oOh My Testicles!
A tale of entanglement
by
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The curtains bucked back with a metallic grating, and Dr. Maharaj announced himself with the irruption of a magician. He was a tall, mixed man with an affable face and an aura which leaked intelligence. His look was completed by square, gilted spectacles that sat on a Roman nose, and muddled hair that slashed his age to that of a schoolboy although light streaks of grey decorated his crown. He offered a hand and needlessly introduced himself. Then straight to business:
"Drop them."
I felt like a villain with a gun, and maybe I was. I dropped my pants, erecting Dr. Maharaj to position three, and without request he began massaging my testicles with bare hands. He noticed my surprise and returned a smile, reconfirming that he was The King of Balls, but from where I lay I tasted my sweat and my embarrassment did not recede like an ebbing tide. Seeking escape, I closed my eyes, as I had done in Dr. Narine's office, and answered an onslaught of questions:
"Do I have diabetes? No, no diabetes. No hypertension, false teeth, sexual intercourse, family with diabetes, family with hypertension, family with false teeth, family who had sexual intercourse... or family with similar problems." When I was uncertain, I simply said no.
In lecturer's fashion, he defined testicular torsion and after a period of long, slow silence, he confirmed, with a bobbing head, that I would need a fixation surgery.
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About the Book
This is a true story about one Caribbean man's journey through the healthcare industry and the scare that he may have to lose one of his testicles. Does he? That man is me.
Without warning, a searing pain struck. My goodness, what was it? It was neither my stomach nor appendix, but my testicles. No… it was only a testicle, my right ball to be precise. I became stunned and only through divine intervention regained my balance, but not my composure, and with wild gesticulations, six feet above ground level, I grasped the ladder. I still do not believe that being either shot or knifed is as painful as the pangs which, like little red devils armed with electric pitchforks, stabbed the areas around and through my groin. Given man’s proclivity to intently guard his genitals, I hastened to cup my source of dismay, movements which catapulted the tin of paint off the ladder’s platform.
About the Author
Lyndon Baptiste was born in 1982 and lives in Trinidad and Tobago. He is a software engineer, lecturer and novelist who, thank goodness, writes for the fun of it. He is the author of 90 Days of Violence and Boy Days.