Star Balls III: The Pant-om Menace.

Note: I thought I’d be able to wrap this ‘bollocks bollocks’ up into a neat trilogy. I was wrong. Think of this instalment as a bonus ball.

Back in hospital, with what felt like a space hopper concealed in my pants. A room of my own too – ace. No telly though – not ace.  Time away from the kids and I STILL couldn’t get to see what I wanted. ‘More opportunity to watch my gargantuan gland gently weep blood’, I consoled myself.

This was me looking super-hot in hospital, pre-V. Sadly, the tights weren’t on offer when I returned.

I was categorised ‘nil by mouth’. “Why?” I asked. “Just in case,” I was told by a patently distracted nurse. Hours later, a junior doctor contradicted the earlier dietary decision. I proceeded to eat taste-deficient hospital sandwiches as if my life depended on it.

They moved me to the surgical assessment ward. Fuck. They were going in, weren’t they?

I shared the ward with three blokes, all of whom were considerably ill-er than I was. I felt like a phoney. I almost wanted a bloodier, swellier undercarriage to prove my worth.

Dazed doctors would sheepishly appear and disappear. Antibiotics were pumped into me intravenously, without anyone available to explain why this was the chosen approach to my ailment. I became increasingly desperate to show someone –anyone – my tarnished crown jewels. “Go on – have a butcher’s, will ya?” I gently murmured from behind my partially-drawn curtain.

From admission at 6.30pm on the Sunday until 3pm on the Monday, I was left both in the dark and in disconcertingly soiled undergarments*. Apart from the metronomic delivery of painkillers, my contact with medical staff was as substantial as a snowflake. On that Monday, I was relieved to see Mrs Polar Bear and MiniCub…at precisely the time I was whisked off to ultrasound.

Ultrasound was ultra-odd. Looking at that screen and seeing testes, not foetuses, was odd. I did, however, find out how chilly the supposedly always-cold ultrasound gel was. It was only moderately perishing (thanks for asking). The whole experience, however, did leave me cold. It didn’t help when the sonographer told me he’d initially tried to scan me without having plugged the machine in. Injury was added to insult via the intense discomfort of having a man roughly budge a weighty instrument over my seasonal baubles.

The scan result was kind-of satisfying. Bleeding around the testes. A haematoma. Not good, but nothing untoward. “I’ve seen bigger,” said the sonographer. Well, that’s nice to know, I thought.

Got back for the remainder of my family’s visit.  A blessed, but short-lived, relief. After they left, I awaited someone to examine my crotch.

And waited. No-one wanted to examine my crotch. Why the cock not? What was wrong with my crotch?

It was now 6pm. New medical staff arrived on the ward. “Right, we’re moving you to Ward Fuckknowswhere.” The Urology ward, in actuality. I was to be hospitalised for at least another night, as an incision decision could still be made; a potential move to drain the pain away, as opposed to eradicating it by medicating it.

Onto the new ward. Ooof. I was well out of place there. Felt like Death’s waiting room. Pretty sure I knocked over some tall, dark dude’s scythe as I shuffled towards my new bed…

 

*this sole reference to unsightly undercrackers is the only justification for the terrible title to this blogpost. Believe me, I am ashamed of this title (but, oddly enough, not the undercrackers).