Balls

Warning: This is a story about my testicles.  Proceed with caution.

Every guy knows the indescribable pain of getting hit square in the nuts.  Doesn't matter if it's a baseball, hockey puck, combatant's knee, wayward paw of an overly-enthusiastic German shepherd, you take a shot to the man-biscuits, you're in a world of hurt.

Let me pause here for a quick disclaimer.  Ladies, I know that at this very minute you're shaking your head and muttering under your breath about how no man will ever understand the pain of child birth.  I'm not disputing this.  I'm not suggesting that a Wiffle bat to the gonads compares in any way to popping a nine-pound bundle of goopy flesh out from between your thighs.  You win, I get it.

Anyway, this isn't a story about me getting hit in the jewels.  I was merely raising a point of reference for guys out there about a pain I felt the other day, similar to how your balls feel about a day and a half after you take a direct shot.  A dull ache, uncomfortable but not excruciating.  This had been going on for a couple days, and since I hadn't suffered any trauma to the groin region recently, I was a bit concerned.  So I figured I'd better give the boys a brief inspection.  To my horror, the right nut felt a bit misshapen.  I'm certainly no doctor, but there's not much question that extra-testicular lumpage can be a symptom of something scary.

So I had Theresa take me to urgent care.  She was surprised, as it normally takes an act of Congress to get me to see a doctor.  But as I said, a wacky juevo is not to be taken lightly.

Dr. Nguyen (pronounced, inexplicably, "Win") inspected the area and asked a few questions.

"Any pain when you urinate?"

"No."

"Pus-like discharge?"

"No."

"Redness?"

"No."

"Does it hurt when I do this?"

"AAHHHH!"

"Okay, could be a couple of things, we're going to have you go downstairs for an ultrasound."

So I went to the ultrasound room and met Carolyn, the whatever-you-call-someone-who-works-in-the-ultrasound-department.  Without any preamble or light "get to know you" conversation at all, she rigged up a hammock-like contraption using nothing but a common white towel, adjusted a certain object that was blocking her view of Heckle and Jeckle, and took a series of photographs.

"Okay, those look pretty good."

"Why thank you."

"I mean, I don't see any unusual masses or anything."

"Ah.  Well, that's good."

The process took about twenty minutes.  After reassuring me that she didn't think the problem was serious, she sent me on my way.  An orderly came down to wheel me back upstairs, according to his badge, the guy's name was Nick.

"So, how'd it go?" he asked.

"Well, Nick, I must say I'm a little disappointed."

"Why's that?"

"When you brought me down here, I saw a lady who got to keep her ultrasound photos.  Carolyn didn't even ask if I wanted to keep mine.  Seems unfair, doesn't it?"

"Should we go back and ask for them?"

"Nah . . . but maybe it would be funny to have her give mine to the next pregnant woman who comes down.  Tell her she's carrying a pair of pudgy twins."

After about an hour, the ultrasound results came back and Dr. Nguyen told me it was probably just a swollen something-or-other from over-exertion.  I told him I've been going to the gym and lifting weights, and he said that could very well be the cause.  So I'm backing off on that for a while, at least until the pain goes away.

I'm 47, and this was my very first "Holy crap, I think I might have cancer" moment.  I'm happy to say it was a false alarm, but it was still scary.

I thought I was gonna go half-nuts.


d