December 1, 2012
Dear Tom Selleck . . .
Now I've gone and done it. I wrote you this letter and sent it to The Selleck Stache, but I think some of the language was considered less than desirable coming from a lady guest.
Movember is over in 1 minute here in the Midwest, and I want to make sure you read this before you go man-scaping your 30 days of growth. There's a to-do. Down there. It could save your life. Kill two birds with one stone Tom, check your balls while you man-scape later. After you read this.
I'm going out on a limb here by telling you a little story about my left nut, Pam. And a little about my right nut, Barb, Pam's deceased cyst-er.
I'm a non-practicing hypochondriac. What that means is that I'll tell you I have a brain aneurysm when I have a headache or that I have the rickets when I'm wearing new shoes that make my feet hurt. I exaggerate a little. I'm like a man with a cold. But all of the time.
Except when I know something is really wrong with me. Then I'm just full-blown man. I tell no one. I brush off the signs and symptoms of a bigger problem. I justify each pain or change . . . I've worked too much lately. I'm getting older. I'm a little scared. I am terrified of the doctor. Of tests. Of needles. Of gloves. Of lube. It all scares me. I'm a total man about it.
So I waited until my jeans are just too tight, I've lost 40 pounds because I've worked so much, I just can't eat rye bread or Arby's anymore, I am 40 years old, turned into doubled over, vomiting in pain. I had to go to the ER. There were tests. And needles. And gloves. And lube. I was terrified and acted like such a man about all of it.
There was something the size of a grapefruit hanging from my right nut. But I had been such a damn man about it, I had not even noticed. And now they weren't going to touch it until 'they knew what it was'. Fuck.
More tests. More needles. More gloves. More lube. Only this time with doctors whose practices included words like Oncology and who said things like . . . one step at a time, it's grown, doesn't look good, we'll get through this together, are you here by yourself, you should bring someone with you next time, we won't know anything until next week, we'll go from there.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why was I such a damn man about all of this?!
What happened next, I don't wish on my worst enemy. They were keeping me comfortable. Much thanks to good drugs, I felt pretty good that morning - except that nagging 'C' word in the back of my head. I went to make coffee, and when I bent over the sink . . . the counter pressed into my nutsack, causing that 6"-ish grapefruit hanging from my right nut to twist my nut around, cutting off its blood supply.
(I'll give you a minute to grab your crotch and collect yourself.)
It hurt like hell. And I went down to the floor like a fucking man. Crying and vomiting and reaching for my phone because my right nut was twisted and I could not reach it to untwist it.
But just like some hard-headed (yeah, I said hard-headed - and giggled) asshole of a man, I did not call 911. I called my best friend who had to break into my house through a window and rush me to the ER (again) because I had waited wwwaaayyy too long this time. Like a damn man.
There were a lot of tests. And needles. And gloves. And lube. And cursing. I was in pain and terrified. Like a man.
And then, to make a long story short . . . I lost my right nut this past Memorial Day. Barb. May her bitchy, whiny, dried up soul rest in peace. My remaining nut, Pam, seems to be thriving without her. She cries and gets all hot and bothered sometimes, but Pam's an overachiever and a pleaser and has picked up Barb's slack.
Barb's cause of death was a benign cyst. Gratefully.
Don't let this be you, Tom. Check your nuts. You're a man. You and your 'stache represent real men. Manly men. Stop being a pussy and man up. Check your nuts.
God made it very simple for you men. They're hanging right there - front and center. Right there at arm's length. Checking them should be no problem. No excuses. Do it while you man-scape.
Me, on the other hand . . . My nuts (well one nut and a nub now) are on the inside. It's a little more difficult. I will always remain one chromosome away from being able to grab my own balls.
Edie B. Kuhl