Yesterday was my 6-month post-radiation appointment, so I double check before I leave the house that I have my prostate gland with me. Not to worry – I remember to wash my hands afterwards.
There is a slight delay to see the doctor while he waits for his medication to kick in. “Oh, no, not today! Is it 6 months already?” I hear him wail from behind closed doors. “Goddammit. That pain in the ass cockbite ruined my whole year. Pour me another!”
Bad news – today’s the day he shoves the paddle in for a manual inspection. Well, I seem to have this effect on medical personnel. When I was born, the doctor slapped my father.
Yeah, thanks. And your hair is greyer.
She starts firing the usual questions. “Any pain or blood in your urine?”
No blood. As for pain, you’ll have to ask the urine.
“I mean, does it burn?”
I don’t think so, but I never set it on fire. And Guido doesn’t like it when I toss cigar butts in the toilet – she worries about clogging the plumbing.
“On average, how many times do you get up during the night to urinate?”
Every time. I haven’t wet the bed even once.
Give the girl credit – she has access to sharp objects in that examining room and so far, none of them have found their way to my torso.
Shaking her head slightly in anticipation, she asks if my erections and ejaculations are normal. I push out my chest like a strutting, um, cock! and tell her they’re spectacular, and offer to show her my trick with the donuts and silver dollars, but she passes. When she takes my blood pressure and pulse, she is visibly disappointed that I have either.
The doctor arrives for the anal-invasion exam. Grimly, he snaps on his gloves. Going in, my plan is to coax up a hard-on just before I turn around, making certain he sees it. Guido will have her cell-phone camera ready to capture his expression. But there’s no time. I’m not a teenager any more. * sniff *
So he just has at it, and I appreciate that he doesn’t lick his fingers afterwards. Just another day at the office for us both. The number of times I’ve gone through this over the last year qualifies me for Frequent BendOver Mileage Awards — like an extra-soft cushion for the waiting room and a complimentary sponge.
It could be a lot worse. Suppose I had brain cancer, and he had to shove his paw inside my ear or up my nose to squeeze my frontal lobes. Assuming he could find them.
Finally, I ask him if the tinnitus I’ve been experiencing might be related to either the cancer or the radiation treatments. He looks at me thoughtfully.
“Y’know,” he begins, slowly, “I’ve been working in radiation oncology for a little over 12 years now, so I’d want to check with my partner who’s been at it for almost 30, but….” He pauses. “I’d have to say that in our combined experience that might be the stupidest question I’ve ever heard.”
Fair enough. I wonder – is he upset because I’m wearing my I (heart) ObamaCare speedo? I should have gone commando, as usual. Well, next time.