Why isn't it a testicle-ectomy? You know, like tonscillectomy or appendectomy? What is an orchie anyway? All I knew it as was the ball that helped give me my babies. But it had to go. It turned naughty.
It was supposed to be a hydrocele. After all, hernias get tweaked when a guy climbs up into the garage rafters to do his New Year clean-up. When he moves heavy potted plants around to make room for builders to tear down our old fence and put up the new one.
That's all. Hycrocele.
Or infection. Or cyst. Or benign.
But it wasn't any of those, and the sucker had to get ripped out. My fireman held so well. What else would we expect from a guy who chased flames for thirty years? By the day of surgery, the urologist knew from blood markers that it was malignant. I was the wreck now.
Try holding your sobbing daughter in your arms when you tell her THAT news as her daddy is wheeled into surgery. OMIGOD.
But I do believe in Him after all. Despite the black moments, the demons that come in the dark night. The screams inside my head that some days never stop.
He's napping now, in his soft knitted cap with the brim. He wanted a cool hat for his cold head; we got it at a trendy shop where 'boarders go and didn't feel old at all.
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