Ode to My Lost Testicle

PART I:

I remember finding out you don’t exist. In the back seat of my mom's car, my hand in my pants, the empty space of a ball I didn't know I had been missing. I remember the story: "You had a bacterial infection." "It inflated to the size of a grapefuit." "A softball." "A Bucca di Beppo meatball!" "Then it died and receded." Numerous urologists glancing back and forth between my records and my scrotum. They were confused. "What kind of infection?" "Bacterial." "Hmm...."

My mom nervously holding different protective cups for me to wear during soccer. 
My mom telling me football and baseball were out of the question unless I wore it. 
My mom trying to get me to wear it in tennis too. 
The cheap foam cupping my remaining testicle, the elastic straps pulling at my ass. 

Walking weird to practice. My mom: "I want to make sure I have grandkids one day."
The predictable teenage fears entering; "Why don't I like sports? Maybe I'm gay."

Was I getting normal amounts of testosterone?
Is this a disability?
Is it making me effeminate?  

Some kid in 10th grade—overweight, unhappy, a bully—cracking open the class medical records in the teacher's desk; whispering to friends, "Josh only has one ball, he's a Uniball." 

The whispers and laughs spread through the room, the grade, the whole school. Big news. My parents consoled me by saying things like "Those kids are idiots." I knew it was a big deal and also not a big deal. All these memories are storied deep in my body somewhere, etched into the cell walls.

PART II:

My hemorrhoids. My fissures. My nuissance of a slipped disc.
My years of hypochondria—"Is that an STD?
Do I have an ulcer?
Do I have colon cancer?
Is that penile cancer?"
My mom , "Don't be a hypochondriac."

All these memories wincing their way through my muscles and my veins.
My years spent looking down at my ballsac and my ass and my back,
all within just a few inches of one another.
The word dysfunctional would come to mind. The mental energy I put on this story: "You. Are. Fucked. Up." The unshakable thought that something was wrong.

Staring down confused.
But confused as to why I was confused.
Concerned as to why I was concerned.

Admitting I had one testicle to girls like it was HIV,
like there was a chance they wouldn't want to be with me anymore.
Confused that each and every one of them gave zero shits,
some even thought it was cool.

The severing of my root chakra.
Feeling disconnected.
Feeling ungrounded.
Feeling like half a man.
Still feeling this way sometimes.

The boys: "my balls" this, "my balls" that.
But my truth sounds weird in the flow of conversation,
"my ball."

PART III:
The bike ride,
I certainly can't remember and you don't seem willing to,
hidden under layers and layers of retelling like lunch meat on old soggy bread,
"We were scared."
"You were in so much pain."
"Bacterial infection."
"Testicular atrophy with torsion."

Then, one day, my lone testicle made a son. And then two.
Maybe all thanks to my mom's sport's cup.
And my oldest hit his lip on a coffee table and started bleeding.
I could have stopped him from falling but I was too slow. (So I guess I couldn't have).

The table cut into him like a knife.
His first big gash.
The following days struck with guilt.
"Should I take him to the hospital?"
I should have had him stitched up,
I think that would have made him scar less.

Now he is disfigured like me.
Just a tad.
I keep doing the math and hoping that when his body gets bigger, his lips will too, and you won’t see the scar anymore.

Godforfuckingbid it's something he asks me about one day.

"Daddy, what's wrong with my lip?" "Bacterial infection."

I can see the story withering and wavering in sinewy silky wool spirals of memories stranded somewhere out there in the ether.

I can imagine my dad coming down from a stressful week at work. He really wanted to spend some time with his son, and make it count. He folds a hand towel and tapes it to the crossbar of his bike, "I'm taking Josh out for a ride."

He hoists me up and plops me down and begins to ride.

My little testicles hanging on either side of the hard metal.
Maybe that was it, it happened right then.
I was destined to be a Uniball.
Case closed. Deed is done. On the chopping block, off the chopping block.

But, no, my gut says we fell to ground.
I think it was scary for the both of us.
I think it cut deep into my dad's nervous system.
Maybe a squirrel ran across the road.
Maybe a car came too close.
Maybe it was the wind.
Whatever it was,
we hit the ground, and that's when it really happened: testicular atrophy with torsion.

That's what a friend from school was diagnosed with too after his girlfriend kicked him in the balls.

The atmosphere in the car on the way to the doctor must have been dense like steak, My parents must have been unable to get a word in to one another as I yelped in pain in the back.

Maybe it was too much to strap me into the seat so my mom held me in her arms. They must have been so afraid.

I know how I feel when my son cuts himself or falls under my purview. I'd rather die than feel that feeling. It's a complete dissolution of self. It can go from peak parenthood to complete failure in only a moment.

I can see me writhing on the doctor's table, his cold gloved hands pushing my balls this way and that as I scream. I can see my mom with her hand over her mouth. I can see my dad trying to get all the details: "What is happening? What are our options? What can we do?"

PART IV:
As the blood pooled, I bet it did blow up like a Bucca di Peppo meatball.
I bet it popped without a sound like a water balloon breaking underwater.
I am learning every day that nearly every physical ailment is just an expression of a spiritual or psychological energy. It's my body trying to remind me of something.

Sometimes, when I'm dehydrated, my ball hurts.

I’m noticing how this poem is kind of trailing off. I don’t know where to end it.

It's a feeling I get a lot mid-conversation, mid-project, mid-sex.

Root chakra gets tired; shuts off.

Suddenly directionless, even castrated.

My remaining ball makes more sperm than most people’s two.

"Super sperm," a doctor called it once. I can make babies.

So, I know this feeling of castration is just a feeling stored in my body.
It shouldn’t have a bearing on me anymore—though it often snatches me off guard.

I love who I am and therefore everything that has ever happened to me.

Writing this poem is just one small step toward feeling whole instead of half.

Until then, I'll end by relishing the memory of Tom Green’s 2000 Cancer Special on MTV. It documents his testicular cancer journey, including going in to get his testicle removed. I remember the fear in his mom's eyes but how jokey he was. I remember him asking the doctor if he could eat the testicle after it was removed. I remember his co-host poking the removed testicle on a tray and saying it looked like minced chicken. I remember him seeing his song about how important it is to touch your balls every day, because if you don’t, you will get cancer and die.

I can imagine my 11-year-old self watching this episode with friends after school, laughing nervously and too afraid to tell them that I resonated with it quite deeply. It was cathartic to watch one of my idols laughing about his single testicle, which had been a source of great discomfort and shame for me.

I still don’t know how to end this, so I’ll leave you with that brilliant episode: