So, at this point in my blogging (as I try to catch up to date) I have just been told I have cancer and I should probably make a "deposit" at the "bank". We don't have kids yet, and we have been trying. The doctor said I shouldn't have a problem conceiving in the future, after all only one of the "boys" is "moving out" but ol' Lefty will still be hanging around. However, just in case I do go through chemo or radiation, the doctor thought it would be a good idea to make a deposit with both barrels rather than a single shot.
We walk out of the doctor's office still in shock that this is all real, I do have cancer. I have this poison growing inside of me and I just want it gone. You know that feeling when you hear a story about a tapeworm or some other just as nasty parasite deep inside the body, and you get that chill down your back and you go "lllllleeeewwwwwwww". Yeah, that's kinda what you feel like. You can't wait to have it out of you, and for a brief moment I contemplate the pros and cons of going home and laying the family jewels on a band saw, and how difficult it would be to just remove one jewel. Those are the thoughts that are going through my head when the sperm bank tells me to drop by in a couple of hours to...um...open my account.
There's a reason you don't hear the word cancer in too many love songs, or any songs for that matter except that one Nirvana song, at least I think he said something about cancer. Who the hell knows? But anyway, the cloud of cancer floating around in your mind is definitely a mood killer, especially testicular cancer. Not only is your mind racing from being told you just have cancer, but when you are trying to make a deposit, THERE IT IS, your cancer right there in the palm of your hand (or near it). More than a little bit overwhelming. A very nice nurse gives you a cup and tells you to go to your little room and "there are magazines and videos in the cabinet". HOLY CRAP! I thought that was just in bad movies and sitcoms, it really is that way! I am in no mood to do this. My wife is waiting in the other room, plus there is also the thought that everyone knows what you are doing in there, and they are waiting for you to finish because they have other things to do, other customers that need to open accounts.
Still nowhere close to being in any kinda mood and now with a stupid Nirvana song going through my head and thinking "does he really say 'I wanna eat your cancer...'?" I decide to open that cabinet and look at the titles of the "documentaries". That's what a good friend of mine calls them so that they don't feel quite as bad about watching them. I have never really been into that type of documentary anyway, so nothing is really catching my fancy. I just decide to watch whatever is already in there, something about "First Timers" maybe it was because the video seemed to be stopped somewhere in the middle, but I was just lost. For one thing the movie was obviously filmed before the invention of the razor. And, if these are "first timers" they are awfully fast learners!
I decide to move to the magazines, mostly Playboys with a few Penthouse sprinkled in. I start reading the covers and find girls from TV and movies that I have always wondered about. I set those aside and I am too busy flipping through to focus on the task at hand. Especially since some fantasies are better off just as fantasies. Some of my favorite actresses were a lot hotter in my head naked that they were in a magazine. I finally just put them down and try to concentrate.
Now I won't go into anymore detail except to say there is a little problem with the mechanics and physiology here. First they give you a cup the size of a small drink at the movie theater, so you already feel the pressure to fill it up. I mean, hey at least ONE guy had to overflow the next size down to have to move everyone up to this size. The other is...well...you don't want to spill the cup...um...but you aren't typically aiming down. Let's see how can I explain this delicately. It's about as easy as trying to fill up a test tube, from a Rainbird sprinkler, with out spilling any of the water coming out of the sprinkler. That was one of the many rules in there, "Any missing samples should be reported immediately". And I agree, they should, but how many guys, already in an extremely embarrassing situation, are going to walk up to the nice old lady at the front desk and tell her "clean up in aisle 2".
A few days later, I had to go in and give my second and final sample. I am asked for my ID just as I was the first time, but I'm not opening a new account, why would she need my ID again? Do people come in here pretending to be someone else? This cost $125 a pop, if you are looking for your jollies, go downtown and save a lot of money. The curiosity is killing me, I have to ask why. She tells me in the past, people get divorced and people lie saying they never opened an account there, hoping to get out of child support. Hmmm, never thought of that. Never under estimate the males ability to be a slimeball.
Anyway, I am ready to be assigned my room. I hope this time I get a different room with better videos. But then again, I did want to look at the one magazine again. As I wait, I see a guy walk out of a room, obviously after successfully making a deposit. God, please don't let me have that room. I know that's what people do in these rooms, but I don't want to actually see the guy that just left. I get a different room. THANK YOU! I feel like I am an expert at this now. The cancer thoughts have subsided some, and I know what to expect in these rooms. Plus, I was told to not make any other deposits on my own for four days, so I know I am filling up that cup this time. Oops, not even close to full. Oh well, another $125 down.
I walk out, alone this time. And that's where it hits me. I just left a spankatorium because I have testicular cancer. And I am having surgery. Where else is it? Will I need chemo? Will I need radiation? Can I go back and take a magazine with me, I could really use some company right now. The drive home, my thoughts swirl in my head. I haven't been sleeping well since the diagnosis, and being full of "deposit" wasn't helping my sleep pattern either. I don't know what the future holds. I don't know what to hope for. I just don't know. I find myself wandering through stores and restaurants on the verge of tears for the second time this week. I wind up at the state park overlooking the lake that I was supposed to be on by now. I see a few other boats enjoying the end of summer. Now I won't be able to work on the boat for weeks... I really should have taken that magazine. But then again I know where that magazine has been. Full of self pity, I drag my butt back home, as I prepare for my surgery. I never thought there would be a day I would want part of my genitals taken out as soon as possible, but I swear I can feel the cancer growing inside me and Thursday can't come soon enough.
Tomorrow, I will write about surgery day, as we close in on where I am at now, one week away from surgery and not even three weeks from the beginning of all of this.
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