Friday, 21 November 2008
Part Thirteen - You Can’t Mistake My Urology
Yesterday was probably the day that the proportion of medical professionals in Perthshire who have seen my testicles finally exceeded the proportion of those who haven’t. These days, it’s a rare occasion when I leave the house and return without having been paraded around a doctor’s clinic wearing nothing but a weary grimace. The latest addition to this ever-expanding catalogue of testicular tales was a follow-up appointment to the ultrasound procedure that I underwent just a few short weeks ago. An appointment that cemented my place in history as the first man to be taken to a urology clinic by his own mother - an act that’s usually shrouded in shame, secrecy and an uncomfortable rash.
At the reception, I was greeted by a woman who had the most harrowing case of a female moustache I had ever seen. It’s just as well she worked in a urology clinic as, sooner or later, she’s going to realise that such an extreme case of hormone imbalance can only be explained by the prescence of testicles and she might want to have herself checked out. Luckily, there was no repeat of the embarrassing incident at the reception desk of the ultrasound clinic where my bold proclamation of why I was there was greeted with a hushed silence throughout the busy room. We were all filthy vermin with something wrong with our spanglers here, and we were all visibly relieved to be in a place where we could scream it from the rooftops without being shunned by society.
In fact, I found the sense of camaraderie between men with malfunctioning genitalia quite heart-warming. For instance, when I was called through to the secondary waiting room I sat down beside a bespectacled old man. After a few minutes of silence, a nurse came through and asked us if we would mind if two young female medical students could sit in for our examinations. As it happened, I did mind - I had had quite enough of medical students using my genitals as a reference manual. I politely declined, a decision which probably made the nurse assume I had an incredibly inadequate penis. However, the old man wasn’t so quick to waste this opportunity. As quick as a flash, he quipped “I’ll show them mine if they show me theirs!” and looked at me with a big, proud smile on his face. I actually found it quite funny, which I think is a depressing indicator that I’m spending far too much time with ill old men these days.
In the clinic, my doctor introduced himself as Mr. Halliday. I was going to question why a man titled Mister had the authority to look at my balls but, to be honest, I’m past the point of caring. I whip them out for any Tom, Dick or Harry these days. As I began to disrobe, he said something which, at the time, appeared to be the most bizarre statement which has ever been uttered to me - “You should wear y-fronts, not boxers”. This seemed like a baffling overstep of all conventional boundaries in a doctor/patient relationship. I had gone to hospital to receive my ultrasound results, and yet apparently I had inadvertently nominated myself to undergo an impromptu rating of my how well I suited my underpants by the NHS’s answer to Gok Wan. He must have noticed the utter shock and confusion of my face, as he quickly went on to explain that tighter pants are more beneficial for testicular health. Brilliant, perhaps I could claim a free thong from the NHS.
As for the results, he said that my testicles “looked great” and I was unashamedly thrilled with this compliment. The cyst that had kicked off the entire panic was, somewhat dismissively, referred to as “tiny” in the report. A wording which makes it sound like I had just found the flimsiest excuse possible to expose myself to as many middle-aged men as I could without getting arrested. He rounded off the conversation by asking if there was anything else I’d like to ask him and, whilst thousands of questions for a urologist swam around my head, none of them were appropriate for a medical consultation. My testicular adventures at an end, he reached out to shake my hand and said “Don’t worry, I wash them frequently!”. Textbook urology humour. He laughed, I laughed and so concluded another cracking day out in hospital.
As far as I’m aware, this spells a definite end to all the testicle chatter as no further action is required, except tighter pants - you lucky, lucky ladies. Where this leaves the blog, I just don’t know - it’s fed off of my genitals for quite a long time now. I could do a hair update next week as it’s taken a terrible turn for the worse. It’s so patchy and rubbish that I now look like a deranged serial killer. I may have even felt compelled to visit a wigsmith by this time next week, so stay tuned.
By the way, the title of this is a play on words from the lyrics of ‘Biology’ by Girls Aloud. I feel I had to explain that for you to fully appreciate it.