Balls Read Free Page A

Lastly, check the epididymis, attached to the top and back of the testicle. It’s tube-like in shape. Be aware of any changes to the epididymis.
    Be aware of any what?
    Terrified, he said, But I can’t do it. I can’t.
    Then he heard behind him the metal click of the door, and jumped—there was Dr. Dahl coming forward to shake his hand.
    Henry Schiller?
    Yes, he said.
    You were sent here by Martz?
    I was.
    Wasting no time, Henry explained to Dahl that he’d found a growth on his testicle. The doctor, nodding his head, asked Henry how long ago this was.
    A couple weeks, said Henry.
    Okay.
    But I could be wrong. It might have been longer. I mean, I don’t know.
    All right. Don’t worry, Henry.
    Dr. Dahl was in his late sixties and appeared in good health. Tall, thin and strong, with a wide forehead which rose above thick eyebrows, he could give up urology today and go into commercials. His honest face and full head of gray hair would sell drugs for enlarged prostates and erectile dysfunction, diet drinks, golf magazines, multivitamins, too. But that didn’t mean Henry would lay back and let himself be taken advantage of. Not a chance, said Henry, to himself. He was ready to defend against any ploys. The doctor asked him to stand up straight. Henry did as he was told. With his right hand Dahl started to walk his fingers across the surface of Henry’s testicles. Unlike Martz, Dahl didn’t wear a glove. His fingers were cold, the tips coarse. He apologized before squeezing, he knew this was unpleasant, it had to be done.
    I understand, said Henry. I’m okay.
    However, he was losing the strength to stay up, and to himself he was saying, Oh, fuck me, god.
    Dahl continued to feel about Henry’s left testicle. He was slow and delicate, precise. After another twenty seconds, in the doctor’s eyes appeared a look of grim discovery. Henry caught it, and asked if everything was all right. Dahl didn’t say, but instructed him to lie down on the padded table.
    We’re almost done here, he told Henry. Just hang on.
    Feeling the doctor’s long fingers seize the tumor, Henry swallowed hard. His mood swung lower. Measuring his tone for spite—in his vulnerable position, he didn’t want to come off rude and offend the man—he said, So, how is it, doctor?
    Dahl wasn’t finished, the tumor was still between his fingers and he was applying pressure there, his face close to Henry’s testicles.
    Is it very bad? said Henry.
    The doctor was touching Henry’s forearm with his free hand. His fingers held him tightly there, to the point of pain. He then released Henry’s testicles. With lips pursed, he looked blankly at the patient, not saying anything. Finally, he told him, I want you to dress and meet me in my office. Take your time.
    Your office? Dr. Dahl, whatever this is, you can tell me here.
    Yet Dahl said, Henry, just come next door to my office, and he left the room.
    A minute later Henry was seated at a large glass desk looking out through a window facing Park Avenue where the rain still came down hard. Positioned across from him in a brown leather chair was Dahl. The warm, sympathetic voice he was using to explain the likeliness that Henry had cancer of the testicles could not be taught at college. This was real compassion. Henry thought so. But what was this next part about? He would have to undergo a scrotal ultrasound? If a tumor were discovered, blood work and radiography would be used to determine the stage of the cancer? The rest would be known once pathology results on the testicle came in?
    Dahl was apologizing. I really am sorry, Henry. Do you want to take a moment?
    But Henry, numb from the shoulders down, was unable to speak. There was a low buzzing in his head. He felt tightness in his throat, his groin. Looking up at the doctor, trying to answer him, he choked back his words. At last, what came out was:
    Just tell me what I do?—and he