and it’s not guaranteed that such a light dose will stop any potential spread. Thus, I’m left deciding between surveillance and surgery.

Surveillance basically means less invasive but less certain follow-ups with more long term risks. The follow-ups would consist of CT scans and blood work every 3 months for the next 5 years. CT scans involve considerably more radiation than regular X-rays, and the exposure risks in the long term are relatively unknown. The doctors would be looking for any enlargement of my abdominal lymph nodes, since they constitute the primary staging site if and when the cancer metastasizes. The internal imaging is detailed but not to the microscopic level. If lymph node enlargement is detected using this method, then there is a definite spread. Surgery is a possibility but chemotherapy is basically a given at that point. If there is any spread, then it will likely take place within the next 2 years.

That’s 2 years of waiting and hoping and basically doing nothing. This decision feels familiar – it’s been my M.O. until now.

Let me describe the other option, the surgery. Have you seen the torture scene near the end of Braveheart? It’s that plus anesthetic and minus the pain and getting my head chopped off at the end. OK, maybe the not best example, so I’ll try fellow one-baller, Tom Green. He received the surgery and you can see it here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Th1e5CYY39k (start around 5:30 if you want to skip some of the hilarity).

The surgery is called Retroperitoneal Lymph Node Dissection (RPLND) and starts with an incision just below the sternum. The surgeons continue that cut around and past the belly button. They will spread apart that opening and shift internal organs and intestines out of the way to get to the abdominal lymph nodes. This is where the dissection part of RPLND comes in. The surgeons will remove the lymph nodes that were attached to the infected testicle. Infection, minor bowel obstruction, and retrograde ejaculation are among the possible complications of RPLND.

Retrograde ejaculation means that semen will no longer shoot normally from the penis; instead, ejaculate will terminate into the bladder. This side effect would come from nerve damage; a surgeon may accidentally nick or even sever one of the many nerves during the dissection. Oh yeah, and the recovery time for this operation is 4-6 weeks. I don’t want this fucking surgery.

These three options were presented to me by an Oncologist on Monday morning. I also learned that chemotherapy, which was presented as the last stage of possible treatment, can cause infertility. Although the Oncologist recommended RPLND, I was convinced that I’d choose the surveillance option. My last surgery wasn’t an option, and I’d felt rushed; I’d lost my right testicle within 8 hours of being told that it had a tumor.

I made a decision tree with risks, benefits, and possible outcomes. If I chose surveillance, then I’d just have to wait. Sure, the many CT scans would be a pain in the ass, and the long term cancer risks for that type of radiation exposure aren’t definitely known. But I wouldn’t have to be dissected, and I could go on as usual. If they detected a spread, then other treatments would become necessities rather than options. It would be decided for me. I could wait and see.

Unfortunately, the decision tree also revealed that a RPLND at this early stage had a high probability of halting any spread. If microscopic spread of the cancer was in the lymph nodes, then I’d be essentially cured upon their removal. The tricky part is I’d have to get the surgery within the next month or so to reap the full benefits. I tried to convince myself that surveillance would be the braver option, since I could embrace the uncertainty, let go, and wait.

I went to sleep and hoped that I’d have a vivid dream that would decide for me. That didn’t happen, but my first conscious thought upon waking was Go to Surgery. At this point, I was considering flipping a coin, but my ex-girlfriend has informed me that grown ass men don’t flip coins. They make their own decisions.

Tuesday evening - I’m looking at a random section of the newspaper and reading about a Tennessee leader of a professional women’s organization; she is trying to teach people that Islam isn’t rooted in terrorism and hate. I flip the page to follow the story and see an article about trying to reduce the number of CT scans given to young children because of radiation exposure.

I lock myself in the bathroom, drop my pants, and study myself in the mirror. Half of my pubic hair is still very long, since the surgeons only needed to shave the right half for the previous surgery. I find a pair of scissors and trim the remaining half as best I can. I kind of like the way my cock rests on my remaining ball, which falls more in the middle. In the last week I’ve started thinking of this new arrangement as an interesting oddity, like the pair of webbed toes that I have on each foot. The current arrangement isn’t the problem.

I keep tracing my index finger from my sternum to past my belly button, harder and harder until it leaves a path of red skin. I always thought that having a long scar would be neat, story –worthy. Now, I’m not so sure. I turn on the shower to cover up my sobbing. I’m scared. I can’t do it. I can’t make decisions. I can only wait.

If you are about to be born and plan on having a semi-serious medical condition at a relatively young age, then I recommend that you decide to be born to a Doctor. It’s irresponsible otherwise. The RPLND isn’t a common surgery performed at every hospital. But my parents were in full support mode, and my Dad had two of his colleagues call over to Nashville to get me a consultation with a RPLND-qualified surgeon on Wednesday morning. This worked out perfectly since my flight to Chicago was in Nashville for Wednesday evening.

Before we get to the RPLND consultation, let me assure you that I wasn’t writing out decision trees in a vacuum. I asked for advice. Most of my good friends said it was a tough decision. My ex-girlfriend said she’d take the surveillance option. My Dad suggested exploring the possibilities of laparoscopic surgery, which would involve several, precise incisions rather than peeling me apart. However, skilled laparoscopic surgeons aren’t as familiar with lymph node dissection, and the results are less conclusive. When I asked my Mom what she would do if she were in my position (and had testicles), she said that she’d ask her Mom… what I’m trying to say is every conversation reminded me that, ultimately, the decision had to be mine.

OK – Nashville – we’re seated in the patient room. My Dad is on my left, and my Mom is on my right. The Urological surgeon enters, and he’s a clean-cut Asian guy in his mid-30s. I keep staring at his hands throughout the Q & A session; they look strong and small, perfect for probing my insides. Most of the information I’ve already heard. I find out that if any traces of cancer are found after the RPLND, then I’ll have to undergo two cycles of chemotherapy. I also find out that this relatively light chemo won’t necessarily render me unfertile.

From losing my right testicle to now, I’ve realized that I really want to have kids at some point in my life. I want to teach them to cherish their sense of humor and to make their own decisions. I want to teach them to be strong.

We ask all the possible questions and get all the possible answers for the moment. It’s time to speak. There’s tightness in my chest. I can’t wait any longer. I tell the Urologist that I want to schedule the surgery. He and my parents assure me that there’s at least a few more weeks for me to make my decision. Two days were enough. I tell them I want the surgery.

I’m sick of waiting and doing nothing. I’m goddamned tired of being a coward. The surgery is scheduled for February 8^th. Wish me luck.