If you missed part one check out Cancer Diagnosis at 21
I met with the surgeon who was in charge of removing my testicle. I was a young dude and my only main question was whether or not I would get to keep it. I mean after all, it is MY testicle, I cultivated it from a very young age. I protected from harm pretty well until the cancer struck. I felt like I was not asking much.
It was not to be.
The surgery was outpatient and I was only there for a few hours. If I was a doctor or had a memory that good enough I could explain the surgery, but I am not. I could maybe draw a cartoon or make a diorama. All I know is I had an incision in my pelvis just over my junk. Sorry I hate the word penis, so I will never type it. Except just then to explain that I hate it.
I woke up and I was groggy, however, there is no amount of groggy to make you forget that you are a ball short. I was offered a prosthetic...yep there is such a thing. I declined but I was a little angry that I was just now being offered this. I mean why not when I had two, throw in a prosthetic and now I have 3, and as Schoolhouse Rock taught us 3 is the magic number.
It is still weird with just the one. I still have to be careful when I sit because, yeah, ouch. I think of the time we had the first uncomfortable bike ride, the first time I had a wedgie, and how now it would be a reminder of the most difficult battle I ever fought.
Tomorrow: telling my friends and family.
*Please read Crystal's blog