The Case of the Not-So Missing Nads

Or, M'Boy Has Balls!



I've been drafting this entry in my head for over a week now. Frittering away countless hours in silent composition, wasting gallons upon gallons of extra water in the shower, losing sleep, and over cooking the pasta--all in pursuit of the perfectly pitched narrative of what was sure to be The Boy's defining childhood trauma.

Alas, all for naught. What was to be the climax of my multi-chaptered tale of woe was summarily cancelled early this morning. My literary thunder all fizzled and stolen. The hapless object of pity and concern transmorgrified into a wee, red-headed Scottish lad barely three years old.

Allow me to explain--

Up until, apparently, 10 o'clock this morning, Boy's manly bits were missing--not the essential Bit, obviously, but the jewels, you know...Nowhere to be found. They were both present and accounted for at birth. But after that initial roll call, they evidently thought better of their assigned seats and retreated back into the murky depths from whence they came. The doctors at his 3, 6, and 12 month check-ups where all unable to find them despite extensive, concentrated, and (I think) unnecessarily rigorous groping.

At 13 months he was examined via ultrasound, which revealed one low in his abdomen, and the other one a bit higher, nearer his kidney. "Mostly normal," said the doctor, "But that one near the kidney may be questionable." (Questionable in the sense that it may not descend into the scrotum of its own accord. It may require surgical intervetion).

By the time he was 3 years old and they still hadn't made more than a handful of brief appearences during fevers and long baths and such, I started asking around. I cornered unsuspecting mothers in the super-market, asking "You have a boy, right? Tell me, have his bits descended? What do they look like? Do his balls swing low? Do they wobble to and fro?" I was genuinely surprised when the answer invariably turned out to be, "Well, um. Yeah, actually. They do."

So then, years pass.  Phone calls are made, appointments a met, referrals are followed through. Blah blah blah...late February of this year, I finally get him in to see a urologist at the hospital who confirms that certainly the left testicle is going to need to be surgically placed in the scrotum. Probably the right one is fine though. Don't call us. We'll call you. Then she literally washes her hands of the whole problem.

Finally, last Monday, I get a letter saying his surgery is scheduled a week from Tuesday.

Today--after much fretting, and fussing, and pawning off of extraneous offspring--I took the heretofore unmanned Boy in for his pre-op consultation. We waited for over an hour in a playroom stuffed to the gills with anxious parents, insecure children, and moldering toys of dubious sterility. Then, after a brief, albeit thorough, examination, the surgeon assured me that both testicles were very obviously already in the scrotum and surgery would be unnecessary. We were sent home forthwith.

Voilá! Instant manhood!

The upshot of the whole thing is this: Jilly Baby's Lad has, by bizarre coincidence, the exact same diagnosis, and must have been right behind Boy on the waiting list. Within maybe 30 minutes of us being sent home, the hospital was on the phone with Jilly saying there had been a cancellation, and would she like the spot? Of course she took it. And, unfortunately, his pre-op consultation (conducted late this afternoon) confirmed that the surgery would be necessary in his case. So now it's Jilly's wee lad who's fasting and resting up for the horrors that tomorrow has in store.

Of course, I'm relieved--both for myself and Boy--that we dodged the bullet on this one. I was not looking forward to any part of it. And of course I'm anxious and sympathetic for the situation that Jill has been thrust so unceremoniously into. I send out to them cyber blessings for a seamless proceedure and a smooth recovery.

But.....God dammit!!!!! It was my story first!!!!!!!!!