Again, I will make a disclaimer that this post is rated PG-13. Read on at your own risk!
Tuesday, January 18th was the big day, the moment of truth. I got to the urologist’s office at the appointed time, and was immediately given the obligatory urine sample cup and ushered into the restroom. That morning I took the first of the three prescriptions I had been given for the surgery, and as I left the restroom, the nurse instructed me to put the second prescription under my tongue and to let it dissolve. She led me to a small room and instructed me to sit down on the table and to remove my pants. She said a sentence that still chills me to this day: “Mr. Smith, someone will be in shortly to shave your scrotum.”
About 5 or maybe 10 minutes later, I could feel the action of the drug that I had dissolved under my tongue taking effect: I felt calm, happy and very at ease. Aliens with battle-axes could have teleported into the room and I would have just smiled and introduced myself. That is about when the nurse came in and told me to take my pants off.
Before anyone gets the wrong idea, let me just say that I am pretty sure that prior to choosing nursing as her career, the nurse was probably a lunch lady at my elementary school. She had strong arms, and a wide girth that would have made her equally adept as a center for the Green Bay Packers as a nurse. She held proudly in her hand a Bick razor. The stout nurse began to shave me, handling my genitals with the soft tenderness of someone working in a meat packing plant. She shaved and shaved and shaved. It took her longer than it takes me to shave my entire face. She was extremely thorough.
Any delusions I might have had of my being a cultured gentleman were gone at that point. I felt like Dr. Evil in Austin Powers: “At the age of 14 a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There is really nothing like a shorn scrotum.”
Then the doctor came in. He gave me a shot of something in the arm to “keep me calm.” I asked him how he knew how much to dose, curious mostly, but also concerned because people often underestimate my weight. He responded that over the years he had developed the ability to gauge how much to give. As he was injecting me, he asked, “Do you drink?” Jokingly I replied, “oh, yes. Every day.” I immediately realized that it was probably a mistake to make that joke, because he injected me with more of the sedative. I don’t drink at all.
Before I knew it, the doctor says to me, “All done!” I didn’t realize that he had started. I tried to get up, and stumbled, and Olga, the nurse held my arm in a firm grim that was more appropriate to a Greco-roman wrestling match than a doctor’s office. She must have put my pants on me, and as I realized later to my horror, a jock strap. Another nurse led me out where my wife was waiting. The nurse gave me instructions on how to care for the wounds, but noting my inebriated state, gave the instructions to my wife
instead.
I then thanked the nurse, and fist-bumped her.
In the car, I called people from work, my dad, friends, etcetera until my quick thinking wife prudently confiscated my phone. I think I slept the entire afternoon.
