A Tale of Urology

About a year ago, I began to notice a sharp pain in my “swimsuit area.” Like any self-respecting male, I renounced any semblance of self-control and panicked. I have a tendency toward hypochondria and after a few weeks I was prepared to bequeath my belongings to my wife and the one delivery guy at work that is nice to me. I went to see my normal physician and he indicated that the pain might be the result of a hernia but he recommended that I see an urologist. I secured an appointment with the first available specialist and before I knew it the big day was upon me.

As we exited the elevator, I spotted perhaps the most morose group of grown men to ever be assembled in a waiting room. It quickly became apparent to me that I would be the only patient in the room who did not witness the moon landing, and most did not even look up from their outdated copy of Sports Illustrated to make eye contact. I approached the reception desk and attempted engaged the bespectacled woman in light conversation, but instead I was briskly issued a questionnaire, clipboard, and urine specimen cup and told to have all three ready when my name was called.

As I was hastily completing my form, a rather salty older gentleman entered the waiting room and was issued the same three items, but after looking at the specimen cup he turned to the receptionist and loudly informed her that although his “hose was connected to the spigot,  but the water was not turned on.” There were a few soft chuckles and I glanced up to see how the receptionist would take such blatant insubordination, but after studying the man for a few seconds she apparently came to the conclusion that it was ill-advised to force the issue. The man grinned and defiantly placed his cup back down on the counter before sauntering over to an empty chair. He was my hero.

After an agonizing forty-five minute wait, my name was called and Ashley and myself were led into a sparsely-furnished patient room. The focal point of the space was the examination table, an archaic contraption that was equipped with stirrups, levers, and what looked to be an oversized beer-bong that led to a hole in the floor. I spent the next several minutes trying to envision a scenario that would have necessitated such a frightening device, but thankfully I was drawing a blank. My attention then became focused on a collection of non-descript lubricants and disturbingly large latex gloves that adorned the lone countertop. I experienced a rather vivid image of someone artificially inseminating a cow and began to suspect that most of the room’s supplies had been purchased at Crazy Willie’s Feedstore. 

Finally, the door opened to reveal an agreeable looking middle-aged gentleman flanked very closely by a non-verbal sidekick sporting green scrubs and a dirty stache’. I nervously observed that the doctor hovered rather close to the “bovine insemination starter pack” as he began asking about the shadowy discomfort in my nether regions, but I promised myself I would remain calm unless he put on a face shield.

After several minutes, he requested that I remove my pants and underwear so that he could “take a peek” down there and I silently contemplated whether we should develop a safety word beforehand. What followed was an embarrassing compilation of squeezing, coughing, and having my berries inspected like we were at an organic fruit stand. Eventually, he felt that he had gathered sufficient evidence for a diagnosis and informed me that it was not a hernia.  Instead, I would need to be placed on antibiotics and wear “jockey-scrotum” style underwear. I glanced at my wife to make sure that I had heard his last recommendation correctly as I was unfamiliar with this particular style of undergarment, but this proved unnecessary as he repeated the phrase twice more.

Relieved that my visit was coming to a close without the use of any industrial lubricants, I began to reclaim my pants and by extension, my dignity, when the good doctor produced a digital recorder and began dictating the particulars of my case into it. I realize that this process is not abnormal in and of itself, but this is the first time I have been in the room with my physician while he was dictating. I really wish that he had waited.

I could have gone the rest of my natural life without hearing my genitalia described as “supple, but with adequate elasticity.” Similar adjectives continued to flow until I began to suspect he was describing a leather sectional in preparation for his upcoming Craigslist ad. I had to get out of there.

As we left, I stole one last glance at the sidekick who now looked as though he had long ago retreated to the special place in his mind where his job did not involve a revolving door of de-pantsed men. I felt an exhilarating sense of liberation as I passed back through the waiting room and into the outer corridor. Leaving behind the assembled men, the Phizer-adorned tissue dispensers, and the ubiquitous specimen containers for the outside world, I could not help but feel that I had been given a new lease on life.

Epilogue

Unfortunately, the first round of antibiotics was not as effective as I had hoped so I was scheduled for a follow-up visit with another urologist. This time I was unable to avoid the prostate check and although he was advanced in years, this doctor seemed to have the burly hands of a Canadian lumberjack.