Of course, it must be cancer.
I had awakened one morning to find I had three testicles. There had always been two little nuts in there before. Now, there were three? It had to be some form of cancer.
This called for action. I knew my GP wouldn’t be able to see me for another six weeks, so the only place to get this odd malformation checked out was the nearest emergency room. At the time, I was living in the north-central part of Toronto, close to York University, and there’s a hospital nearby off the 401. Now any sane, rational person, believing they have a tumor the size of a Brazil nut—especially in close proximity to the body part they are most fond of—would promptly take themselves in for an exam.
Photo by the National Cancer Institute.
I say that’s what any sane person would do. I, on the other hand, was so focused on my job that my entire sense of self worth was tied to workplace achievements. So naturally, I put in a full day’s work and added four hours of overtime, before dragging my dirty, sweaty, overfilled sack to the ER. Normally, I would have waited for my doctor and wouldn’t have given two beans for emergency medicine. But I had three beans, and despite the grime and sweat, I was petrified.
I went in. There were smudges of dirt on my pant legs and a thick layer of dust blanketing me.
There’s a specific moment when you walk into the emergency department, look the woman behind the desk directly in the eye, and must explain what brought you there. Normal triage would have prescribed a bath and a sedative. But when my moment came it was like a mashup from Police Academy.[1]
I could almost hear the receptionist, dripping with Academy venom, drawling,
“You are D-squad, Dwyer. ‘D’ for dirtbag. I’m gonna make you sorry that you ever came here.”
I wanted to sneak away to the washroom, to apply a little soap and water before heading to the imaging department. But apparently when you mention the C-word in a hospital, things move faster than usual.
Photo by Daoud Abismail
Despite my ‘dirtbag’ appearance, the nurses who checked my vitals were incredibly professional. But the ultrasound gal—who’d trained by chatting with expectant mothers, scoping torn rotator cuffs or, at worst, scanning for recalcitrant kidney stones—never imagined she’d be slathering gel on the slimy testes of a man who, having worked a twelve-hour shift, was literally sweating his balls off.
Original photography by Olek Buzunov.
She was thorough enough in the commission of her job to get a full understanding of the situation in my bean bag, and despite the rank odour of my crotch she remained long enough to tell me, “it isn’t cancer. It’s a cyst. I’ll ask the doctor to come and talk to you about it.” Saying this, and now nearly overcome, the poor woman ran out of the room. Over her shoulder I thought I caught a whispered, “Don’t make me flare my nostrils!”
Well. It wasn’t cancer. It was a cyst, but it was still there where it had no right to be. I wanted it gone. The doctor came then, and confirmed the diagnosis.
“Can you remove it?” I asked.
“Hmmm,” he pursed his lips. “It’s, uhh, it’s not really wise, given the position of the cyst, it’s size, and the proximity to some truly delicate structures…” He paused. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said flatly. I believed him. I said no more about it and went home to shower.
All that was twenty years ago. In that time the cyst has grown. It’s now large enough to be uncomfortable, and it’s increasingly difficult to do certain things. Sitting a bycicle, for example, which I enjoy, has become galling. Yet, though it has grown, it’s still not large enough to make a discernible difference in ‘size.’ Even with three testicles, things down there aren’t very impressive. Still, though it may be small, I’ve given it the Police Academy treatment: I have named it ‘Mahoney.’
Others have lived through similar afflictions. After all, Scaramanga, James Bond’s nemesis in The Man with the Golden Gun,[2] had three nipples, and he lived a full and active life… well, at least until Bond shot him through one of those nipples—the one above his heart, apparently.
I’m afraid that, despite my own extra unit, I can’t compare myself to a Bond villain. During the time I’ve lived with this cyst, I haven’t done much besides surviving. Basing my self-worth on doing my job effectively was disastrous. Not only did it lead to the aforementioned embarrassment, it eventually led to a mental breakdown accompanied by years of depression.
“You have the right to remain silent,” goes the Police Academy patter. “You have the right to sing the blues. You have the right to cable TV…” All three came in handy, I must say, but the final stanza was coup de gras for my ego. “Well, maybe you’ll meet the right girl and all of that’ll change.”
Not so much, no, not with three beans in the sack.
Photo by Miguel Ausejo
Well, well. There’s nothing I can do about all of that. But tomorrow… tomorrow I am finally having this damn cyst removed. I’ll no longer qualify to be a Bond villain, or to imagine nurses whispering Police Academy quips when I’m out of earshot. Tomorrow I’ll be coming home with just the two little beans with which I began this crazy journey.
And tomorrow, once that cyst is safely on some stainless steel tray, I plan to look it right in the eye and say, “Mahoney, my little pissant… you are out of the Academy forever. Get your stuff, and get out. Too bad, so sad, bye-bye!”
References:
[1] Police Academy, directed by Hugh Wilson (1984; Burbank, CA: Warner Bros., 2004)
[2] The Man with the Golden Gun, directed by Guy Hamilton (Eon Productions, 1974).
Mark Dwyer is a budding writer based in Brampton, Ontario. With a keen desire to learn all that he can, he is pushing his boundaries further. He is 50 years old.
