Balls (2 page)

And here was the doctor. Oh, Martz looked terrific. Had he just come from the Caribbean? His tan was even across his face. Handsome, relaxed, he was in his mid-40s, of average height, his shoulders a comfortable width apart. He had clear blue eyes, a widow's peak. With efficient strokes he filled out a patient's charts, the sound of his pen jotting sharp in Henry's ear.

How's your mother? In Memphis, right?

Yes. She's doing fine, doctor.

And your brother?

Fine, said Henry. They're all fine.

He couldn't discuss family. Not now. Seated with his black hairy legs dangling from the examination table, he took a quick breath, drew in his shoulders. He wondered if he should lie to the doctor about why he'd come today. Tell him he was dizzy or seeing gray? It wouldn't have been the first time the doctor had heard him complain of these symptoms. He could ask for a Valium prescription. Wasn't that all he needed, something to loosen him up? But he reminded himself that if the growth were nothing, some burst blood vessel, he could leave here a free man. And why not risk that?

Holding his hands out to Martz, supplicatingly, he told him, Doc, listen, I…I found a growth…on my testicle.

A
growth?
said Martz. The doctor quit writing at once and dispensed with his clipboard.

Yes, Henry told him. About the size of pea and solid hard.

Which testicle is it?

The left.

Lower your underpants. Lower them. Come on, Martz half-shouted.

Henry did as he was told, but his hands were shaking, his throat was suddenly dry and Martz, himself, seemed genuinely agitated watching Henry recline onto the table. Without delay the doctor's gloved hand seized Henry's crotch. The digging of his fingers made Henry nauseous.

Where is it? he asked. Is it
here?

A little lower, said Henry, turning his face to the wall. At the far end of the table his right foot trembled.

Martz was drawing Henry's scrotum one way and back the other. He did it a half-dozen times. Henry had had many physicals performed right here. During any one of them the doctor had spent between ten and twenty seconds inspecting his testicles. But Martz had never treated them this aggressively. He was yanking on the skin, forcing the testes in every which direction.

At last he said,
Mmmmmm.

You've found it?

I've found something.

Henry peered down at his sideward bending penis in all that black hair, ready to cry. He said, What is it?

Between the brown examination table and hazardous material box and jars of syringes, Martz pulled off his gloves. He didn't answer Henry's question, but told him to dress. Anxiously rubbing his mouth with thumb and forefinger he remained silent, his light eyes flickering, his face tense and searching. He said, Henry, I want you to listen to me. I'm not going to tell you to worry just yet.

You're not?

No
. I want to give a call over to Dr. Glen Dahl. He's a urologist on East 74th Street. You'll see him today.

I'll go there this minute?

Exactly.

Martz placed his hand firmly on Henry's shoulder. Staring into his patient's eyes, he said, We don't know what this is. It could be nothing. So please, Henry, try and be calm.

Try and be calm? said Henry, to himself. But how?

It was forty minutes later and he was in his second examination room of the day, this one at the Park Avenue offices of Dr. Glen Dahl. In a blue gown left open at the back he paced the cool, metallic room. The air conditioning was degrees colder here than at Martz's and Henry, still damp from the rain, was shivering. He had arrived by taxi. But on the way over he'd already begun to feel that he was being had. These doctors were using fear to ensnare him. He was their victim, he and
others
. They threw you into these trials and what could you do but follow their orders, paying at each stop along the way. Thank god for George. His father's brother owned a car dealership up in Yonkers. Three year ago he'd put Henry on payroll so as to provide him with medical insurance (albeit illegally). Henry couldn't afford to be here otherwise.

The room was small and gloomy, and the furniture—an examination table, a wooden coat stand, a red felt upholstered chair and metal file cabinet—struck him as old. The mahogany cupboard storing medical supplies was also an outdated model. But where had Martz sent him? Who was this doctor that couldn't keep up with the times and present the newest designs? His lips fluttering, Henry's attention shifted to the medical literature tacked to the walls. His hand on his brow, as if anticipating pain there, he began to read about infections of the epididymis, torsions of the testicle, the TSE:

Testicular Self-Examination:

1.
Place thumb atop testicle; the index and middle fingers below.

2. Roll the testicle back and forth.

3. Be aware of any changes to your testicle, of size or shape, or if any lumps or swelling have occurred.

4. A healthy testicle is egg-shaped, firm, yet smooth

5. 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 coughed so that his shoulders curled inward.

Dahl said, If the ultrasound shows that it
is
cancer, we'll have to perform an orchiectomy.

Which means
what?

It means that the testicle would be removed, Henry.

For good?
he cried.

Yes, for good.

Henry's head slumped forward. With a pleading look he asked why the doctor couldn't just clean the testicle and put it back where he found it.

No, I'm sorry to say we don't do that, Henry.

Why
not?
he shouted.

Dahl crossed his arms, and gazing sadly at Henry, he said, Because the testicle is not good anymore.

Leaning forward between his knees, Henry let out a scream. Dahl got up, offering him water. But Henry said no, he didn't want to drink anything. He was fine.

I'm fine, he said. Though he looked like he might faint, and his eyes were closing. So what, you're saying my testicle is gone—
gone
for good?

If
the ultrasound shows signs of a cancerous tumor, I'm afraid so, Dahl said. I'm very sorry, Henry. I'm really very sorry.

Oh—
fuck
.

His large hands patting down the air around him, the doctor said, I have to tell you quite often, Henry,
Henry
quite often, depending on the stage of the cancer, recovery happens at a very, very high rate. Which is good news. You'll still have your life.

But why couldn't I have never been born in the first place? said Henry, to himself. He slapped his hands to the table, standing. I can't believe it, he said. I knew it was going to be cancer, I did. But to hear you say it, it's just, it's—

Do you need a moment? the doctor asked again.

No, I'm fine, I'm fine. He returned to his chair. The doctor was speaking, but Henry, collapsing mentally, couldn't hear him. He interrupted Dahl, blurted out:

What about sex?

The doctor said, Henry, in most circumstances the healthy testicle compensates with good results. Likely you'll still be able to produce sperm and sexually little if any changes will occur. This will all depend on a few specifics, for instance, the stage of the cancer, whether it's been caught early and can be treated without chemotherapy, as well as a whole list of variables that we shouldn't get swept up in now. But I'm sure you'll be able to have many,
many
, children.

Many children? said Henry.

Here, Dahl told him they shouldn't get too far ahead of themselves. Let's see what the ultrasound looks like. We'll set up an appointment for tomorrow morning.

Henry gave the doctor a strange look with the eyes unfocused and the mouth stretched wide. He said, I have to be at my girlfriend's graduation at ten. I can't miss it.

You might have to.

Henry told Dahl he'd rather postpone the ultrasound than not be at Paula's graduation.

Postpone?
Dahl said he was risking his life with every day he waited. I'm sure your girlfriend will understand.

Can you schedule the ultrasound for early in the morning?

I could try.

It's very important I be there. This is a special time in a person's life.

Dahl, nonplussed, said, I'll see what I can do. I can't make any promises. But you need to have that ultrasound, Henry.

I will.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, Henry assured him.

So children. Many children. That was the purpose of his testicles—to give life. However, Nature was pulling him out of the pool, giving him a tap on the shoulder, saying, YOU. Not your sperm. Grab a towel and get on the side.

Henry, stumbling with a half-broken mind from Dahl's office out onto Park Avenue, knew this had to do with more than just reproduction, though. This, he shuddered, is a matter of life and death.

Besides, as far as reproduction went, Nature didn't work that way. Or did She?
Did She?
But how did Nature work when she worked like
this
? And was it Nature that had done this to him, or, was it something else? Something I did in the past to harm myself?

The rain had stopped and Henry looked south to the top of the MetLife Building where the sun poking through white clouds shone bright. In the path of a warm June breeze he recalled a time when the MetLife sign had read PANAM and he was young, healthy, mischievous, free. He could plead and protest with a great freedom of mind, he could fantasize about the impossible, he could even fear God.

But what did I do? said Henry, to himself. How did I ruin my testicle?

Thinking back through the apartments in which he'd lived, those uptown and downtown, on the East Side and West, on no block did he see a power plant or chemical refinery, a garbage facility or telephone company which might have housed cancer-giving toxins. He ate well, lots of fruits and vegetables, drank moderately, smoked only on rare occasions. His coffee intake could be very high. But what did that mean about his testicles? Perhaps this was the result of stress.