A lump (literally) in the road towards my surgery

Trigger warning: discussion of man bits and health concerns.

About a week or so ago, more ‘or so’ than recent, I discovered a lump in my nether regions.  More specifically, a protuberance.  It is/was about the size of a large marble, squished into an oblong shape.  I palpated it and found it felt a bit like a testicle.  Not to the touching hand, but to the part of my body receiving the touch.

It didn’t hurt at all, it was just a slight swelling on the left side.  A tiny bit above where the penis comes out, and off to the sound, just at the crest of the pubic bone, where it tucks under.

I tried squishing it, manipulating it, seeing if I could push it away or do something with it.  I began doomscrolling at daybreak and as I dozed off each night, trying to figure out what it was.  I dismissed the idea of a hernia out of hand.  I thought hernias are for old men, or people who lift heavier things than they should.  I am neither old nor lifting heavy things.  I try to carry as little as I can manage.  A laughable claim considering I travel with so many suitcases—my trip back to the US in two week’s time will see me with 4 suitcases in tow, a handbag, a carry-on satchel, coats, whatever else.  As long as you can wheel it…amiright?  A girl needs her shoes!

But the doom scrolling didn’t help.  I just figured it was nothing, and that it might go away.  Only it didn’t.  It seemed to get bigger.  It was a bit sensitive when working out.  Especially doing crunches.

But then I suddenly realized, ‘what if it is serious?’  And then, ‘OMG, it might interfere with my surgery date!’  And then panic.

Doom-scrolling kicked up a few notches.  I went down every possible rabbit hole in the search for parallel symptoms.  I came up with some good ones: undescended third testicle—a real contender given its placement in the inguinal canal, general shape, and what it felt like when it was given a squeeze.  How ironic would that be?  Too guy for manhood!  I found myself wondering whether there was a correlation between having three balls and low testosterone levels.  Another option was that it was an undeveloped ovary.  Now, boy, wouldn’t that be exciting!  I really liked that one, but then I began to agonize over whether they would cut it out of me…I wanted to keep it, tucked safely inside of me, symbol of the half-woman I never was.  And then I thought, ‘it has ovarian cancer, it’s going to kill me.’  But my tragic-poetic self finds a delightful symmetry in that.

Other mundane possibilities included a build of spermatozoa.  My rabid playing with my new vibrator is fun, boy is it ever, but it sees me regularly shooting blanks.  Maybe they’re all going to this little spot and just collecting there.  They are living creatures after all.  Maybe they decided to congregate right at the site of future ligation, just exactly where my left ball passed all those years ago as I incubated inside my mama and became a boy, and where the surgeon will be tying me off post orchiectomy (the polite way of saying having one’s balls cut off).  Sorry mom.  Needs must. 

I can just imagine the conversation between the conference of Spermatozoa.  They’d have to all be wearing black tie.  Penguins.  Something phallic about them.  

“I wanted front row seats,” says one.

“Don’t jostle there in the back,” says another.  Just like on the arctic flow as the penguins push and shove before diving in, wanting to see if one of them gets munched by a great white—in this case, represented by the surgeon’s scalpel as they slice through flesh and skin like water, snipping off these little dangly bits forever.  The doctor is now complicit in my “turn the nuts into earrings project” only they don’t know it.  They have agreed to have them cleaned and preserved and returned to me in a jar of formaldehyde.  Sexy.  At the very least, they will make a great paperweight.  Seriously, I’ve looked into it.  First you dehydrate them (which makes them nice and light) and then you can encase them in resin or Perspex.  I think light pink resin or maybe baby blue.  I can’t for the following conversation at some ball or opera night gala opening.

“Those are lovely earrings, where did you get them?” she asks.

“Let’s just say I was born with them.  It was easier that way.”

“Oh.  A legacy.”

“Yes, I’ll say.  The things we inherit from our parents.”

“They were very generous.  Such good taste.”

“Yes, and they fit much better now that I’ve had them adjusted.”

“They sure are striking.  What are those designs inside them?”

“The family jewels, see.”

“Amazing.  They look a bit like marbles, purple-pink opals.”

“They were certainly one of a kind.”

Other mundane considerations were again an inguinal hernia or a cyst.  I read scholarly articles and extracts from medical journals, and the more I read, the more scared I became.  In the end, I booked to go see a genito-urinary doctor on the double.  I got a next day appointment, which was something for Italy.  I fully imagined that they would have to take a tissue sample, send it off to the lab.  The symptoms of a cyst just didn’t fit, and neither did those of the hernia.

I found myself at a clinic on the outskirts of Milan.  There were many beautifully dressed and in-uniform ladies at a long front-desk.  The check in was efficient, and I was immediately dispatched to the room where I would meet the doctor.  My impression was money machine.  So unlike Italian healthcare normally.

The good doctor saw me with little wait.  A skinny man, he immediately asked how to address me—I love it when I am asked for my pronouns.  An auspicious start.  He was very excited to learn that I am having surgery.  Very.  We are ballerina giraffes after all.  There just aren’t many of us spotted in the wild.

After asking me my pronouns I let him know of my impending surgery, but that I was legally female and my identity documents confirmed that.  “I will list you as transsexual as you are pre-op,” he noted with no fanfare.

Then we talked about his upcoming travel plans to New England and how much he loves the USA, taking all holidays there it seems.  I fretted about those who waited after me and imagined a growing queue.

“What is the problem that brought you here?” he asked.

“I have a swelling in my inguinal canal.  Left side, just above the penis, about the size of a large marble.  It goes when I sleep, and then comes back almost immediately when I get up in the morning.”

“It’s a hernia,” he said while I was still sitting in front of his desk.

“I thought it might be an undescended third testicle, or ghost ovary.”  He looked at me over his glasses.

“Well, let’s see,” he said, “but I don’t think it’s an ovary.”

I followed him into the exam room.  He pulled down fresh paper to cover the table, instructed me to get up, and then to take it all down.  All.  I did.  He looked, poked, squeezed, and said, “it’s a hernia” and then promptly pushed it back inside me.  “See?”  

“I did that too this morning.  But then it comes back.”

“That’s what hernias do.  They are just weakness.  Your inguinal wall has some weakness.  You just need to take it easy.”

“Do you think I got it from ballet?”

“Most probably too much abdominal stress.”  My poor personal trainer.  I’m out just one month in!  Oh well.  My doctor already told me to stop working out and just be stretching.  She won’t be pleased with me.

“Is it serious?” I asked.

“Not at all.  And since you haven’t had an orchiectomy yet, and your inguinal canals won’t be needed anymore, they will deal with them at the surgery.  I’d say you should do something about it but given that you are having an operation so soon, they will take care of it for you.  It does require surgery, however.”

“Are you sure?”

“Your doctor will be able to handle it.”

All while he talked, he rolled my nuts around, rolled my much diminished penis as if it were a roll-up cigarette, okay, cigarillo.  It is so little boy now.  Almost cute.  Did I say that?

“I need to check from inside,” he said, getting out the lube.  He had me bend my legs and the next thing you know his expert and very long finger was deep inside me.

“Do you still get erections?” he asked touching me you-know-where.

“Sometimes, but mostly not.”

“It isn’t coming through to your rectum.  That’s good.  Stand up,” he said and then palpated the protuberance before directing me to pull my outfit up.  Straight from ballet to the doctor.

We returned to the other room, his office.  “Do you have a partner?” he asked, sitting down.

“We’re getting divorced.  Now I have partners.”

“Are you straight?”

“It depends on what you mean by that.”

“Do you like men?”  Good answer, by the book.

“No.  Women.  Only women.”

“Wow, fascinating,” he said leaning back.  “I’m gay,” he said, “I don’t like women.”  Is it just me or does everyone get the feeling that this doctor suddenly got inappropriate?

Anyway, he did the write up, gave me my sheet of paper, and sent me on my merry way.  My wallet was 150 euros lighter, but my mind was a million times lighter, as I no longer need to worry about some new thing standing in my way.  I looked at the sheet of paper, and for sex, it said “transsexual”, not male, not female.  In another country that might be deemed insensitive or inappropriate.  I felt pretty darn good about it.

I called up my lawyer.  “I don’t have an ovary after all,” I cried.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “your secret is safe with me.”