Gallows Humor (for a pair of very small gallows)

On Tuesday I woke up with a third testicle!

(It’s like Kafka. Plus testicles!)

Let me start at the beginning.

A few weeks ago I was riding my bike to EMT class when I was run off
the road by an ambulance. (IRONY TIME) (it’s always irony time in
Cambridge.) I was stopped at a red light, had my lights on and
everything. The ambulance came up behind me and suddenly turned on
its sirens. I moved to the right like you’re supposed to. The
ambulance then tried to pass me to the right. I dived to the left to
avoid getting hit.

The problem was, I was up on my feet on the pedals. I slipped, fell
off, and my bike seat turned into an air-to-mansack missile. I woke up
the next morning with a nice big groin bruise. Not actually *on* John
Thomas and His Merry Men, but too close for comfort!

I keep riding my bike. I have to! Which means lots of sweating.
Apparently sweat + bruise = fungal infection. Moral of this story:
exercise is BAD FOR YOU.

I tried using Tinactin. It took about two days to realize that wasn’t
helping. So I went to the ER (trip one). They gave me a tube of
antifungal cream with a topical analgesic, and in about 24 hours my
nethers went from Horror Movie to Romantic Comedy. Delightful!

Then about a week later I started getting infected hair follicles on
my legs. Whatever, I sweat a lot and am COVERED in hair. This happens
all the time. But normally they just let a little red. This was…
well… big white pustules. Full of pus. Pus everywhere. The size of
like pencil erasers. At which point I’m like SHIT, LEPROSY BAD, I’m
going to go to the ER again.

This was Monday. I was going to go on Wednesday after work. (I am at about 50 hours a week through October.) But it didn’t hurt, so I figured, a day wouldn’t be a problem. And oddly I was right! BUT:

That’s when I woke up with a third ‘nad.

It was pretty much the same size as Nad Number One and Nad Number Two.
It was off to the right a ways, and actually a bit harder than the
others. But it was pretty nadtacular. I was a little, shall we say,
INTERESTED in this development.

But this was 745 and I had work at 8. So I ignored it. It didn’t hurt,
and only 36 hours until I was going to the hospital. So I figgered,
whatevsky.

While at work I took an opportunity to do a web search. Turns out that
tinnea cruris – fungus of the sun-don’t-shine – can progress to tinnea
profunda. That’s when you get an abscess at or near the infected area.
An abscess is a subdermal (under-the-skin) collection of pus. Pus is
dead leukocytes, which are immune cells that died fighting the
infection. It’s basically a graveyard for your body’s wounded
warriors. A place of honor! And PUS!

This one was the size of a kumquat, and located a good zero inches
away from my Holiest of Holies.

But it didn’t hurt, so what the heck. 32 hours until hospital.

At around noon it started to get a little tender.

Around 2pm I was trying not to bend over too much.

Around 4pm is started to throb.

At 530 I managed to find someone to cover the end of my shift, then me
and that person and the Gentleman (he needs to be present with us!) –
took the car and dropped me at the ER.

It hurt a bit. But I was determined to smile through it!

By 600 I am curled up in a chair in the ER waiting room and am hyperventilating

By 630 I am crying.

They don’t actually get me into a hospital bed until around 9. Shortly
thereafter they have to strap me in to keep me from clawing holes in
the bed.

Still they haven’t offered to do anything for my pain!

Finally I find the call button and demand painkillers. I don’t request
them. I say, “I cannot handle this level of pain, give me drugs, NOW.”

Which, thanks to watching House, I know is a request that medical
professionals are not legally allowed to turn down. Lawl!

So I get 10 mils of codeine, 650 of tylenol, and 800 of ibuprofin. In
about 15 minutes I have gone from crying in a fetal position to
stretched out with my hands behind my head, making jokes. OPIATES
DON’T FUCK AROUND.

I go to radiology and they then ultrasound my balls. As I suspected,
I’m pregnant. With triplets! They prep me for surgery.

A (really cute) PA talks to me a bit, He’s really nice. He’s wearing a
North Face jacket and talking to me about my work. Then he sticks a 3″
needle directly into my nutbucket.

I scream.

He says, “Is the pain too much? I can stop!”

I say, “NOT, IF YOU’LL HAVE, TO START, AGAIN.”

Then, suddenly, it’s gone.

I look down. The needle’s still there. But fortunately it was full of
procaine and now I can’t feel anything within four inches of my purple
python.

Which is good because he then pulls out a scalpel and cuts about a
two-inch gash in my mantackle.

I feel nothing.

I actually get him to help me sit up so that I can watch.

Blood. EVERYWHERE!

…this is after they cleared away the actual surgical gauze,

which represented the great majority of the claret produced by Yours Truly.

You know you’re a modern man when your first thought, after producing so much blood that it looked like you’d been mauled by a rabid wolverine, is to Instagram the motherfucker. Quickly. Before the blood dries!

And: they left the wound open! So it could continue to bleed out for
the next few days. I have to wear special sterile underwear. Tighty
whities made of SCIENCE!

Then they packed it full of gauze with a little tail leading out, so
that it would absorb more David-juices. As a result I spent two days
walking around with basically a large tampon in. Except tampons
usually go in preexisting holes. This tampon was actually inside my
body! Epic lols!

Also I had to wear pads because it kept leaking blood. Maxi pads. I
was changing them like once every three hours. HEAVY FLOW DAY!

Also because I worked in a hospital fairly recently, I am on heavy
antibiotics to make sure the infection isnt MRSA. I am on sulfa drugs,
which predate penicillin, and their side effects seem to include my
stomach trying to escape via my face. Also percocets which I had to
stop taking because I am still on shift until 8PM tonight. Tomorrow,
though, I am planning on having a wonderful and relaxing day of taking
all the drugs prescribed to me, listening to 60s music, and tripping
my balls off.

Literally.

 

*************UPDATE*************

 

Three days later, I felt that it was finally safe for me to spend some quality time with The Man Downstairs.

Shortly thereafter I realized that the twins had sublet their apartment – MY apartment – to two new roommates!

And one of them in particular was starting to really hurt.

Another trip to the ER. Another I&D. And – best of all – the discovery that the infection is in fact MRSA.

Hopefully this will be the last time I have to get a large incision made into my balls.

(I ain’t giving odds.)

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~ by davekov on 11 October 2012.

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