Not for the squeamish

1) Ladies, I know pain. I may not be able to give birth, but I know pain.

2) Certain male pain receptors are stupid.

3) So are doctors.

Some of you already know this story, but I've never put it out to the general public in a permanent form. This is also a story that gets more embellished every time I tell it, so I figure I'd better write it down.

Our hapless victim, namely me, begins this story on a summer morning in Denver in 1988. My family had moved there a few months before and I was pretty settled into the place. After living in Jacksonville "You ain't quite outta Georgia yet" Florida, I was pretty much going to be happy with anywhere, but Denver was cool. Mountains, laid back attitude, and weather that didn't involve naming a storm. Those things and the Broncos, yeah Denver was ok by me.

However, on this particular morning, things were not ok with me. I woke up feeling very nauseous and unable to stand up, and in severe abdominal pain. On a good day, I don't wake up well. I stumble around, sometimes am a little dizzy, et cetera. But, I can usually walk. So the fact the I was only comfortable with crawling said something was wrong. Now, here's where my body started making no sense whatsoever. All this trouble was perceived, by me, to have been caused by one helluva gas bubble. Why? Because that's what it felt like, that's why. If you're thinking that nausea is a dead giveaway that something else was wrong, well, you'd be right, but I was too nauseous to think straight. So, the gas bubble theory made perfect sense to me, after all, I know my body, right? Right.

The plan was to crawl to my parents bedroom and alert them to my condition. My bedroom was right next to the stairs to the first floor, my parents bedroom was at the opposite end of the hall, about 30 feet or so. 30 feet's not a long distance, but when you're heel-toeing it (I guess in my case it would be palm-kneeing it), and trying not to throw up, and in severe abdominal pain, 30 feet is a bit of a challenge. I made it, and woke my parents up (it was 6 am) and told my mom I didn't feel so good. She asked what was wrong and I told her of my gas bubble theory. Since she does not have x-ray vision, it seemed plausible to her. Dad was still asleep, and when he's asleep, there is no talking to him. Plus, he would be out of town later on, so he was no help.

Mom got up and went into sick child mode. She unfolded the fold out couch in the family room and got it ready for me to lie down on it. Honestly, I don't remember how the hell I got down the stairs, but I'm sure it involved bravery with a hint of crying like a baby. Mom fed me food that wouldn't do crazy things to my stomach. Unfortunately, my stomach would have none of that and started a revolt that wound up in the trash can next to me.

Now, even with full-on vomiting, I'm still thinking, and feeling, a gas bubble and a fucking huge one at that. So, everytime I went to the bathroom, I'd immediately sit down on the pot and try to let out what I'm imagining is a record breaker of a fart.

So, all day I had not stood up to use the toilet, and didn't take a look at anything "down there".

At around 8pm, I finally had to pee. My stomach had sort of settled and was letting liquid in. Since I had given up on the Guinness Book, I lifted the seat and dropped my pants. I peed. I looked down as I was peeing and I saw "it".

Where there should have been a golf ball on the left, there was a racquetball. And it was purple. What came out of my mouth was the weakest call of "mommy..." I've ever uttered (and also heard).

My mom said "Yes?" with a little concern (her boy was sick all day after all).

I murmured, "I think I have an enlarged testicle."

I don't know where it is that parents learn to look at weird stuff on their kids and be calm about it. Maybe it's a mutant power that is unlocked when they learn they're going to be one (a parent). Maybe Tranquillitas visits them during the gestation period and shares her secrets with those she deems worthy. I don't know. But, the fact that my mother, who freaked out when the snakes came out of the wall in "Raiders of the Lost Ark," could examine a scrotum that was a)twice it's normal size, b)not the correct color and c)her son's, was beyond my comprehension. The fact that I didn't care that she was looking, was out there as well. Then again, when you've got a giant teste that's the color of a tongue, who else is a 14 year old gonna call?

So I'm back on the couch, scared out of my mind. Mom, is making a cup of tea while she's on the phone with the hospital. She explains what "it" looks like and they advise her to bring me in to the E/R.

We're at the hospital. I'm in the stupid gown and everything. The urologist comes in and starts taking a look. He grabbed "it" and, oh dear God, all the pain that I had felt that day was immediately replaced by this new pain that knocked the wind out of me. When he had the nerve to ask me if it hurt, I had to struggle past a gasp to say "y-yes!" This went on for what seemed like a year. In actuality, it was more like 5 minutes.

He explained what had happened, and what happened was this:

I had gotten what's called a testicular torsion of my left testicle. The testicle got its main blood vessel twisted up and thus, cut off its blood supply. It needed to get nutrients somewhere so it attached itself to my skin, to no avail. It was dying. And, it was too late. I needed surgery and the not-so-little guy was going to shrivel up.

A lot to take in? You bet. I'm 14. I had just started figuring out what the "other function" of that part of my body was for. I was also, with the exception of going to church, raised as a Catholic. You take it from there.

As I said, I needed surgery. After that had sunk in, I was in so much pain that I felt like a pregnant woman in labor. I was thinking, "Fine, get the little bastard out of me!" What I said was, "ngah! o-o-okay" (Dr. Grabby McFeelmeup was still touching "it").

So, in I went, and a couple of hours later, it was over. I woke up in recovery with my mom there as well my Aunt Duddy, hovering over me and using that high-pitched they-think-they're-being-nurturing-but-really-they're-just-annoying
the-shit-out-of-you voice that only moms possess. My Uncle Sam (no joke) and my sister Kate were in the waiting room, because when somebody has embarrassing surgery, it just has to be a family occasion. Great, I'm delirious, my sack has been mutilated, I've got two mother hens doting on me, and a reception waiting. Thank God the doctor told me that everything would still work or I'd be having a complex.

Thank God he was right or I'd be having a complex.

Thank God for my mom.