Everywhere I go, people ask me the same two questions: “How do you feel?” And, “What’s been shoved up your ass lately?”
Aah, the public life of a prostate cancer patient. Well, hell. Sign me up. Whatever else my faults, I sure as hell ain’t shy or drop-dead gorgeous, particularly from the waist down.
Anyway, a few weeks ago I report to the urologist for the installation of my “guides,” the metallic inserts to be attached to my prostate so the radiation oncologist has a target to aim his beam at. The photo here is from the urologist’s his rest room – I like how the word “FIRST” is added in as an afterthought. (By now I’m used to misspellings and grammatical fuck-ups in south Florida, where ignorant redneckery runs naked, wild, and proud.)
Despite the fact that my urologist is young and wields seriously sharp surgical instruments, I like and trust him. Besides, he’s only one of I don’t know how many by now who have run large pointed surgical and diagnostic instruments up my ass, only some of these medical professionals.
“You know the drill,” he says, briskly. “Up on the table, on your side, left leg up, ass out this way. I’ll insert the probe, shoot up the anesthetic, and you’ll feel the vibrations as I attach the guides. Any questions?”
Yeah. What’s the capital of Vermont?
“Montpelier. That’s French for ‘Don’t distract your doctor when he’s got sharp tools up your ass.’ Anything else?”
Smart-ass rat fucking bastard. Besides, Guido is standing by. Whose wife wouldn’t want to see her husband get his ass stuffed? She’s taking lessons. She knows where I sleep.
Whimpering bravely, I assume the position. Doc proceeds to insert a fucking canoe paddle up my pink tender asshole – I can’t see his face, but I know he’s smirking – and 10 minutes later, when I finally exhale, I taste my own sphincter. “Okay?” he calls out.
What if I say No?
“We cue the canned laughter. But we’re almost done.”
When he pulls out the Polaris missile I try to fart in his face, but Houston, we have a problem: no sensation, no control. I understand how the ocean floor a mile below Deepwater Horizon feels.
“Congratulations,” says Dr. Penetration. “You are now the proud owner of 4 gold chips, permanently affixed to your prostate. Anticipate getting mugged in tough neighborhoods, and hearing alarm bells when going through airport security.”
Yes but will I still be able to play the violin?
“Damn, don’t you know any routines from THIS century?”
Guido takes me home. I do not vomit or faint in the elevator — Doc told us stories about his patients who have delayed reactions like that; he’s a popular guy out there in Memorial West – and I think about having gold jewelry up inside where the sun don’t shine. Does this make me a rap artist? Before this procedure, on a daily basis I wear 3 wrist bracelets, an arm band, 2 necklaces, a waist chain, and 21 toe rings. Does butt bling 4 count as body jewelry?
“You left out the wedding ring,” Guido reminds me, just a trifle coldly..
Wow. What a great moment to stop talking.