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.