Having a Ball

Oh readers. Oh fair lovers of my prose, I can’t imagine the pangs of withdrawal you’ve been suffering, the litany of despair you’ve been enduring while I was gallivanting around all summer. There I was tripping the light fantastic in the most exclusive haunts on the eastern seaboard while you, poor readers, were trolling the internet for entertainment like Lindsay on the bathroom floor scouring for remnants of blow. Save for one hot spell, we had great weather up here this year, and I took full advantage of it. I traversed the coast like a pixie, leaving droppings of cheer and humor wherever I went. And all the while you darlings met each new day with the hope that the sunrise brought with it another Shawn Story, only to watch the night fall with your prayers unanswered. I feel your pain, I do. It cuts me to the quick. But good news! Your wait is finally over. (I told you it was coming, negative nancies!)

Before jumping into my newest adventure, a quick update on all things Shawn. Everything… EVERYTHING… is working! I know I’ve just cursed it all, but my internet is great, my dvr is recording and playing away (if you’re not watching Mad Men you must) and there hasn’t been a bedbug in over a year. (Everyone knock your wood please.) There were no blackouts, no cell phone outages and no mysterious electronics failures. You might be saying to yourself “Well no WONDER he hasn’t written in so long; nothing is happening.”

On the contrary, this has been a summer chock full of Shawn Stories, and I’ll share them all with you in due time. But today’s post (and I warn you ADD types now, it’s going to be long) is what I like to call a Shawn Story Classic. Many of you may have heard the tale of woe I’m about to share with you, but I encourage you to read on because if you HAVE heard the story it was certainly after I’d had a few drinks and I probably left stuff out.

Picture it. Chelsea. Circa 2004. It’s Spring time. It’s dawn. Birds are chirping, young lovers are embracing and your beloved author lies deep in blissful slumber, dreams of Justin Timberlake making their way through his psyche. The boyfriend-at-the-time is lying next to me, and all is right with the world. As is often the case, your hero awakens with the urge to urinate and slowly he rolls over, stands up and plods to the bathroom. Half a step later, he is doubled over in pain.

“Self,” I think, “this is not good.” As I’m not entirely awake yet, I have difficulty pinpointing the cause of the pain at first, and assume it is a cramp from having to pee so badly. I take another step, and am quite nearly on the floor due to the excruciating spasm of pain making its way through my stomach. “Self,” I think, “this is really not good.”

I hobble to the door, quite unable to manage a normal stance, pull the door open ever so quietly so as not to awaken the clueless, er, I mean, slumbering boyfriend-at-the-time, close the door, flip on the hall light and let out a deep, elongated “Fuuuuuccccck.”

Save for my underwear (some very cute Calvin Klein tighty whities that cling in all the right places) I am naked. (Control yourselves.) I try to pinpoint the pain which is difficult, because like Paris going to jail, it’s everywhere. I poke around my chest; nope, all seems normal. Fearing the worst, I try to locate my appendix, but having retained only the plot of the Matthew Modine vehicle “Gross Anatomy” from my high school anatomy class I’m woefully unqualified to make such a diagnosis. Regardless, the pain is not centered in my abdomen; indeed, it’s lower. And to the right.

With no small amount of trepidation, I pull down the CK tighty whities to examine… down there. Normally, what I’m about to say would be a good thing, but in this case it was quite the opposite. You see, there was a LOT to investigate. So much in fact, that it became painfully and instantaneously obvious to me that my right testicle had ballooned to quite possibly four times its normal size. Again, usually I wouldn’t complain, but as this was accompanied by severe bouts of pain coursing through my stomach, I quickly determined that something was amiss.

No longer worried about disturbing boyfriend-at-the-time, I turned, opened the door as loudly as possible, and said in the calmest, most rational voice I could muster, “Hal, I think I need to go to the hospital.” After a few minutes of confusion on his part and frustration on mine (I may have screamed “It’s the size of a FUCKING BASEBALL, what do you mean does it hurt?!” but I can’t confirm that) we were on our way to lovely St. Vincent’s hospital in Greenwich Village.

On the way to the hospital, I thought it would be prudent to call my office and inform them that it was likely I wouldn’t be in. Of course you can’t drop a bomb like that without your co-worker asking what the problem is, so as politely and discreetly as I could I informed him that something in my right testicle had caused it to blow up like Britney’s back fat. (Ok, I’m done with the pop culture references.) For a moment all was silent, and then he said the words no one ever wants to hear in such a situation: “Let me take you off speaker phone.” Yes, the entire office had just been informed that I had a grapefruit where once there was a walnut. Or something like that. After my boss shouted “Is he walking in circles?” I hung up and made my way to the ER.

I’ve since learned that if you’re ever going to the emergency room for a non life-threatening situation, it’s best to call your primary care physician first. He/she usually knows someone at the ER and they can get you right in. (See, I entertain AND educate.) As it was, when I arrived at the ER it was painfully clear to me that this was going to be quite a long wait.

For those non-New Yorkers out there, St. Vincent’s Hospital is the southern most hospital in Manhattan yet it’s actually a few miles north of the bottom of the island. What that means is that every whacked out starving person, every coke’d up stock broker and every tweaking tranny between the Statue of Liberty and 14th Street goes to St. Vincent’s when they need to see a doctor fast. As you can imagine, there were quite a few people in line ahead of me.

Upon entering the waiting room at St. Vincent’s, two things become painfully clear. The first is that everyone in there has been there a really, really long time. The second is that there is neither hide nor hair of any person of authority. There is a person with a clipboard on a stool and that’s it. You are to walk up to this person, tell them your affliction, they take your temperature and pulse, and you cop a seat (if you’re lucky enough to get one.) The person managing the stool that morning was the cutest, kindest little old lady volunteer candy striper you ever did see. Although she wasn’t wearing a uniform, you could tell she believed her job to be the most important one there, and while I don’t know about that, she was probably the most qualified person to do it. She was so patient, with even the most difficult cracked out people, that when I got to her I felt almost dirty explaining to her what was wrong with me.

“My right testicle is swollen and in extreme pain” I said.

"Oh dear. Name?”

I have to admit, I was expecting a little more sympathy, but she clinically and expertly took my vitals and the like, then told me to take a seat and that a nurse would see me soon. As she clearly had a lot of time on her hands, I was sure the word “soon” was relative.

Some time later, I was called into triage where I got to tell the nurse the whole sordid story again: I woke up, my right testicle was thrice it’s normal size. (Thrice?! Nice!) I was in extreme pain and discomfort. No it didn’t hurt to urinate. No I was not having unsafe sex with random people. Yes I could touch it, but really didn’t want to. Yes, the swelling was visible. So on and so on.

Meanwhile, boyfriend-at-the-time had been waiting with me patiently on what was his one day off. Upon returning from the triage nurse, he informed me that he had to go, as he had lots of things to get done. Although my life wasn’t in any immediate danger, his suddenly was. I appreciate that he had one day off a week, but when your boyfriend of five years’ testicle explodes, you make the sacrifice. You just do. I let him know in no uncertain terms that my position was that he would either stay there, or suffer the consequences. I wasn’t sure what those were at the time, but I’m certain they were dire. He capitulated, and we sat. And waited for many, many hours.

I was then called into the actual ER by a somewhat handsome, but obviously exhausted, doctor. He brought me into a private room, shut the door and asked what the problem seemed to be. “Well,” I said, “I woke up this morning…” and told him the story. He didn’t seem too impressed, or even too interested really, and he casually asked me to remove my pants and CK tighty whities. Under normal circumstances, a guy that attractive asking me to remove my pants would have been given a very stiff reception, but there was none of that on this day. And really, everything was eclipsed by the ball anyway.

McFeely then decides that there’s only one way to determine what’s wrong with my poor teste, and starts kneading it through his thumb and forefinger. Ladies, let me tell you, don’t ever do this to your man, even when his ball is its normal size. It’s just not comfortable. A gentle cupping sure, or even a firm grab and tug is sometimes nice. But taking it and squeezing it between two rigid, cold fingers. Not so much.

McFeelys mc-feeling me pretty much caused the reaction you would expect, to which he replied “Oh that hurts?” Well Captain Obvious, if the tears didn’t give it away the scream should have. He removed his glove and decided that he could not determine anything until I had an ultrasound taken; once my family jewels had been properly photographed, he would be able to make a diagnosis and we would be on the road to recovery.

And that is a road I shall take you down next week. I promise, it’s worth the wait. In the meantime, gently take your testicles (or your boyfriend’s testicles) in your hand and tell them that you love them, and appreciate them for what they are. They have a way of letting you know when they’re unhappy.

Kisses.