Having made the decision to have my balls removed if they were Cancerous, something I didn't doubt, my surgeon looked hard at me and said, "You know, it is as though you are sitting outside your body and taking a totally objective view of what is happening." I nodded and explained.
"It was a trick I learned from my father." My Dad was parachuted into occupied France after D-Day in civilian clothes to co-ordinate with the French Resistance near St Die in the Vosges mountains close to the German border. Had he been caught he'd told me when I was young,, he would have been shot as a spy. I asked him years later what it had felt like and he'd replied that it wasn't him, it was like he was living in a dream.
He was "mentioned in Despatches" and awarded the Croix de Guerre avec L'etoile de Vermeil, by the French Government, for his outstanding valour. He'd been caught twice during his time in France, but had escaped each time. As a member of the Special Operations Executive, it didn't take too much to work out what he'd been forced to do to save his life. He never discussed it, but I learned from my mother after he died in 1991, relived his traumas nightly in his haunted dreams, often shouting and screaming.
Now, for me, It was an extremely useful way of dealing with my own trauma.
I was scheduled for the operation at 3pm. The hospital barber duly made his call and gently shaved my genitalia. Following that, I was given the pre-med shot, supposedly to make me sleepy. It stood as much chance of that as I had of waking up and finding it was all a dream. There was a final photo opportunity, as I took the chance of having a picture of me as an "entire" man. As far as I knew, it was the only picture of my genitalia in existence.
Time dragged thereafter, until I was told there was a delay, finally going to meet my moment of reckoning at 5pm, still not knowing what would be when I woke up afterwards.
The New Dawn? It was seven thirty when I awoke. There was nobody in my room but me. I felt a dull pain which I knew to be symptomatic of the operation. So I let my hand slide down towards my abdomen, where I felt two large wads of cotton padding either side of my penis. Then I knew. My balls were gone forever. I was totally surprised to find the wads there, because for some unknown reason, logic I suppose, I thought the removal would be through my scrotum, like unzipping a purse.
As I was continuing to explore my modified body, the door opened and a nurse walked in, who, seeing I was awake, promptly gave me a shot of Morphine. It was then I discovered I had no feeling in my legs. I told the nurse, who revealed I had been given an epidural injection. There I was, thinking Epidurals were the exclusive domain of women in childbirth!
Later, I was to discover why the injection was given. As the Morphine took effect, so coherent thought disappeared, along with the dull ache. In trotted the surgeon to confirm what I already knew. He was completely taken aback that I was smoking a cigarette. He'd never seen a patient reach for a smoke within two minutes of coming round from surgery. Assuring himself I was ok, he left, telling me I would be receiving hormone treatment to compensate for my loss. I didn't understand what he was talking about, but was afraid to ask more.
The First Journey I finally dropped off to sleep at around 10:30. By two o'clock, the searing pain in my abdomen woke me, the epidural had worn off. Time for another shot. The night nurse came quickly in response to the pushed button and administered the injection.
After she left left, I decided I needed to relieve myself.
The private room contained a private bathroom, a mere eight steps from my bed. Ignoring the bedpan, I began the journey. Twenty five minutes later, I stood , triumphant, in front of the porcelain God, sweat pouring from me, pain throbbing through my Morphined body, happy as a sandboy. I had achieved my goal. My rehabilitation had begun.Four days Later On the fifth day of my new life, I left hospital. The intervening days had humbled me beyond compare. There had been a tremendous outpouring of love, laughter and affection from my friends and family. But,I'd had decisions to make before I left. The first was how to deal with my condition in a practical sense. I had to return to the society and friends I knew.
I decided they would find it difficult to broach the subject and anticipated shuffling feet and uncomfortable stares. I was, possibly, the closest friend of the owner of one of the Turks Head bar i St Margarets, near Richmond, a popular bar in South West London, frequented by local luminaries, the actors Dennis Waterman, Warren Clarke and Robert Powell. Musicians in the shape of Ronnie Lane, Willie Finlayson and ex-members of Manfred Mann also visited and sometimes played in the hall at the rear.
Many of the Turks Head customers had come to visit, in all I had fifty visitors in the five days.
One caring friend, Alan Rowlands, a Manchester City fanatic, who wrote a book about Bert Trautmann,brought in a card with a request for my abdo protector, now I no longer had use for it. My sense of humour was tickled as much as it had been some five years earlier when I had been hospitalised by an accidental spearing of my eyeball by a broken car aerial. Then, "Rolo" as he was known, gave me a card which bore the legend, "Sorry to hear you have Van Aerial disease!"I decided I either had to pretend it hadn't happened, or be totally up front about it and put my friends at ease as quickly as possible. I wrote a letter to be posted in the bar. It announced that I was ok and considered myself to have a great future with the ladies, as they could be sure of safe sex with me. My tongue was firmly in my cheek of course, but I hoped it would break some ice.
I had questions for my surgeon, before I left. The first was whether I would still be capable of sex. He replied that it was highly unlikely I would have an erection until after hormone treatment had begun. I would certainly be unable to reach orgasm. I smiled slightly because that very morning I had indeed experienced an erection.
He suggested I came to see him in ten days. When I asked why, he said "To discuss prosthetics". "You mean false testicles ?" I asked. He explained there were silicon implants which were available to restore my outward appearance. "And why would I need those ?" I asked. He shifted from one foot to the other as he replied, "Well it would save stares on the beach and in changing rooms." I snorted with derision, as I replied, "If you think I want to have two lumps of silicon swinging around in my body doing nothing, for the sake of appearance you are wrong." End of conversation. The kind lady anaesthetist dropped by and told me I'd be ok, as I would be given hormones. Nobody told me when!
Walking was very difficult and painful as I made my way out of the hospital, aided by Henny, my ever present girlfriend. Her devotion during my stay had been incredible. I am not sure if she knows how grateful I am to her, but I am very grateful indeed.
First stop was The Turks Head. We spent an hour there, as I put on a brave face, whilst my pevic area throbbed with soreness. We left, heading back to Henny's apartment. I was exhausted, but on a mission.My self - imposed mission was to set out and prove the surgeon wrong. I have always been a bit rebellious so this was true to form. Once at my girlfriend's apartment, bed was the target. Not to sleep or rest, but to prove to myself I could still function. Function I did, just two hours after leaving hospital, I lay happily in bed, not having orgasmed, but performed to my satisfaction. Stage two of my rehabilitation was complete, or so I thought. The Mission
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