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Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Not sure how carefully I can walk the line between “interesting” and TMI, but my day has been just fucked up enough to walk that line.

Almost a week ago, I started having some pain . . . down there. On one side, mostly. (One of my balls was hurting, and the other felt great. I don’t want to be accused of being a prude, on second thought.) It felt similar to the hernia I'd had (before its repair 10 years ago), but for an extended period. In another context (guys), it might be how you’d feel an hour or so after someone kicked you in the balls.

Anyway, it was like that for a few days. Yesterday, it was getting harder to walk comfortably; I was groaning (audibly) when I had to move in a way that . . . provoked discomfort. Oh, and now the pain was on both sides. Googling produced a number of possible culprits, the most reasonable of which seemed to be relieved with anti-inflammatories, so I popped some Motrin last night and felt better. But I promised Michelle I’d call the doctor today. Which I did.

I had a “work-in” appointment for 2:45. I figured that afterward I could go back to work to get a head start on a particularly rough project that threatens to absorb much of my week . . . without going into too much detail and/or getting side-tracked. I showed up for my appointment at 2:35 and sat in the waiting room until almost 4:30. (As it turned out, I had been “worked in” to being the last patient of the day. Exploring all the long-unrelevant magazines you know in love. Good thing I’m “patient,” even as I’m mentally calculating how badly not getting back to work is gonna fuck me. Little did I know . . .)

Weight checked, urine sampled, blood pressure taken . . . the doctor came in and started asking the specifics. No, it doesn’t burn when I pee. Not an injury that I’m aware of. Sex drive not affected, no.

“Are you up for a prostate exam?”

Uh-oh. I hesitated but figured this totally unknown quantity might come into play. “Sure?”

He warned me it was going to hurt like hell. “You’re a brave man,” he chided.

Nothing that happened to me for the rest of the day, none of the mind-boggling inconveniences and frustrations, could equal that exam. I’m sure my gaybo little yelps of pain did little to make me appear more masculine. "Massaging the prostate" isn't as innocuous as it sounds.

Trust me.