The Prostate Panic

There are three things that as a grown man I am scared to death of and which might from time to time keep me awake at night:

  • Balloons
  • Miley Cyrus
  • The threat of being anally violated

This is a story of overcoming one of those fears.

I’m sure many men will have a similar fear of having the sanctity of their delicate tuckus’s penetrated; others, well, that’s their business but, for me, it’s definitely true.  In fact, for the past 41 years I have been extremely successful at remaining 100% penetration free, and then on one fateful day that all ended at the latexed hand of a blonde medical intern.

I knew already that when a man turns a certain age – 40 being the commonly accepted age – that certain measures need to be taken in regard to his physical health; namely his prostate.  I know this because my nurse girlfriend takes great evil pleasure in reminding me.

I was more than a little anxious last year when I turned the big four-oh, but I managed to escape that appointment unscathed with nary a gentle prodding; heck, I didn’t even have to get undressed.  Just ‘stick out your tongue, take a few deep breathes for me, now hop up here and have your weight taken’, before ‘off you go Mr. Nash’.  I did note though, a certain menacing twinkle in the doctor’s eye as if he had mercilessly let me off the hook or, for whatever reason, saved me from an unavoidable fate.  It was like he was purposely preventing himself from leaking a spoiler about the outcome of some fantastic season finale or a blockbuster flick coming soon to a theater near you.  I was immediately suspicious.  So it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I booked this year’s appointment and, apparently, I had good reason to worry.

It’s important to note that my doctor’s office is more of a medical school, in that sometimes you get the doc himself and other times you get one of his practicing interns.  I’m not fussed really as long as I’m healthy, which, I typically am.  On this day, I happened to be scheduled with an intern…a rather pretty, blonde intern at that.

Oh, just great.

Excellent.

“Pleasedontlettodaybetheday…pleasedontlettodaybetheday…dontlettodaybetheday…”

The exam all started innocently enough.  After answering the initial bevy of simple questions about my health and how I was feeling in general (“fine” – I always feel “fine”), she took my weight, tossed me a surgical gown and invited me to get undressed as she fled the room. I started to hyperventilate.  All signs were pointing to ‘brace yourself, cowboy.  Today is the day’.  Surely, the doc would walk in at any moment and save me from this madness right?

He didn’t.

Back in came the pretty physician and she proceeded to take my blood pressure, listen to my heart through a stethoscope, tapped on my abdomen like she was drumming out the solo to ‘Inna-Gotta-Da-Vida’, and checked out my pupil dilation by shining a bright light in my eyes.  Then it happened, a snapping of a rubber glove followed by “now I’d like you to roll over facing the wall and bend your legs”. 

Oh shit.

“Okay, Mr. Nash.  You might feel a little pressure”, she cooed.  She sounded absolutely giddy about the prospect as if she simply couldn’t wait to get to it.

What I heard was:  “Okay Mr. Nash.  I’m going to stick my finger up your ass now”, so that eagerness wasn’t really appreciated at the time.

It was Go Time; Zero Hour; the Point of No Return.

Although I couldn’t see her, I could just sense the huge smile of eager anticipation that only a practicing intern might have.  I, however, wanted to cry.  I wanted to run.  I wanted to, to, to…stall for more time.  Maybe I should engage her in meaningful dialogue and perhaps try to learn a little more about her first.  What’s her favorite color?  What her favorite food?  Where does she see herself in five years?  Maybe set it all to the cool styling’s of a Sade CD.   But before I had an opportunity to ask her any of these important questions, Ms. Sausage Fingers was wrist deep in my ass and poking around like she was trying to unplug the kitchen sink.

I took another breath and the room spun like the Tilt-o-Whirl at the local carnival, after three corndogs slathered with mustard.  Searing pain.  Mind-numbing, star inducing pain.  I felt like a cornered and frightened dog.  I wanted to turn around and bite her and I was actually considering doing just that when the glove snapped again. “All done.”

The verdict you ask?

Well, my prostate is 100%, A-okay.

The sanctity of my poop hole, however, destroyed.

God help me.

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2 Comments

  1. Robin

     /  October 25, 2013

    Ahem. This may seem cruel but just wait until you turn 50 and get a full colonoscopy! 🙂 Things only get better with age, my friend.

    Also, in defense of the cute blonde intern- girls tend to have smaller fingers. Looks like luck was on your side that day. 🙂

    Reply

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