Thursday, May 05, 2005

Epididymiserable, Part II

I stepped into the ultrasound room and was instructed by Brunhilda to change out of my clothes into one of those tacky hospital gowns. "The opening is in the back. Just put your arms through the holes and tie it in back," she said. Great, another humorless nurse, this one with man hands that look like they could crush walnuts into fine dust.

The bathroom was frigid. I left my socks on in hopes that a tiny bit of insulation against the cold floor would be just enough to keep my rapidly contracting scrotum from displacing my genitals into the intestinal tract. What had I done to deserve this? I asked myself.

I opened the door slowly and saw the hulking image of my nurse slumping on a stool while gazing intently into a monitor. She tapped at a keyboard, adjusting the ultrasound device. The blue glow cast her face in a particularly sinister light. I suddenly felt as though I were in a Mel Brooks movie. "Just lay down on the table and place this towel under your scrotum so that it's propped up," she directed without taking her eyes from the screen.

Then, without looking, she handed me a small white wash rag and instructed me to raise my penis up and hold the rag tight across it, presumably to keep it from dangling down into the image area. Given the temperature in the room, this would not be a factor, but I withheld any comment. My hands were cold, and I had a bit of trouble holding the edges of the washrag. After a couple of tries, I had everything in place, penis firmly held at bay, testicles propped up on towel.

At this point, I felt a slight tingle or itch on the side of my dick but resisted the urge to scratch. The itch persisted, and since the nurse seemed intent on adjusting her readings, I deftly reached down with my left hand to scratch it. I don't know how she even heard the fabric move, but in an instant she jerked her head and looked me directly in the eye. I promptly withdrew my hand. Whoa! Did she think I was playing with myself? I wanted to say something, but wisely kept silent.

I hate to punish the reader with more details of this experience, but I feel I must go on for the sake of closure. After a couple of minor adjustments to the towel beneath my nutsack, the nurse began spreading a cool, clear slimy substance over the aforementioned area and proceeded to slowly move the ultrasound camera, or whatever its called, over the entire surface. This took several minutes. She tapped at the keyboard a regular intervals and actually handled things quite well. After a few minutes, I felt relieved. This woman knew what she was doing. I was in good hands, so to speak.

We didn't speak, but I began to feel secure in her care. However, about halfway through the procedure I raised my head up and caught a blurred glimpse of the monitor. "Look, it's a boy," I quipped. Before she could catch herself, she let out a little snort, and then resumed her stolid bent toward the monitor. I felt proud. It was perhaps the high moment of my six hour stay at the Urgent Care Center. Swollen testicle and all, I had made Brunhilda emit a mirthful snort while dutifully performing an ultrasound. Ha!

The ultrasound was over and after wiping the slime off my swollen nutsack, I dressed and returned to my original waiting room for the results to be read by the doctor. A few minutes later, I was called back and told that I didn't have any tumors, which I have to admit was a great relief. The doctor prescribed some antibiotics and told me the nurse would be in soon to give a shot. "I'm sorry to say, this one will hurt," she said. I wasn't scared. A man with testicles the size of avacados fears nothing.

A new nurse, this one cute and energetic, entered the room. "I'm sorry, bud, but I have to give you this bad boy in your hip," she said. She had me lean up against the counter and lower my pants. "You're going to have to relax that cute little butt," she said while patting the targeted spot. It occurred to me that a male would never get away with such talk to a female patient, but I found it pleasing to finally meet somebody in this place with a personality. "You're too tight, gotta loosen up," she said. We argued about this for a minute, and then, as if tired of messing with me, she jammed the thing into my butt like a long distance dart thrower.

The shot was every bit as bad as advertised. I could feel the antibiotic spread through my ass and down my leg like thick molasses, and they were right, it hurt like hell. The shot required me to sit for thirty minutes as a precaution for any reaction. Finally, after six hours on the Medical Mile, I had overcome swollen testicles and now an incredibly sore ass, to slowly limp my way out to the comfort of my truck. I sat there for a while watching traffic zoom up and down National, thinking about how, like everything else, pain was relative.

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