Monday is Day One of my conversion to lesbianism. How has it come to this? Let’s roll back the film.
After hours of research and personal interviews, Guido and I determine that the best course of treatment for my prostate cancer is radiation, where, for want of a better term, radioactive beams are shot up my ass to destroy the cancer cells. Kind of like Star Wars In Your Anus.
The radiation oncologist prescribes a 3-month pre-treatment to weaken and shrink the cancer cells themselves. Evidently the nasty little bugfucks live off testosterone, so the treatment consists of suppressing my body’s production of it. I get an injection, then pop one pill daily for up to 3 months before the radiation begins. He explains this to us carefully.
My first question: Will I grow tits?
He shakes his head sadly. “Everybody asks that,” he says. “No. You won’t. In the old days we administered female hormones, and then, you might have. But now we simply reduce testosterone without increasing estrogen, or anything similar. However, you might experience hot flashes and erectile dysfunction. It’s temporary.”
Temporary is too long.
“You’ll live,” says Guido. “And I have plenty of batteries.”
Will I suddenly feel the urge to go fabric shopping? Take bubble baths? Watch movies that make me cry? When people wish me Good Morning will I break out in howling hysterics or feel like I have to murder them just for being there? I mean, how fucked up and irrational will taking my testosterone away make me?
The good doctor seems genuinely puzzled. “I understand your concern,” he says, “but if you want to take advantage of the testosterone you currently have, you better abandon that line of thought.” He glances anxiously at Guido, who is going through her handbag, possibly for a sharp weapon. “Or at least stop articulating it with your wife present.”
What if taking away my testosterone turns me into a country-club, gin-sipping, checkered-pants Republican? ‘Air, hellair, old bean—horrible business the Negro-in-Chief is doing, what? Tying the hands of honest bankers and giving it all to the unwashed and illegals, can you top that? Must dig out the old carbine, send a check to the PBA.’
Guido has that stricken look I remember seeing just prior to my last concussion.
“Look,” says the doctor, “Don’t overestimate the impact of testosterone, especially in a man your age. It may have been very instrumental in shaping the person you’ve become, but that person – yourself – operates on your whole history of both rational and irrational behavior, and there’s no reason to believe it ends abruptly by temporarily altering your chemical balance.”
Guido and the doctor exchange looks of mutual professional sympathy. “Yes,” they say, as one.
Okay. Bring it on.
That was 2 weeks ago, which is how long the best health care system in the world takes to process the paperwork for a drug administered thousands of times each year. Today I go for the shot. I am sure, going in, it will be to the testicles. It isn’t. It’s in the ass. Pictured here is the room with the apparatus used: patients drop trou and place their hands under running cold water while the needle delivers its payload.
That was at 8:30 in the morning. By noon, we’re in the yarn store, but we had to leave: the rain was making my hair just so unmanageable I couldn’t bear to be seen.