Lump

I found a lump on my right testicle.

To call it pea-sized would be generous. It was just a hard mass that I could locate after fiddling with my sac for several seconds. That was early November, and it worried me enough to have an Urologist appointment set up between Christmas and New Year’s Eve during my next home visit. In the meantime, I gently fidgeted with that lump, convinced myself it wasn’t growing, and managed to forget about it for days at a time. At the very worst it could be testicular cancer, which has a very high cure rate. If so, that insignificant lump could be a life-defining experience, something I could write about. Well, there you go.

I was originally scheduled to see the Urologist on Monday, December 27^th, but that was pushed back to Tuesday at 8:30. That was just fine, since I got to spend Monday night drinking with my best friend from high school and my little brother. The first place we went was Double D’s – they don’t serve pints; the smallest drink you can get there is a 32 oz, which was also just fine. My friend and I agreed that the name of the establishment was a bit of a misnomer, but the girls were still nice.

We later went to a karaoke bar downtown. At that point, I didn’t know it was a karaoke bar, but I had the balls… courage to talk to several, pretty girls who had gone to high school with me. I’m spoken for at the moment, so talking with them was another thing that was just fine that night. Several times along the way, I realized that I was drinking heavily to celebrate tomorrow’s verdict.

OK, I feel as if I’m stalling. I’m taking too much time to explain that I am solidly hung-over come Tuesday morning. This is also a clever ploy to shift to the present tense, since I am told that can make events more graphic. My Mom wakes me at 7:30 and tells me that I should shower – an unspoken, common courtesy for whichever Doctor has to fondle my balls.

Fast forward. I am in a regular patient’s room, generic except for the chair off to the side. Except for the concave footrests, the top half is similar to those reclining chairs you see in a dentist’s office, blue leather and ergonomic headpiece. The bottom half terminates abruptly over a twisted beer bong, a white rectangular box with an accordion tube connected to the linoleum floor. I’m relieved that they’ve already had me pee in a cup. A Nurse comes in and takes my blood, filling a third tube “just in case.”

The Doctor enters, shakes my hand, and we sit in the two, normal chairs in the room. He is about five and a half feet tall, and his white Doctor’s coat looks comically oversized. His short, white hair is complemented by a neat moustache, and golden rimmed glasses cover his energetic, apologetic, blue eyes. There is small talk before I unveil my two-balled glory. I point out the lump. He touches it gently and says that it is definitely cause for concern. We sit back down and go through my patient history.

“Any blood in your stool?” the Doctor asks as part of the list of routine questions.

“Yes sir – actually about a week and a half ago. It just kind of came out with the rest,” I say. I’m actually eager to give more than a one syllable answer to one of the questions.

“OK, the quickest way for me to check it is by hand to see if I can get a bit of stool. You’ll have to pull down your trousers again,” he apologizes. He also points to the hybrid dentist-beer bong chair, so I understand that I should put my hands on the footrests to brace myself.

“Now, most guys don’t like this,” he says.

I find myself wondering about the patients who do like it. How do they identify themselves? I suppose it would be something along the lines of “hey, that really hit the spot, Doc.” I hear the drawer slide open behind me – that must be where they keep the lube.

The insertion is quick, precise, and invasive. I guess I’ll side with most guys on this one. The Doctor holds out the first, two fingers of his latex gloved hand for me to inspect. They look slightly wet and there’s one curly, black hair on his pointer finger.

“Nope, it looks clean. We’ll have you get an ultrasound. I’ll step out while you get cleaned up.” The Doctor tries to hand me a box of tissues on my left. I turn right. He goes right. I go left. He decides to plop the tissue box down on the right armrest before leaving.

I have to go downstairs to wait for the ultrasound. I pick up a magazine and can’t remember the title. The only page I can focus on is an ad for silver dollar coins from 1783. These historical pieces were discovered in an underwater shipwreck and may have passed through the hands of our founding fathers! They’re also 90.1% silver. I can buy a pair for under $150, although they’re worth much more and going fast. That is nice, I think. Those are left behind and I could leave them behind too.

My hung-over brain is plodding along, trying to keep up. I have an inkling that being 23 doesn’t mean immortality; it doesn’t even mean that I’m entitled to more luck than the senior citizens scattered around the downstairs waiting area. It’s not the Doctor’s concern over my testicular lump or waiting for the ultrasound that does this. No, it has to be the memory of those two, latex fingers jammed up my butt.