I go to the doctor for my annual physical. Everything is mostly fine. But I’m in my 50s. Things start deteriorating. I still hear the sound of his index finger rubbing his thumb near my ears, though. That’s his acid test for hearing. Once you can no longer hear the fingers gently rubbing together, it’s time to go the hearing aid folks. Cholesterol is fine. The only problem seems to be that my Vitamin D is low. Vitamin D! The sunshine vitamin. And here I try to get outside every day to expose my skin to sunlight, the best source of Vitamin D for your body, and somehow I have failed at this. (Though it seems the medical profession has increased what they consider the minimum amount of Vitamin D needed. Last year I would have been fine; now I’m deficient. Oh well.)
He examines me and then he examines my scrotum. There’s something unusual about one testicle. It hurts when he squeezes it. (More than it would generally hurt when someone was squeezing your testicle!)
I’m in the ultrasound lab the next day. First one woman puts goop on my testicles and then starts running the ‘wand’ over my scrotum. It hurts. My testicle is sore. And now that so many people are paying attention to it and squeezing it and pushing at it, it hurts even more.
Another woman comes in.
Then another woman comes in. I just about can’t bear it. The only good news is that each new woman is more attractive than the previous now. But still, I’m lying there on my back, my balls exposed and covered with jelly. And people looking at the inside of my scrotum on a computer monitor that I can’t see.
I’m trying to breath regularly to alleviate my discomfort. I want to scream out. Finally I say, “Is it mostly women who are drawn to this profession?” They laugh.
Apparently they do look at scrotums all day.
And this the day after I saw the movie “Please Give” which opens with all manner of breasts being put through the mammogram machine where they get squeezed flat. Not sure why they opened the film that way. Can you reasonably equate breasts with testicles? I don’t know. Either way, either sex, there’s a lot of discomfort for our body parts when we interact with the healthcare system. Of course my testicle wasn’t getting squeezed flat…thankfully.
They’re going to send me for an MRI. I ask what that will be like. “Are you claustrophobic?” “Mmmm hmmmm,” I nod. Have already envisioned some medieval-type torture gadget that will pinch my testicle. I’ll be writhing in pain. The second woman who came in says, “It’s noisy, but rhythmic; it puts me to sleep.” I don’t give a shit about the noise. I don’t want some machine crushing my balls. “Your head won’t be inside” number three says. (Number four—young, very young—only came in to show the numbers 1 through 3 how to capture an image from the imaging machine.)
Next up: visit the urologist.