Here, briefly, I recall my bilateral inguinal orchiectomy, or as some references call it, a radical orchiectomy. I asked for this procedure after 49 years of increasing pain, and my urologist, after studying my records for the last 20 years, agreed readily. He surprised me when he said I would go home the same day. Maybe this will be easier than I expected! I did not share the sense of genital dysmorphia that seems so common in the eunuch community. I treasure my penis, even though its sole use lately is as a simple hose. I remember fondly my balls before they were cooked away in the fever of mumps at age 20. When I told the doctor I wanted a nice set of implants, he replied tersely, “You know your scrotum has shrunk a lot.”

Why a radical orchiectomy? Many times I had sharp spasms of pain in a line from the testicle to a point in my lower abdomen, especially to the right side. I did not want to go through a surgical ordeal and leave any possible genesis of pain untouched. The doctor said this was just as well, because “any time you cut on the scrotum you risk some negative outcomes.” Radical orchiectomy is the only procedure for suspected testicle cancer for two primary reasons. First, any wound to the scrotum may threaten a spread of the cancer there. Second, the spermatic cord must be removed as far up as possible in case cancer has invaded there. Perhaps this was what he was thinking. I didn’t think to ask if he had reason to suspect a tumor.

The day came in the usual format: nothing to eat/drink after midnight, someone must drive you home, swap street clothing for the absurd paper gown, relate one more time every health issue you’ve ever had and what meds you take, and then the doctor visits briefly, probably to assure his patients that he didn’t party last night. Am I getting cynical? The bumpy supine ride into the refrigerated room under the Flash Gordon light fixture/ray thing. The awkward transfer to the hard table. “A little more to your right...a little more...too much...to your left.” The pillows under the knees. The warm blanket. Oh, the warm blanket! The man putting the airplane crash mask over my face, saying, “Take a few deep breaths.”

The nurse saying, “You’re in recovery...you did just fine.”

Groggy memories follow. The nurse patted my shoulder, “I take care of all the patients like you.” The comment seemed profound, pregnant with questions I couldn’t think to ask. I was just one, in a long line? How long a line? The pain script was filled and waiting. “I’m going to give you two of these...I know you’re in pain.” Yes, exactly. My lower abdomen felt heavy. Stiff. Like when you take everything down off a shelf looking for something, and then you can’t get everything to go back without pushing and crowding. Someone had been trying to find the kosher salt in my tummy and then pushed everything back in, holding it while someone else stitched the opening frantically, until they gingerly removed the pressure and nodded to each other, “I think that’s going to hold.”

I realized then that I hadn’t read ahead on this chapter. Two three-inch incisions, bunched into saw teeth by the sutures, angled like the eyes of a squinting, laughing Buddha, ignored me on my lower abdomen. I remembered my cousins back in the day, all dutifully coming through with appendicitis at the same age, proudly showing off the scar. “They gave me ice cream.” I still had my appendix. I couldn’t even do that right. But now I had two scars! Ladies and gentlemen, presenting the only man in the world who had appendicitis on both sides! Where is the ice cream?

All was beginning to swell. Is my dick really that short? “Now, the swelling is normal...”(I thought of the Hindenburg going down)“...let’s get you into these panties.” She called them panties. A one-size-fits-all stretchy lightweight garment that is de rigueur for all the patients like me. She called them panties, and I didn’t mind as long as I had some support down there. Some guys would put a big charge on the Visa to have an attractive young woman put panties on them. Medicare was paying for mine.

After a few rounds of pumping the cuff, and jamming cones in the ear, and that little clippy thing on the fingertip, I was ready to go. I couldn’t help wondering. Would the little clippy thing work if your nails were dirty? What if you had those god-awful artificial nails? Those hideously long, square-prowed claws that all men hate and women don’t care? What if...“Be careful getting in the car. There you go. Bye-bye!”

A cab took me home. I live with four cats. I was not to lift anything over 25 pounds, which ruled out two of the cats. I was to watch for unusual swelling or bruising or discharge. What? This whole business isn’t unusual? I worked hard on the pain pills. I put everything I had into it. I was to rest. After cleaning out two litter boxes and sweeping up the loose change, I decided to rest. I went upstairs to bed. Upstairs!

Morning came, and Fate was standing over me. “Are you serious? Not even I could have screwed you up like this!”

Fate turned into my mom. “Mom, you’re dead.” “I just had to come back one more time and say, ‘Are you crazy?’”

Mom turned into my wife. “Honey, you’re dead.” She rolled her eyes and disappeared.

The edema scared me. Really? No drains? Getting out of bed tortured me. I felt as though my intestines had seen a couple of minutes in a blender, and the skin of my abdomen turned into a bag to hold the occult mess. Overnight the planet Earth had lost its poise and now was teetering around ineptly, unaware of the effects on its inhabitants. I rattled the pain pill bottle. Already the surface had settled a good half inch. Who was going through my pain pills? I eyed each cat with suspicion, but no one broke.

This day was the worst. This second day contained the most exquisite discomfort, the most serious second-guessing, the darkest doubt of all. I walked down the stairs on my butt. I watched TV all day by the light of misery. I don’t recall if or what I ate. I broke down and called the number on the discharge paper. "This really hurts."

"Well, they did have to root around in there a lot." Swear to God that's what she said. No, I told myself, you will not conjure a mental image of that. I endured the hours until bedtime.

The third day taught me a lesson about the human spirit, the oddly complex psychology of the human mind. The discomfort seemed equivalent to the prior day. By not being any worse, however, it subjectively seemed to be better. Are we programmed so that, when we reach a certain extent of suffering, we adjust and thrive as long as the level of suffering doesn’t increase? Was I thinking of nothing other than adaptability? I took a pain pill and forgot about it.

Everything gradually resolved after the third day. The pain pill supply lasted exactly as long as was needed. The edema resolved itself. I finally reached the point when I could inspect the handiwork. My final surprise was how quickly I forgot the old broken testicles, and how quickly and completely I accepted these implants as part of myself.

Did I say “briefly?” Forget that part.

Thanks for posting this.I am sure it will help folks a lot on what to expect post op.

Mine were removed via the inguinal canals also. But that is where our stories stop. I went home after 4 hours, kept ice in place and even though O had a 3e0 day supply of pain medicine, I only used one of them. IF I felt like I needed something I used ibuprophen and that only the next day ....one day. I could not do anything the day of surgery but the next day I did what I wanted to do as long as there was no heavy lifting. The third say I was outside doing light work and after that on the 4 day I was mowing grass. On a riding mower. Myabe I just have a high tolerance for pain. Would not know it bu the pain I had in my testes before they were removed. Or maybe I was just lucky.

Gandalf, you just dug your staff in the ground and told the pain, "You shall not pass!" Glad it was better for you.

Could be a difference in surgical procedure maybe. I am overweight. That might've contributed to the edema. And I'm 69.

Yes, a long time ago now, but I remember the discomfort. Prescription meds worked ok, but made me sleepy. I think I did better with ibuprofen after a few days. Ice helped, but I always wondered if it might slow the healing. Any, it passes and it all feels good now. Hope that's good news for any who wants to feel better sooner than it takes!

I can't comment on the pain because not having been done I have no reference. However, I do want to say I love how madnomadtoo expresses himself. The description was great. A little humor with the pain. Good job.

Madnomadtoo Mine was inguinal. Possibly not being overweight made the difference. My surgery was when I was 67. I am now 79 and love being ball less.

gandalf (imported) wrote: Tue Apr 04, 2017 4:43 pm Madnomadtoo Mine was inguinal. Possibly not being overweight made the difference. My surgery was when I was 67. I am now 79 and love being ball less.

The problem with pain is that, on a scale of 1 to 10, a 6 for one person could be a 10 for another. My advice is to expect the worst if you plan on going through with surgical procedures. I would think that expecting really bad pain and not enduring as much would be a lot better than thinking it won't be so bad and getting a nasty surprise afterward. Medical professionals can help you manage the discomfort to a point, which is yet another reason why those seeking modifications seek out professional care and not DIY home jobs.

Mine were removed via the scrotum and I was kept overnight. I had absolutely no pain post op and when I got home the next day, about 15 hours post op, O got into my stick shift car and drove to the local supermarket. The nurse who was on duty in the ward was absolutely amazed that I had no pain at all. Guess I was just lucky. Will see how it goes when I get round to having my scrotum removed later.

Mine were removed through the scrotum and very little post op pain!