High spirits and good humour were abound during our (A and I) visit to a local specialist hospital today. I’d noticed that my left testicle had begun to develop some sort of swelling 2 days ago. A, ever an alarmist, called-up her doctor friend, Dr. S, who then gave her a quick over-the-phone quasi-diagnosis of my condition being either orchitis or testicular torsion. This was after a quick self-examination, as instructed by the good doctor, whereupon I had to feel around the afflicted area and gauge its temperature as compared to its neighbouring appendage, while driving. Incidentally, I wished Dr. S a happy birthday via the facebook inbox and her reply was “Thank you. I hope your ball is feeling much better today”. Well, thank you Dr. S, my ball is recuperating nicely, I hope.
So there we were, A and I, in the specialist’s (a certain Dr. Huz) waiting room. A had earlier called the centre to book an appointment at 11.00. At 11.45, a disgruntled A was beginning to consider to give the attendant at the desk a piece of her mind. We’ll be paying good money for this and we shouldn’t have been kept waiting 45 minutes. Although beginning to get annoyed myself (“Dr. Huz, telurku menunggumu“), I discouraged her from reprimanding the poor girl who might’ve not been informed of the doctor’s itinerary that given day. So we amused ourselves with more testicular humour and pictures of piles-afflicted rectums in the brochures.
Dr. Huz gave me a quick, gloveless (I’m impressed) examination upon his inspection table and agreed to our (unsolicited and unprofessional) opinion that it was either of the two conditions aforementioned. A blood test was hence scheduled to advise him of my white blood-count as well as an ultrasound scan. The blood test was an uneventful affair where an attendant took a whole vial of the stuff.
The ultrasound exam was a more sordid episode when I was dutifully led by a female attendant to the examination room and told to take off my jeans and drawers, get on the bed, and cover myself up with the blanket provided. Before I could confirm my expectation that she was going to touch me up, she gave me a magazine (Health Today) and with a bored expression told me that the doctor will be with me shortly.
So there I was, testicles snugly tucked beneath the blanket, reading about the advantages of taking fish oil, and waiting for the doctor while my exposed feet were freezing in the polar air-conditioning. After about 15 minutes, a burly Punjabi doctor in a smart black striped shirt came in and said “Let’s have a look at your testes shall we?” He proceeded to lube-up the contraption through which images of my ball will be projected upon a small screen. The unfortunate result being my balls got all slobbered up with the ky-like substance.
The doctor then told me grab hold of my penis (was he impressed?) which was in the way, i guess, and proceeded to rub and prod away at my jewels, all the while asking whether it hurt. It didn’t physically, but quite daunting emotionally as I laid there with my dick in my hand, not knowing where to look, stifling coughs for fear of wet testicular explosion. 15 minutes of that and he just said ‘Okay, finished’ and simply upped and went, leaving me feeling used and violated while I wiped my sodden organ with tissue paper. I bet he won’t even remember my name.
Back to Dr. Huz’s office and his final diagnosis was epididymitis which is thankfully treatable by antibiotics. So that’s where P. Diddy got his name from. No wonder he changed it again.