This morning, PW took me to the hospital for what seems like the hundredth time. Everyone DOES know us by name, now, so it's not my drug-enhanced imagination-we've spent a lot of time there, this week. Everybody in the hospital waved at me as we left. Yesterday, after my last IV, as I was leaning against the wall in the hallway, some stranger walked up, put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Hang in there, man". My infected scrotum, the rock star.
The doc seemed foolishly optimistic, but all I can say is the bag has only stopped getting bigger. He gave the bag a friendly squeeze and left us with a couple trial packages of antacid tablets and a pamphlet on infected testicles. I keep looking at the diagrams in the same way some people like to be scared by horror movies.
Anyway, it's hard as a rock and heavy as a common house brick, if not heavier. Feels like things are ripping and tearing what with the mass of my sac and gravity being 32 feet per second squared. In fact, the damn thing's so heavy I feel like I could measure gravity anomalies with it. Who needs a cloud of Sr atoms in a Bose-Einstein condensate and observations of Bloch oscillations to measure micro differences in g? You could use my sac and the waves of pain oscillating from it, saving a ton of money on the Strontium and laser beams. Strontium is NOT cheap and inflamed bags must be a dime a dozen, right?
By the way, car rides suck when carrying a boulder in your sac. I'm now back to wearing the post-operative jock strap to keep the damn thing from ripping off and tearing a hole through the floor.
Finally, the only bright spot this week has been the wonderful care PW has bestowed upon me. I'd be lost without her.