back again

And I think I’ve turned a corner.

Let me tell you what happened about 2.30 Friday morning, when I woke up in hospital with a suspiciously damp feeling to the south.

What had happened was that the scrotal sac had torn silently, like oversaturated blotting paper. There was the blood, which you’d expect, though possibly not in such quantities. There was also what I can only describe as material, an iridescent film shot through with spider webs of mucoid stuff in a curious shade of magenta, rolling in a wave down both thighs.

I don’t remember much else. I checked with the nurse’s notes later (they’re the ones kept at the bottom of the bed) and I think this was the point the staff nurse identified as when "the patient’s eyes rolled back."

I’d always suspected that David Cronenberg actually made documentaries; just not about me.

Good job I wasn’t at home. It all worked out OK in the end. Once I’d come out of shock, the lesion had been dressed and I’d had a couple of codeine I actually felt better than previously, the pressure being off and all. My temperature went down, too. A few hours later I went into surgery for some official debriding, and now I’m back home, with no more medical interventions to look forward to other than a week’s course of antibiotics and a visit from Nurse Gladys Emmanuel.

This latter’s a bit tricky; when I had my dressing changed this morning, the nurse was pulling cotton wadding from my testicle with all the flair of a kiddies magician pulling strings of handkerchiefs from snotty noses at a birthday party. A repeat performance looms.

But it’s OK. I’m not 100%, but I’m properly convalescent now. What had happened was that the testicle had swollen so much that it was impossible to detect any concurrent growth of lesions, abscesses etc within it. I’ve had TTC: total testicular craziness.

I suppose I should draw a moral. I’ve always hated public health campaigns; the celebrity involvement, the pseudo socialism - we’re all victims so it’s OK to help each other out – the thought of performing bizarre and humiliating rituals to meet the statistical needs of civil servants and so on. But, lads, if you’re in the area – I mean, if you happen to be visiting and everything – it’s probably worth giving the bollocks the old once over; just friendly like. If it was just about cancer, the risk might be pretty negligible, but believe me, it’s about so much more than that.

And while you’re in the vicinity, why not stick around for a wank? Since you’re visiting you might as well help yourself to coffee and digestives.

Comments

[Backword Dave]

Really glad you're getting better.

[dsquared]

I suspect that you are being rather brave about this and it was actually quite frightening. Get well soon fella.

[Simstim]

Look on the bright side: at least James Spader wasn't trying to shag you as well. Wishing you a warp-speed recovery.

[Chris Williams]

Your next mission, should you choose to accept it, is to see what level of sub-flirtatious banter you can manage with medical women who are fiddling about with your bits in vulnerability-inducing ways. Start with "Going anywhere nice this year?"

(You lose points for moaning.)

[Nosemonkey]

Dear fucking God in heaven - those first few paragraphs were not the right thing to be reading while tucking into lunch...

Glad the plums are beginning to ripen again at any rate.

[Lorna]

Eeeeeeeek. Hope you recover quickly, yet lazily.

[Larry Teabag]

"Material" - nice. Hope you continue to recover well.