Friday, 9 November 2018
Reading time 02 minutes 29 seconds
I’ll Roshambo you for it, Ready? – Robert Smith – The Cure.
I used to have rubbish legs and drink a lot. Consequently, I fell over many a time and looked stupid but falling over onto my testicle was as stupid as it got and to make matters worse I was sober.
I was messing about in the loft, slipped and landed onto my left gonad. It hurt a bit, but as I had a list of jobs to do and I don’t like to complain so I just got on with it. The next morning, I noticed some swelling and on further inspection it resembled a tennis ball next to a golf ball. (I have poetic license)
By the time I arrived at my local doctors I was like a bow-legged Frankie Dettori and cried until I got an appointment.
The Doctor had cold hands and examined me. She gave a little squeeze and asked, “Does this hurt?”
“OK, you’ve caused some damage here” she said without any hint of irony in her voice. She then asked what number I was at on the pain scale with 1 being bearable and 10 being agony. I ranked at a comfortable 167.
The Doctor suggested a referral and explained that my Jacobs may already be dead. What? These things can die? I always knew they had a life of their own.
Because I am an occasional, when it suits me, socialist I had always been against private health care. But my left-wing beliefs disappeared as soon as the excruciating pain of my damaged family jewels kicked in and fortunately my company had private health insurance.
Two hours later I was seeing a specialist. You could tell this was their area of expertise, as they had warmer hands, but like the last Doctor they asked;
“Does this hurt?”
My privates required an ultra-scan. Then, for the third time that day, a stranger was fondling me. The technician had REALLY cold hands, a Geordie accent and beard which made him resemble a young hairy biker albeit one who was rubbing ultrasound jelly into my balls.
Until then I hadn’t paid a lot of attention to that area before, I sort of took it for granted, but now I was seeing things few men are lucky enough not to witness. The inside of my groin.
The Geordie Biker had this view on the big screen which was good for my ego. Initially I was concerned that a combo of the jelly and the rubbing may get me a little excited but that went out the window when he said, “This is going to hurt” and he proceeded to rub me with the ultrasound equipment.
A few minutes later I was back with the specialist who put my scans on an even bigger screen. My nuts ached but my ego once again rejoiced.
The prognosis was I’d ruptured my Epididymis.
From that days Biology lesson I recalled that the teste is the sperm making factory. The sperm is then transported up and along the Epididymis and stored in a holding area near the bladder. This seemed an inefficient design to me as it had to travel back down on its way out.
In summary, my sperm super highway had a multi car pileup which had resulted in gridlock. The Doc was talking to me and said he’d have to operate to see if he could save them, but I had stopped listening after the words ‘incision’ and ‘scrotum’.
The specialist looked excited and proclaimed it would be a fascinating operation. At least one of us was happy.
After the operation I was woken by the specialist who was looking at me and smiling. He explained that the operation was a success he’d’ fixed my Epididymis and also saved both testicles by stapling my left one to my scrotum, so it didn’t twist.
I then spoke my first word “Morphine”. My second being “Now!”
As the drug was injected I learnt how much your genitalia moves when you vomit.
Thank you for reading.
Picture: The inspiration for South Parks Mr. Mackay?