An Ode to my Testicles
After years of slowly destroying them with estrogen and testosterone blockers, I have finally made the decision: my testicles have to go. It’s nothing personal; just they continue in their persistent attempts to try and flood my bloodstream with horrible, horrible androgens. The surgery is booked in, and in two months, they will be gone. I thought I would be happy at finally taking the plunge to remove the pesky things, but find myself oddly sad about losing them. I had planned on trying to keep them after the surgery if I could, perhaps preserved in a jar of formaldehyde or something. Or encase them in tree sap and bury them in some remote location, hoping they become encased in amber and my clones are part of some future Jurrasic Park situation. But during the consult with the surgeon, I asked about the possibility, obviously a question he gets all the time, and he informed me that sadly, no, I could not have my testicles back after he plucked them from me; the hospital policy was that all pathology samples are to be disposed of. They are to be incinerated.
Of course, this did not rule out the possibility of getting the ashes somehow and, perhaps, fashioning some sort of pair of tiny urns. But the brutality of it, that part of me would be vaporised from existence was an odd feeling. It feels weird not to have control of part of my own body, like it should be my decision what happens to them. But I do not have the strength to fight such a thing.
And now that I have thought about it, they probably deserve better than to be put into a jar for me to take out and parade around at dinner parties as a conversation piece. “Oh, how quaint, testicles!” one of my guests would say, “I remember when they were all the rage.” And that growing respect for these two companions of mine has made me realise I might miss them. I mean it wasn’t all bad; we had some good times together. Several lovers have been impressed with the puppetry I performed with them and their phallic partner. That time I tore part of my foreskin and had to show them off to several doctors.
And let’s be honest, being a testicle isn’t easy. At first, you’re all cosy, tucked away under the protection of the body. Then puberty hits, and suddenly, you are ejected into the world. All the other organs get flesh and bone to protect them, but you’re on the outside, left to fend for yourself, while they all embrace each other inside the safety of the torso. You’re exposed to the worst of everything: bike seats, gross summer crotch sweat, the occasional blunt force trauma. Sometimes, when it got cold, the body would let you come back inside and huddle for warmth, but they would never let you stay. You know you don’t belong. And then, after years of dedicated service, two days before you turn 35, you are excised like you’re a tumour and incinerated. No farewell party, not even a card.
I guess I should look at the positives. I mean, no more testosterone is great, obviously. It’ll be slightly easier to organise the contents of my underwear each day. Maybe once it sees what I did to their friends, my penis might start behaving a little better. No more waiting until I’ve finished shaking and pulled my undies back up for it to let out the last drop or two of urine. No, it’ll see what I do to external organs when they are an inconvenience; it’ll fall into line.
And they will live on. Their product has been preserved for future generations in a freezer somewhere in a fertility clinic in Canberra. Their main job, insuring I could pass my genetics on to some poor unsuspecting offspring, can still be fulfilled should I will it.