Ugly Stuff No One Really Wants To Know

It was twelve days ago when I first pooped onto a piece of toilet paper, scooped a tiny piece of that poop onto a faecal sample stick and then popped and sealed it inside a small plastic tube. Then I put the tube in my bag and went to hospital. I headed for the testicle screening room first to make an appointment. But when I was told that I didn’t have to make an appointment, that I could just turn up any day before 9.30, I thought to hell with it, I'll come back on Monday morning, get my balls screened, my blood tested and hand in my poop at the same time.

But I didn’t do that because I was sidetracked and slightly lazy. Instead I didn’t return until yesterday, so basically, I walked around with a piece of my own poop in my bag for twelve days.

Morag found this to be the height of vileness. She was properly disgusted.

It was in a tube though. No biggy.

At the weekend Morag and I went to the wildlife photography exhibition at the National History Museum, where there is a bag search before entry. I opened my bag. The security guard performed a perfunctory check and was about to let me pass when the tube caught his eye. I don’t know what he thought it was but he lifted it slowly out of the bag.

‘It’s faecal matter,’ I said.

He placed it back in my bag.

We went in.

The wildlife photography exhibition is fantastic by the way. This one is my favourite.



So yesterday I went back to the hospital and a young lady moved what is apparently called a transducer over my testicles. Before she did this however, she covered the smooth head of the transducer in warm gel. Once the nurse gets going with the transducer, the effect upon the surface of the scrotum is a very pleasant one. In fact, you can quite easily convince yourself that that is not in fact a transducer floating wetly over your nether regions, but the warm wet tongue of a beautiful woman. This however, under the circumstances, is highly inadvisable, as genital engorgement at this point would just be embarrassing. Believe me.



Another good thing about the scrotal ultrasound is that you get your results immediately. This is particularly good if your results are negative, as mine were. Chatting to the nurse at the end, I asked her if she thought the pain could therefore be stress-related. She half-shrugged. She didn’t really know about stress. She knew about blood flow and epididymitis, the physical stuff. ‘Yeah, I guess,’ I said. ‘I suppose the psychological stuff is a whole different ball game.’

Unfortunately, I kind of mumbled this because we were both speaking at the same time, and the nurse didn’t hear. When I realised I’d inadvertently made a wonderful pun and that it had been wasted, I came really close to saying it again, but then I thought, no. That would be sad. I’d just blog it instead.

Ball game!

I also handed in my poop piece – although I had replaced the 12-day old sample with a fresh sample, you’ll be pleased to hear.

I didn’t get my blood test however, because there were too many people waiting and I had to rush across town to keep a dental appointment.

My dentist is very chipper. Almost annoyingly so. He happily explained that it would cost me around £350 to have the tooth that broke refilled and the rest cleaned. He was overjoyed.

Treatment starts next week.

That's it. No more grossness for a while.



But the upshots so far are good. No testicle tumours, no hideous unforeseen and hugely painful tooth furies.

So far, so good.

Fingers crossed.

We can get through this.



By the way, if you are male and you feel you might have a problem with your testicles (or let’s face it, even if you don’t), I recommend you pop along to your GP and hook yourself up with an ultrasound examination. It really does feel like a tongue.