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Before perusing this latest Tadventure© the reader is strongly cautioned that its content is extremely graphic, it contains adult language and adult situations, and it involves significant nudity. Periodically emetic in nature, readers predisposed to queasiness should immediately strike the DELETE key and find something better do to. Really. I’m not kidding. Others may disagree but I think it’s a hell of story and if you have a strong constitution, read on. Oh, it’s very long, too.

Rapidly approaching a full half century on the face of this earth, I decided that I had met my quota for participation in mankind’s repopulation effort. I have three of the most beautiful children that anyone has a right to ask for and I cogitated for many years upon a reliable approach to obviate the need to make my way, in the middle of the night, to a newborn’s crib, there to feed a screaming child or to change its soiled nappy with one hand while firmly grasping a walker for support with the other. Therefore, given the miracle of modern medical options, I decided to arrange for a permanent solution.

With apologies to Sue Grafton: “V” is for Vasectomy.

[Seriously, I’m about to describe the procedure so if you haven’t left us by now, this is the time to bail. This is not a drill.]

There is a “new” procedure called a “non-suture” vasectomy that involves punching small holes in the scrotum rather than making an incision to gain access to the vas deferens, the UPS of the male reproductive system. To review Health class, tubes (the vas deferens), one each, deliver from the testicles the male half of the baby making equation (spermatozoa) for combination with seminal fluid from the prostate; ultimately, final delivery is made through another major pipeline (the urethra).

During the procedure, the vas deferens are extracted (pulled out) of the scrotum, clamped, cut, and cauterized before being replaced. In theory, this operation results in a condition commonly known throughout the medical community as, “Shooting Blanks”; a state that is cause for concern in early adulthood but one which represents a considerable advantage for those situated similarly to me.

The “benefit” of the non-suture vasectomy is, theoretically, that the punctures are so minute as to not require stitches; they heal themselves. Naturally, nothing is ever so simple and straightforward in my life; what seems to be as common as a haircut becomes an adventure.

[If you thought it was off-putting before, you ain’t seen nothing yet. NO kidding. Run away now if you’re squeamish; this part is exceedingly grotesque.]

I had my procedure at 0930 on a Saturday morning. I entered Dr. Nick’s office (if you watch the Simpson’s you’ll immediately recognize the Dr. Nick character as the most egregious member of the medical profession that could be devised by the creative writers of that show; he is a veritable poster child for horrific medical practitioners…if you don’t watch the show, you may now be certain that the nom du plume assigned to my urologist is not without purpose), removed the appropriate clothing, and made myself “comfortable” on a medieval slab of glistening stainless steel. On the floor (really, on the floor) in a corner was a small boom box (it looked like it came from a college dorm yard sale) playing tunes from a local rock station. I spent my waiting time trying to think of an appropriate song for the occasion but my comic genius failed me.

On the wall was a medical picture of the male reproductive organ(s) and instructions outlining the best course of action in case of fire. An autoclave stood by (a minor source of relief for me) and I had a nice view of my car parked three floors below. After being kept waiting fifteen minutes for my “ten minute” procedure, the door opened, Dr. Nick (I actually considered Dr. Mengele as a name but rejected since it required more explanation than the Simpson’s character) entered, told me to lay back on the table, and began to spray the about to be effected area with icky brown antiseptic fluid. I was struck by the fact that the fluid container was sitting on the window sill like a house plant spritzer you might find on any kitchen window sill but, as this guy was about to handle my most prized possessions in a most awkward manner, I kept my observations to myself.

The procedure went forward without complication after Dr. Nick made the “non-suture” incisions using a device that looked a lot like a hole punch from Staples. All was well save the part about clamping the now exposed vas deferens; the pain encountered was sufficient to allow me to levitate, horizontally, from the table about six inches (for you guys reading this, think: hard ground ball to the unmentionables…for the gals, cogitate upon the reason that most self defense classes involve the popular “knee to the groin” technique…without much effort a full grown man may be induced to fall to the ground clutching his groinal area, and, as I can bear personal witness, actually wish to die…guys would scream, “Let me die!” but the pain is so intense that you are unable to speak). At this juncture, I was beginning to have “concerns” about Dr. Nick’s background and qualifications (in hindsight, something I might have raised with him before willingly exposing my “boys” to this highly skilled medical professional).

After managing to catch my breath, suppressing a very strong urge to throw up (and an even greater desire to rip Dr. Nick’s head from his tiny shoulders), I calmly asked, “So, do you do a lot of these procedures, Doc?” My intent was to appear jovial and devil may care. I think the best I managed was abject fear knowing that there was “one more to go.” He assured me that he performed that operation three or four times a week. I remember thinking, “I wish I had talked to some of those guys before today.”

I had received an injection of lidocaine but as Dr. Nick considerately explained, “Sometimes it takes a while to take effect.” ADULT LANGUAGE follows: I remember thinking, “Then why the FUCK didn’t you wait ‘a while’ before clamping my tube, you hack son of a bitch?!?!”

[Let me be honest. At this point, I was actually worried. But there is something disconcerting about walking out of a surgical event in mid-course; especially post incision. The point of no return has been attained and my options were dramatically limited. I steeled myself for the second clamp and began to count the ceiling tiles (72).]

The operation continued to the delightful strains of Bad Company’s “Feel Like Making Love” (the humor of which, even in retrospect, fails to assuage my memory of the vivid, throbbing pain) and after further use of various medical looking tools, Dr. Nick placed a piece of gauze over the effected region, asked me to hold it, retrieved my undergarment, and announced that I was “done.”

I asked Dr. Nick what to do if the bleeding seemed excessive and he said, “Oh, just put some gauze in your shorts and then ice it down when you get home. It will stop eventually.”

The lidocaine, having by then taken full effect, allowed me to get up off the table, dress, get my prescription for Tylenol #3, and make my way to my car. Frankly, other than the residual pain in my stomach (testicular bits are somehow connected to your stomach), I was relatively pain free and felt the day could only get better. When I write this stuff, such a feeling, as you are now aware, is the very essence of the word, “foreshadowing.”

[This tale gets really bad, graphically, for a bit. Again, you’ve been warned.]

I had the sense, before my appointed appointment, to ask Dr. Nick about the need to have someone drive me home and he had repeatedly assured me it would be unnecessary. I drove myself home (about an hour) but first I had to stop at a local pharmacy to have my prescription filled. GRAPHIC ICKINESS follows: I got out of the car and walking into the apothecary’s emporium I felt a bit of “moisture.” Looking down, I saw that my jeans had been saturated by a substance commonly known as “blood.” I decided that was not a good thing.

I gave my prescription for Tylenol #3 to the pharmacist and was asked, “Do you have any allergies to any medications?” Striking a pose I felt would exude thoughtful consideration of her inquiry I said, “Only Tylenol #3, I think.” She stopped scribbling, looked up at me with a pained expression and stammered, “Well…um…uh…we can’t fill this then.” I giggled and said, “Just kidding.” She struck a pose that exuded “This guy is an asshole.” Apparently, pharmacists have no sense of humor. I went back to the car to wait “about twenty minutes” for the pharmacist do her thing and tried various methods to keep my bodily fluids off my upholstery. I was a bit uncomfortable.

I got the drugs, drove home, walked out to my boat, and settled in for what promised to be two days of lounging about. My friend SK (Steve) was kind enough to truncate some work he was doing a few towns away and brought me ice and some lunch. (I was woefully unprepared for this post-op experience. I didn’t get ice, I forgot to seal up some holes in my boat left over from some previous work I had done, and I was completely out of Ho-Hos.) It was noon.

Steve (SK) prepared an ice pack but inexplicably refused to apply it. In retrospect, I was ok with that. Ensuring I was in a state of relative ease, he left me to die.

[This is your FINAL warning. Graphic portrayal of what transpired follows. This is not for the faint of heart. Honestly, I don’t know if I can write about it. But, I’ll try.]

I washed down two Tylenol and laid back to watch some ACC Tournament action. I became increasingly discomforted by the sensation of liquid running down the aforementioned nether reaches but felt sure it was merely condensation from the ice pack finding its way in accordance with Newton’s gravitational principles. I struggled to my feet (when you have one hand holding a piece of gauze to your groin, it’s a struggle to attain your feet with anything even closely resembling ease), got a towel, placed it beneath my supine position, and regained same.

The running liquid sensation did not abate and I finally summoned the courage to look “down there.” [GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION follows] I was awash in blood. [TOLD YOU]

I managed to extract a huge amount of sterile gauze pads from my medical kit and put them over the existing dressing (dressing…yeah…as if…Dr. Nick hadn’t even used tape) held in place by donning another pair of tightly fitting underwear (in this case, this was not “underwear that is fun to wear”). I applied some additional pressure and considered whether this was normal. I found the post-op instruction sheet and saw that a “normal” symptom following this operation was, “bleeding” so I wasn’t overly concerned but I thought it prudent to make sure.

I laid back down and called the number on the post-op instruction sheet to hear a recording informing me of the doctor’s regular office hours (of no real value at that point). There were no verbal instructions other than, “In case of a medical emergency, dial 911.” I left a detailed message but apparently, there is no “service” connection for Dr. Nick. The time was 1:30 PM.

Well, as only a moron wouldn’t by now grasp, the bleeding wasn’t stopping. I am, however, a moron. Unable to stomach lying on my back in my own filth, I got up and removed everything, redressed the “wound” (it was way past “incision” at this point), and lay back down again. It was about four o’clock and I assuaged my concerns by downing another pair of Tylenol tablets in accordance with the label directions.

I could not stop the outflow and decided that I needed to visit a medical care professional before I exsanguinated. (Dammit, I love that word. Truthfully, the only reason I wrote this whole story was so I could use it in context.) I called Steve and we headed off to the Anne Arundel Hospital Emergency Room. The time was 6:40 PM.

On the way to the hospital (about twenty minutes) I continued to apply to the affected area additional gauze that I had thoughtfully stuffed in my pockets prior to our departure. I said to SK, “Pardon my hand in my pants.”

We got to the hospital but due to the confusing nature of the signage, theoretically designed to point the way to the Emergency Room entrance, SK dropped me off at the Ambulance Entrance and I had to walk around the outside of the hospital in search of the Patient Entrance while SK parked the car.

I’d spent an entire day laying around in my torn, tattered, and now blood stained green sweatpants and a smelly sweatshirt and I was shuffling, with a four day beard, around the outside of a hospital at night in flip flops with my hand down my pants. I recall thinking that I needed to get inside the hospital before the security forces restrained me as a drug addict, vagrant, or the victim of an unfortunate domestic dispute with a woman possessing decidedly decent aim. I also considered that my intake of Tylenol #3 made my self-assessment closer to reality than I cared to admit.

I found the correct door and, neglecting the gaze of an entire roomful of emergency patients, friends, and family, I resolved to maintain what little dignity I had left and addressed the Triage Nursing Staff thusly, “I had a bilateral vasectomy this morning at 0930 and I am bleeding profusely.” (SK had wisely counseled me to say “profusely” in an attempt leap past more deserving patrons suffering from gunshot wounds, severe lacerations, and subdural hematomas. The idea was sound, the results, not so much.)

The Triage Nurse was a babe. Drawing myself up to my full height, I stood before her, crotch firmly in hand and said, “Pardon my hand in my pants.” She gave me a bored look and directed me to the patient vital signs examination station and took my pulse (74), pulse ox (98) and blood pressure (171/98). My normal numbers are 52, 98, and 120/68, respectively. I thought, “No wonder I’m bleeding to death…my BP is so high no clot stands a chance.” The time was 7:04 PM.

She gave me one of those little flasher/buzzer devices (like you get at a restaurant to notify you when your table is ready) and directed me to take a seat in the waiting area. I sat next to SK and we jointly assessed the nature of the injuries/complaints embodied by each member of the waiting room crowd. This became increasingly comical as SK’s hearing is less than perfect and raising my voice to say, “I don’t see any bones sticking out of his leg…I should go ahead of him” was met by unwelcome glares from the other guests. I was grateful they were no longer obsessed by a need to figure out what had happened to the guy with his hand down his pants.

Eventually, I was invited into the “back room” where, one assumes, all the doctoring was happening. As instructed by a HOT young lady, I took a seat in a small intake station (replete with a sliding curtain) and said, “Pardon my hand in my pants.” She assured me that they saw much worse things than that and launched into a process of asking me all the same questions I had answered previously, in written form, at the Triage station. Tired of hearing about my drug allergies and previous surgeries, she left in pursuit of someone else.

The someone else was the same HOT Triage nurse that had taken my vitals. She held up her end by asking me exactly the same questions as the previous nurse and, as previously reported, the same questions on the intake form. I held up my end by saying, “Pardon my hand in my pants.” She said they had seen much worse and I said, “Well, I have no doubt. But I sure got some stares in the waiting room.” She threw her head back and laughed. I had her then.

She asked who had performed my surgery and I said, “Dr. Nick.” She said, “Who?” I asked her if she watched the Simpson’s and she said she didn’t but she knew Milhouse’s last name (a TRULY esoteric piece of Simpson’s trivia that stumped even me). I asked her how it was possible that she didn’t know who Dr. Nick was but she knew something as trivial as Milhouse’s last name. She proudly displayed her name tag and I said, “Ah. I see.” (Her last name was the same as his.) We laughed together and I knew I had it made.

She told me to wait and disappeared. Returning shortly she said, “I found you a room so you don’t have to go back to the waiting area.” Had it not been for the hand down my pants, I would have thrown my arms around her in a well deserved hug.

She (Amanda…which is funny because another classic part of the Simpson’s is Bart’s continuous crank phone calls to Moe, the proprietor of Homer’s drinking establishment. Bart: “I’m looking for a Miss Hugandkiss, first name Amanda.” Moe then shouts out to all the patrons, “Is there Miss Hugandkiss in here? C’mon you guys, I’m looking for Amanda Hugandkiss!”) showed me back to the ER bed that would be my resting place (not final, as it turned out) for the next several hours. The time was 7:23 PM.

I was instructed to disrobe, waist down, and to don one of those absolutely stylish hospital gowns, in reverse of course to ensure the full display of my ass if I ventured off the bed provided for my comfort. I explained to Amanda that I planned to retain my undergarment as it was chock full of thirty seven inches of gauze and to remove them would be akin to a suicide attempt. She said, “That’s fine,” and scurried off in search of our heroine, my soon to be best friend, Dr. Diane Thurber.

Dr. Thurber arrived in a flurry and turned out to be, as you might imagine, blond, blue eyed, about 5’6” with a smile so radiant that you could use it to light an operating room. I began to hum the theme to the Twilight Zone.

We chatted as if we were meeting in a pub for a pint rather than under the current circumstances. After a bit of review (basically the same questions all over again) she said, “Well, let’s take a look.” With that, she threw back the final bastion of my dignity and I was exposed; fully as it were. Clinically, she ripped (really, like tearing off a band aid) off the gauze and gave the family jewels the once over…twice. “It’s bleeding, all right,” she confirmed as she used the soiled gauze remnants to wipe repeatedly and undaintily the affected spot. I’m a reasonable patient but the sensation was less than desirable and I was forced to say, “Um….Doc? That’s kind of tender.” She ignored me completely and continued as before.

She explained to me that she had never done this sort of procedure before. My eyes widened and I said, “You’re and ER doctor and you’ve never stitched someone up?” She quickly explained that she had never done a vasectomy and would need to contact a urologist to be sure there was nothing to be concerned with prior closing the “wound.” Naturally, I said, “Suture self.”

She didn’t get it. Maybe she did but didn’t think I was as funny as I did but she offered an “Oh. Yeah.” as a soothing gesture (Dr. Thurber’s bedside manner left nothing to be desired). With that, she tossed the remains of the blood soaked gauze between my knees, dropped a new piece on the area of concern, and left.

After Dr. Thurber departed, I got a visit from “Tiffany Of Registration.” Really, that’s how she introduced herself. Tiffany was, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. With her arrival and the unbiased assessment of the previous staff members I had encountered, I began to wonder if this was what it would be like if Hugh Hefner decided to branch out into emergency services. I was in parallel universe. Whoever is doing the hiring at the Anne Arundel Hospital is to be commended and deserves a Laurel and Hardy handshake. Wow.

Tiffany was extremely well trained and brought with her a rolling stand to which a laptop was affixed. Mindful of apparent hospital policy, Tiffany peppered me with the same questions to which I had previously testified. This time, however, there was a twist. Tiffany asked me additional questions like, “Next of Kin?” and “Phone number for Next of Kin?” and “Is there anyone local we should contact in an emergency?” and “Phone number for local person we should contact in an emergency?” Tiffany was her name and registration was her game.

I had left my wallet and cell phone with SK in the waiting area. After responding to most of Tiffany’s questions with, “That’s in my [wallet/cell phone] with Steve in the waiting room.” Tiffany, bright girl, said, “Maybe I should get Steve from the waiting room.” I readily agreed with her assessment and she said, “Can you describe him?” Well, if that wasn’t a target rich environment or what? Those of you who know SK can imagine what went through my head at that moment but, having made a New Year’s resolution to not pick on him, I said, “He’s wearing a blue denim Virginia Tech shirt” and she went off to fetch him.

Locating SK with no problem, Tiffany showed him back to my den of salvation. Note: at this time I was laying on the bed in a pool of blood (oops, forgot to warn you about that one), my very life draining before my eyes with a mass of “used” gauze between my legs for all to see. Tiffany was careful, I noted, to fix her gaze on her laptop at all times rather than to look around and encounter anything that might upset her stomach. Smart girl.

SK and I made mention of all the beautiful girls in the place and commented that Tiffany herself was babolacious. This seemed to break the ice and after we said Dr. Thurber was also on the babe squad, Tiffany said, “That’s what everyone says when they meet her.” Tiffany proceeded to tell us everything about Dr. Thurber that she could think of (Married, early 30’s, first name Diane, husband is a cop). Despite her misleading laptop preoccupation, Tiffany paid attention to things around her.

I noticed Tiffany was chewing gum and, as I was parched (and concerned about my breath in the presence of Dr. “D”), I begged a piece of gum from Tiffany which she supplied with the following admonition, “I’ll give you one because you’re not here for anything abdominal.” This seemed like a ruse to me as Tiffany was obviously embarrassed to say, “Other than the skanky clothes, beard, smell, stains of an indeterminate nature, and the bloody mass between your legs, you’re kinda cute, Mr. McDonald.” I’m sure of it.

During this entire tete a tete I was periodically teasing SK by reaching for the hem of my gown and asking, “Wanna see it?” which of course grossed him out to no end. Tiffany practically ran screaming from the room each time but remained focused on her laptop display. A good time was had by all. She left and SK and I waited for Dr. D’s return.

I could overhear Dr. Thurber’s phone conversation as she spoke to a [hopefully] bona fide urologist (Dr. Nick: compare and contrast). She said the wound, approximately 7 millimeters in diameter, was bleeding “briskly.” For all I knew, she could have been making it all up and ordering a pizza but the upshot was she was going to put one stitch in my scrotal plain. I heard her order a suture kit from one of the bevy as SK departed for the friendly confines of the waiting room. The time was 7:55 PM

Ten minutes later Herself swooped in armed with a large package about the size of a loaf of bread wrapped tightly in a blue hospital-like towel and taped for sterility. She dropped it on the end of the bed and said she was going to put in a stitch and started to leave. I called after her, “I have three words for you Doc….LI- DO-CAINE.” She laughed. A lilting, melodious laugh that made me think I could stand a small stitch in my naughty bits without benefit of anesthesia if only the stitch were delivered by this angel. Ok, that’s total bullshit. I’d chew aspirin rather than face that pain.

She quickly returned, sat on a gleaming stainless steel rolling stool, and unceremoniously pulled back my gown to assess the situation. She opened the loaf of what turned out to be all sorts of medical toolage (rheostats, forceps, and things I’d never seen before…it looked like there was a thumb screw but I couldn’t be certain). I saw what seemed enough stuff to do a heart/lung transplant and said, “Gee. That’s an awful lot of stuff for just a single stitch…even if it is in my groinal area.” Again she chuckled and explained these “kits’ contained everything that they *might* need. This served to exacerbate my concern about what *might* go wrong that *might* necessitate a veritable Craftsman tool collection. I didn’t say it. But I did think it.

I started to ask my usual pre-qualifying questionnaire as she spread out her things.

“Did you get plenty of sleep last night?”

“How steady is your hand?”

“Are you a good seamstress?”

“How do we know the bleeding is topical rather than internal?”

“What kind of thread will you use?”

“What kind of stitch are you planning to use?”

“Are you happily married?”

As I rattled off my list, Dr. Thurber extracted a very, very large syringe and loaded it with, I hoped, Lidocaine. As she tried to answer my barrage of questions, her attention slipped, as did the syringe from her grasp. It did a beautiful airborne pirouette and found its way, pointy part first, into my left thigh.

She gasped in horror as she pulled it from my leg. “OH MY! I’ve NEVER done that. I’ve been a doctor for NINE YEARS and I have NEVER done THAT! You’ve made me so nervous!” Really, that is verbatim. My record of wowing the ladies at the Anne Arundel Emergency Boutique remained intact. I was four for four despite having to subject myself to potential further injury and was batting 1.000. Cleverly I said, “You know. I can’t walk out of here now. My leg is numb.” (It wasn’t but you can understand the need for witty repartee at this juncture.)

Dr. D composed herself and sat down, intent upon completing her assigned task. She patiently (pun intended) answered all my questions save one, leaned closer to my boy’s home, and prepared to stab me with a needle more appropriate, in my opinion, for knitting a scarf than the purpose for which it was being used. I steeled myself for the onslaught (I do a lot of this steeling stuff it seems) and she stuck me like a pig at slaughter as she said, “Slight prick [I found this highly offensive given the circumstances but I’m not going into it here], slight burn, slight pressure.” I figuratively wiped the sweat from my brow as it seemed the worst was over. Au contraire, mi amigos and amigas. That was injection numero uno. More steeling was necessary and the second time, she hit something of consequence causing me to leap, not to the great heights attained that very morning in another place but an impressive distance nonetheless, off the bed.

“Oh, so you’re a jumper,” she snickered. [Were I not infatuated, I would have sworn she purposely located as her target a vital nerve to equalize the playing field following her earlier needle gymnastics.]

“Oh, so you’re a STABBER!” I countered in an attempt to regain the upper hand by reminding her, in a not so gentle fashion, of her earlier needle gymnastics.

Calling it a draw, she proceeded to place a stitch and I proceeded to do nothing at all…especially not jumping. She tied an overhand surgical knot (I think that’s what she called it) and then looked carefully to determine its efficacy in stemming the flow.

“I think I’ll put in one more,” she said. I couldn’t have cared less. It couldn’t get any worse for me. I was numbed up, there were no more needles in my future, and any dignity I was worried about maintaining, like Elvis, had left the building hours before. She could have sewn me like Raggedy Andy for all I cared.

Stitch Two in place, she peered carefully once again. “Hmmm,” she hmmmmed. “Maybe one more.” And she did. She also said that I needed to pay closer attention because she had used a different knot that time and I missed it; an “instrument” knot I think she said. Frankly, as previously noted, I had lost interest once the lidocaine kicked in.

Stitch Three in place, despite the initial “single stitch” gambit, the lovely medical professional glanced longingly yet again. “Perhaps one more,” she grumbled.

I thought it unwise in the situation to point out her obvious lack of sewing skills; thankfully I was distracted by doing some thinking. There I was, three stitches in place, another close on Stitch Three’s heels, all to repair something that had been billed as a “non-suture” vasectomy. Someone, I decided, with a sales/marketing background had named this procedure. I guess they figured calling it a “Nearly Exsanguinating, Trip to the Emergency Room, Four Stitch” vasectomy just wouldn’t play in Peoria. By the time I figured that out, the fourth stitch was in place.

Dr. Thurber [if you ever saw, “On Golden Pond” there’s a great scene with Henry Fonda lamenting that his wife, Ethel, had almost not married him because his last name was Thayer and it was very difficult to say Ethel Thayer. I was going to bring this up but Dr. D seemed too young to be familiar with the film and I didn’t want to keep her from her appointed rounds with other patients less well off than my scrotum (I’m a Giver)] instructed me to place my finger where her’s was, applying pressure to a thick piece of gauze over the stitched area. She said the wound was oozing slightly but it would stop in about ten minutes after which I could put on my clothes and depart the health care facility. The time was 8:34 PM.

I waited a full six minutes before carefully pulling back the gauze and taking a “look.” Much to my disappointment, blood was flowing, while not “briskly,” at least “readily” from my Quattro-Stitched Zone. I reapplied pressure as instructed. I kept checking for the next 20 minutes and still, the bleeding persisted.

Enter the final contestant for Babe of the Night at the Anne Arundel Hospital Emergency Boutique; the lovely and vivacious Katie. I have no idea what Katie’s qualifications were but she was assigned to take my vital signs prior to discharge. She had a stethoscope around her neck and and piece of jewelry in her tragus [Really, you can look it up. The tragus is that little bit in the center at the front of your ear…the piece with cartilage in it. I’d never seen that piercing before and I interrogated her all about it and asked her to write it down so I could include it here.] Obviously, anyone who knows her way around a tragus is eminently well qualified to determine the state of my health before releasing me to the ordinary world.

Katie was a lovely chick chock full of personality and vim without a vacuous bone in her body (ok, I’ll give you the ear piercing was “out there”). We chatted amicably for a few moments as she attempted to take my blood pressure using a wheeled BP machine that she had wheeled in with her. It didn’t seem to function properly. Subjected to the multiple attempts she made, I said, “If you don’t release the cuff pressure, I’m going to have to reset my watch.” Not my best material but I was smitten. I suggested she take it the “old fashioned” way using only her skill and her “prop” stethoscope. Katie was no Violet, shrinking or otherwise. She latched on to a nearby antique pressure cuff, pumped it with prejudice and, stethoscope in ears, leaned down to do whatever the hell they do with stethoscopes when they take your blood pressure like that. I continued babbling (go figure) and she said, “Shh.” I guessed she was listening to something not me. When finished, she announced my BP and it seemed I had calmed down dramatically since my intake exam. That, or Katie pulled a fast one on me. The time was 9:05 PM.

Meanwhile, back at the groinal locale, I had been applying firm pressure for a little more than half an hour. It occurred to me that I was in a bit of a compromising position and realizing the placement of my hand, I offered Katie, “Pardon me for my hand in my crotch.” She assured me they had seen much worse. Dammit, they are so darn nice at that ER. I offhandedly mentioned that despite Dr. D’s best efforts, it appeared I continued to bleed in a manner describable by me as disturbing, and would Katie be so kind as to inform Dr. D of my predicament? Katie, the giver that she is, agreed readily to do so and she left.

Returning shortly, Dr. Thurber in tow, Katie made herself comfortable in my “room” while I explained that the very purpose of my visit, despite her best efforts, had yet to be rectified. Once again, “Betsy Ross” pulled my gown aside to reveal for her and me (and Katie who seemed to have no official purpose in my “room” other than her attraction to my bon vivance) to see that in fact, the wound continued to seep blood.

Upon her arrival to my suite, Dr. D had managed to catch herself on the fancy hanging curtain, prevalent in these hospital installations, accidentally dragging it open and thereby leaving me subject to inspection by all manner of folks hanging around in the hallway just outside (friends, family, staff, and what looked like three generations of Hondurans). I started to wave. Dr. Thurber, distracted from her investigation of my uncooperative scrotum incision, said, “What are you doing?” I said, “Well, you pulled the curtain open and I’m trying to be polite to the fans gathered outside seemingly intent upon staring at my giblets.”

Katie guffawed, Dr. D blushed and closed the curtain; the matinee was over. I may have heard a titter of applause emanating from tiny Honduran hands but I can’t be certain.

Once again paying attention to her life’s calling (medicine, not my bleeding scrotum although it was the most recent exemplar thereof), she firmly squeezed my four stitch wound in a last ditch effort to stem the tied [this is a horrible pun]. We chatted about where she went to med school (Georgetown), her chosen specialty (emergency medicine), her husband’s work (law enforcement…that put a real damper on the infatuation for me), and her previous job at a Shock Trauma center in Arizona that was the State’s sole medical facility for all the nefarious tenants of the State’s penitentiary system. She also said she was fully qualified and certified to do all manner of highly involved trauma procedures including cracking my chest open, holding my heart in her hand, and massaging it until it began to beat on its own. I said, “Look, if it starts to look like it’s heading that way, I’ll just hold my scrotum until it stops bleeding.”

After about five minutes she took a peek and then hemmed and hawed and then hemmed some more followed by another “Hmmmm.” She looked up at Katie and inquired as to the status of the suture tray she had used before. Katie confirmed the efficiency of the char force and said it was “long gone.” Attempting to relieve the tension, I may have said something about Dr. D’s sewing skills being “sew sew” but it resulted in nothing but a slight giggle from Katie. Sighing deeply, Dr. D departed, carefully engaging in meaningful curtain management as she left, in search of another suture tray for my most obstinate scrotum.

By this time, even I was tiring of ogling the nurses and doctors, not to mention lying in an ever expanding pool of my own blood while my genitals were exposed to anyone who cared to stop in for a gander. I had high hopes that Dr. Thurber’s infamous Stitch Five would finally allow me to go home. I had had a very long day and I was fading.

Dr. Thurber returned again (I’d lost count) with another suture kit under her arm, went through the by now familiar drill of lying out the tools of the trade and loaded up another massive syringe in preparation for yet another stab into my personal pin cushion. [By my latest count, I received six thoughtful and well placed needle punctures that day. Two other “special” openings, one stubborn in its desire to remain “open for business” and to meet pretty doctors, made this a whole lot worse than any haircut I’ve ever gotten.]

“This *shouldn’t* hurt as much this time,” she said, obviously unmotivated and with a sincere lack of sincerity. “The other medication should still be in effect.” I thought about explaining my reasoning for getting her back as soon as possible to do this without another shot (or two) but she was no longer as sparky as she was at the beginning of our scrotum chaperoned blind date. I resolved to end the evening on an up note and cheerfully encouraged her to “plunge away.”

She buried the syringe, twice more, in my you-know-what. She was right; it didn’t hurt a bit. “Golly, Doc,” I brightly said, “that didn’t hurt a bit. You’re a good shot giver.” Her spirits were restored as she grabbed the sewing needle and thread and swiftly tied a knot, type unknown. Then she stared dejectedly as blood continued to find its way from inside of me to outside of me, still. Once again, she grasped my now Five Suture Site and applied meaningful pressure; I was glad I was loaded with anesthesia. Her shoulders sagged and it was evident she was cogitating upon every nugget of her vast medical training and experience. Katie and I started counting the ceiling tiles (32).

Suddenly, Dr. D looked again and a smile broke across her face. “You’re an oozer!’” she cried. Unfamiliar with complex medical terminology I posed, “A what?” She said, “The incision site is not bleeding. Look.” Frankly, I could not bend over far enough to see the thing from my vantage point; I took her word for it. “Well, where is the blood coming from?” I asked. In a triumphal tone she said, “The suture site. The needles with this silk are so big [the suture “thread” and the needle come preassembled…no need to thread in the middle of an operation, I guess] that the needles themselves are causing you to bleed. The incision is completely closed.”

She seemed pretty darned happy about the outcome. Somehow, this discovery had validated her skills as a highly certified and eminently qualified emergency room specialist. I felt very happy for her until I realized that this whole endeavor was about me. “So, Doc. What do you suggest we do about the bleeding?” I asked gingerly. “Oh, just put some gauze in your shorts and then ice it down when you get home. It will stop eventually.”

When I got to the waiting area SK said, “So?” I said, “You’re not going to believe this, but other than the hand in my pants, I’m in exactly the same condition leaving this place as I was when we arrived.”

The time was 9:45 PM.