Thursday TMI: My own Dr. Frankenstein (the Halloween Edition)

It's that gross time again, thanks to Lilu.

Since it's almost Halloween, I have decided to tell something scary.
To me.
And about me.

In high school, a friend of mine was diagnosed with testicular cancer. It really rocked my world.
Everybody started talking about the importance of self exams.
This was not a problem, as I was pretty proficient with handling Big Ed and the twins.
The idea of finding a “lump” though, made me want to vomit Purina.

Flash forward several years.
In the shower, while cleaning the bait and tackle, I feel something. Something that’s not supposed to be there. Something that wasn’t there before.
Could I have had 3 testicles this whole time and not known?
Does this make me even more manly?
I immediately began to panic. My mind was racing through all the possibilities. None of them as good as Coconut Crème Pie. I love coconut crème pie. Now, I’m hungry.

But I’ve ditest--icle.

Anylump,

(I should mention, secretly, I’m a hypochondriac on the level of Howard Hugh.)

I start seeing surgery, chemo, radiation, death.
Every holiday becomes my last.
I don’t even own a bucket to kick, let alone, put a list in.
I can’t face it.
I think about ending it, but I’m a chicken in that regard too.

To make matters worse, this is all around the time of Lance Armstrong’s comeback from testicular cancer, and Tom Green’s episode played out for everybody on MTV. I was freaking out dancing around the whole time and could barely watch that.
Needless to say, that shit was everywhere. As far as I was concerned, there was some Testicular cancer virus in the air. Probably released by some man-hating women's group of scientists. (Or would that be scien-tits?)
I was seriously going loco over this. I had to get put on meds. I still refused to tell anybody for fear that my fate would be sealed if it was acknowledged.
Finally, I came up with a plan. I couldn’t stand the thought of separating the boys, but chemo and death seemed worse. So, I was going to do it myself. That’s right. I was now Dr.Wacko.
I figured, I had extensive medical training in the military, had assisted on many surgeries, and had even declawed a friends cat. How hard could it be? (TWSS)
I had access to all the supplies because of the clinic I worked at. So I brought home a surgical kit. Waited for a day when the wife was shopping with her mom, and then headed to my makeshift surgical suite…..i.e. bathroom.
I began prepping the area.
I taped Big Ed up to my stomach shoulder.
Shaved the fun bag.
Betadine the area.
Numbed everything up with Lidocaine (without epi….you don’t won’t epinephrine anywhere near your junk - less it should turn black and fall off)
While waiting for the numbing to take effect, I pulled out the suture kit, clamps, the q-tips with the silver stuff that stops bleeding, and the #11 scalpel.

I was just beginning to make an incision when FINALLY I thought,

“WHAT THE F*&%ING HELL AM I DOING?!?!?”

Eventually, I told my wife what I almost did. She convinced me to see an actual doctor and even went with me. Turns out, it wasn’t cancer. Thank God.

It was some kind of cyst thingy, called a vericele or something. Evidently they are real common. The doctor told me that he had one too and even offered to let me feel, which I passed on. But the wife didn’t. Which seems kind of odd, now that I think about it.

Kidding, honey.



And to think that I almost threw out a perfectly good nut!