Tool of the Week: 01.22.2006

So the good news is, I don't have testicular cancer.

The other good news is, I am now a man.

The bad news, well..

I'll spare you as much of the gory details as possible, but...oh, hell, no I won't. The details are funny. Besides, I've decided not to hold back.

But it starts out a bit gross, maybe. See, I've been having problems. Boy problems. Started off with little stuff — the occasionally weak urine stream, sometimes having to bear down in the morning, a bit of soreness and tenderness in — what's a good euphemism? The couch seemed comfy, but the end tables needed work. You with me? Vigorous activity of any sort left me feeling achey. Not pain exactly, just moments when I realized that I HAVE TESTICLES AND THEY ARE CURRENTLY BETWEEN MY LEGS RIGHT NOW, WAIT, ONE OF THEM JUST MOVED TO THE LEFT.

Oh, let's just name them. I think Tango for the left one, and Cash for the right. Tango because he's the more stylish, conservative, by-the-book kind of guy; Cash because he's the one with the long hair.

Anyway, so Tango and Cash were becoming less adept at fighting crime and steadily began to grow more and more whiny. Tango would complain that he couldn't bust coke smugglers because he was feeling a bit bloated, and Cash would whinge that his stomachache was making it harder for him to beat a confession out of a Vietnamese suspect. Their complaining grew steadily louder. Tango wanted to be issued a new unmarked car with better shocks, and Cash asked to be transferred to "somewhere cold and soft."

Now, this is where the analogy begins to break down, because there is no metaphor to be found in either police lingo or Tango and Cash (the greatest buddy cop film of all time, by the way) for discolored ejaculate. Unless of course you count Jack Palance.

Now that I think about it, that analogy works pretty well, because I'm pretty sure that if I had encountered Jack Palance in real life while he was still alive, I would have wept in much the same way. Bottom line is, I got to the doctor IMMEDIATELY.

Let me underscore my reaction here: when I was nineteen, my right lung completely collapsed. Flat as a pancake. Worst pain imaginable. Ask anyone who's gone through it, and they will describe circles of physical hell you would not think a man could endure and remain conscious. Yet I toughed it out for about ten hours before I let my mom take me to the hospital. My theory is, if I don't have to see a doctor, I'm not sick. But when I saw that my Go-Gurt was now available in Key Lime Pie, I hustled my happy ass to the doc's.

I have walked through the valley, dear readers. And I need to testify.

Google was my friend and confidant in the interim. He was mostly encouraging. He explained that most likely, Tango and Cash's boss, Police Commissioner Prostate, had gone and gotten himself a case of the sniffles. Either that, or it was ball cancer and I was going to have to have my nards bombarded with the same chemicals usually reserved for refining crude oil. So, you know, sleep tight.

I finally met with my GP after two weeks of making internal decisions like "When I tell my friends about my cancerous cojones, should I make a joke about it to break the tension? How about stoic with just a hint of quivering jaw and downcast eyes? Maybe milk the Spiritual Genius angle, like that kid who had MD and wrote poetry?" I even, friends and neighbors, had planned to blog the treatment process, and I devised a title for the project: My Mutinous Manberries.

With the aid of online translation programs, I would curse them in several languages, including but not limited to Farsi. I would contemplate replacing them with prosthetics that actually served a useful purpose, like maybe a stud finder and laser level. Or maybe install the world's first scrotal mp3 player, so I could get down while I get down, if you follow me. Call it the iPud.

Oh, children, the best hasn't even happened. The climax (pardon the noun) began with my doctor's reaction to my symptoms, which was, and I quote, "Huh." She thought maybe I should go see a urologist. I thought maybe she was right, and maybe she shouldn't grow too attached to my file. But regardless, two more weeks to contemplate whether I could pull off the backward Kangol cap when my hair fell out. I used to wear one when I was very young, long before anyone knew who Samuel Jackson was, and I figured I'd get a pass regardless, what with having no eyebrows. Or, you know, sperm.

So. Flash forward to Dr. Finan, the urologist. Well, not yet. First was turning in the inch-thick stack of paperwork and waiting for some kindly nurse to take me by the hand. Now, for weeks I've been anticipating this day with the same kind of dread that accompanies your first shower in prison: you know what's going to happen, you're very much afraid, and you're secretly worried that you might enjoy it. But regardless, some strange man is about to explore the undiscovered country.

A nurse came around finally and informed me that we'd start with an ultrasound, just to make sure that Tango and Cash would not need to be bathed in gamma rays and taunted mercilessly until they mutated and went on a three-state orgy of destruction, ultimately forcing them to live an itinerant life under an assumed name, going from town to town and helping out the locals while being pursued by an obsessed reporter. So we went to radiology.

When I signed in, I recognized the woman working the reception desk, a frequent customer of mine, a recently-divorced fortysomething woman with a teenage son. Kind, friendly, always there with a smile. I wasn't embarrassed, though. She was just there to check me in and lead me back to the exam room. Someone else would do the ultrasound. Right?

"Okay," she says, "so after I leave, climb up on the table, lie back, push your pants and underwear down to your knees, flip up your penis and cover yourself with the blanket. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Um. I?

Shit.

"Hey, you're middleclasstool, right? I thought I recognized you! I haven't seen you in awhile! How are you?"

Good. You know, huevos probably rotting off. About to have one of my customers jingle my bells, but really good.

"Okay. I'll be back in a minute."

So I drop my pants, smile and wave to the empty room, give my boys a good round of encouragement, and cover up on the table. I briefly contemplated doing my impression of Hitler on the balcony before I lay down, but figured I'd likely run out of time. Which would undoubtedly make things even more awkward.

She came back in after a discreet tap on the door to make sure I was ready. They're very good about maintaining as much modesty as they can, actually — she brought in a couple of towels to help cover me up.

"Now," she smiled. "This one's to cover your penis." Check. "This one needs to go under your testicles, so lift them up and just tuck it under." I'm a bit confused, but checkaroonie.

Cover, lift, tuck, whump, and I'm ready. Except I'm not. She pulls back the covers, and I see that while the towels are technically covering everything she doesn't absolutely have to see, they're also neatly framing and accentuating Tango and Cash as if they've been chosen for the centerpiece of a display commemorating the clinic's 1000th day without a work-related accident.

They looked like spring rolls at a sushi restaurant, or maybe very tiny haggis. Please God, I thought, if she pulls out a pair of chopsticks, I am running out of here.

"HEY!" they screamed. "LOOK AT ME! LOOOOOK AT MEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! NUT NARD BALL PORKCHOP SUPPLY-SIDE ECONOMICS GONAD TESTEEEEEEEEE!!!"

Tango started singing "Girl From Ipanema" and broke into a softshoe routine. Cash did the hambone and told everyone his name was Blind Lemon Lumpystuff, King of the Crotch Blues. Suddenly Randy Newman was in the corner of the room, composing a song about my embarrassment, my nuts, the pretty motherly type who was about roll them around in her hands while declaring that "Mama needs a new pair of shoes," perhaps an oblique reference to socialism, and a final ironic twist that would likely involve a pocket comb and illegal wiretaps. I kept waiting for a clown to come running in and smack me in the crotch with a comically large powderpuff.

Out came the giant bottle of Astroglide. Then came the repentance and the shame.

She was a credit to her profession, businesslike but gentle and sympathetic. She explained everything as we went along, turning the screen so I could see what she did. And hey, it's not everyday that your package is on TV. Mine was, and I watched it, transfixed, remembering something my father said after meeting Tom Cruise (and being offered the chance to drink with him, which he politely refused). Someone asked him why he didn't get Cruise's autograph, and my dad replied, "He didn't ask for mine, and I'm on TV more often than he is." Which, before the man went batshit insane (Tom Cruise, not my dad), was true, in certain parts of Missouri. So I took comfort in knowing that Tango and Cash had hit the big time.

Should I go for the big jazz-hands finish? Should I describe in detail the slightly brusque but not off-putting manner of my urologist, the whattyagonnado shrug he gave me when he asked me to drop trou and bend over, the way he laughed when I told him I'd purchased a new outfit for the occasion? I think I'll give you the brief recap: A large man deliberately violated my no-fly zone and, when he was done, informed me that now I'd need antibiotics. So it was, in short, a lot like prom.

I did have the satisfaction of learning that I am in no way gay, so, you know, whew. Not that I have a problem with homosexuality, you understand, but it might have complicated my marriage. As an added bonus, I learned that my prostate is roughly double the size it should be, which now gives me an excuse to wear black socks with sandals and yell at the neighborhood kids to get the hell out of my yard. Also, I have the joy of one day again waiting upon the woman with the velvet-soft touch and the Deliverance-sized bottle of lubricant, a woman who was kind enough to point to the screen at a troublesome-looking dark spot and say, "That's not a tumor. That's a blood vessel."

And let me tell you, Gentlemen and Ladies, more comforting words a woman has never spoken to me, not since the day a well-scrubbed hillbilly girl in a good dress smiled at me and said "I do."

This week's tool, ladies and gentlemen, is the Sense of Humor.