Got this off the pprune.org board. I laught in an empathetic kind of way
**************
his is one of the funniest stories from one of our finest, an enlisted aircrew member in the USAF. I've
reduced the author's last name to the first letter as I am not sure if he wants the notoriety that comes
with this tale. It is a bit long but worth the read...
Cheers! M2
Dave and the Flight Doc - a personal tale of man's limitations
Part I - The Prologue:
When I was a senior in high school I had a good friend who received the sort of divine inspiration that
only a 16-year old in high school (or perhaps a 9-year old on the playground) is capable of...namely he
noticed my back was to him, my attention was centered on a second friend with whom I was engaged in
conversation, and he thought it would be the height of hilarity to surprise me with a swift kick to my
hind-quarters. It was a good plan and had the roles been reversed I am quite sure I would have come
up with a similar scenario. Of course the only flaw in the plan was he didn't count on my conversation
with the third party ending as abruptly as it did. I made a quick about-face in order to get to class before
the bell rang, and as I did I watched in slow motion as my friend's booted foot arced upward and
connected with my testicles. That was my last conscious thought until I came to, propped against the
bathroom wall with my two friends looking anxiously at me. I recognized the expressions on their faces
- it's the same expression I had when I talked my friend John Briscoe into riding down the hill in front of
our house on my handlebars in Mississippi and I dumped him on his face at roughly 20-miles-an hour.
The expression indicating I was weighing my options - "I think he's dead, do I help him? Or do I run
away?" Anyway they opted to help and stayed with me until I could form words. I found out later that
they had actually dragged me unconscious through the hallway (by my feet) into the bathroom and
propped my lifeless body up against the cold wall tile next to the urinals. After I was able to stand I
opened my jeans and made a BDA run. I almost passed out a second time after I saw my body's natural
reaction to such an injury - namely to swell up in order to protect the injured part. Due to the nature of
the wound each of my subsequent actions was not only physically painful but emotionally devastating as
well:
At the nurse's office:
School nurse: "Hi what can I do for you today?"
Me: "Ummm... I got kicked in the nuts" (I wasn't very well versed on medical terms at that point in my
life)
School nurse: "Uhhh... I see... well... uh... ummm..." (she thought for a moment, looked over at a jar of
wooden tongue depressors, considered her options some more, then decided to punt) "would you like to
call your parents to pick you up?"
(Good, I wasn't going have to show her my testicles)
Me: "Yeah I think I should."Later in the secretary's office:
Mom: "Hello?"
Me: "Mom, it's me. I need you to come pick me up from school."
Mom: "What happened?"
Me: "Umm I got hurt."
Mom: "What happened?"
Me: (urgent whisper) "I got kicked in the nuts."
Mom: "What?"
Me: "I got kicked in the NUTS!!!"
(At this point everyone in the office looked up at me then quickly turned away as if they hadn't heard
me. I wasn't too worried as I was sure most of the school had already witnessed my friends dragging
me unconscious by my feet through the halls during class change. A story of that magnitude travels at
roughly the same speed as light).
Mom: "Okay but you better not be faking."
Once home I had, of course, to prove I wasn't faking. At the time I thought there was nothing more
embarrassing to a 16-year-old than showing your mom your family jewels. I was soon to find out how
wrong I was. As I was still a military dependent (my dad having retired a Lt Col from the Air Force
some years previously) my mom drove me to the U.S. Army Hospital at Ft Campbell Ky. Once in I
made it past the triage process (the med tech, to his credit, did his best not to smile) and was put in the
examination room.
The physician had me "drop trow" and proceeded to determine the damage. By this time my entire
scrotum had swollen enormously and begun to turn purple.
My penis, deciding it had quite enough abuse, was desperately trying to crawl back inside my body -
fearing a further attack no doubt.
"Fascinating," the doctor mumbled and turned to the attending nurse: "Have the students left yet?" (Oh
$hit, students? What students?) "No sir they're still in the area somewhere." "Go get them and bring
them in here.
We don't normally see a groin injury this severe and this will be good training for them." Ten minutes
later I'm still sitting on the examination with my knees apart, only now I'm surrounded by at least eight
medical-type people, four of which are attractive young females not more than three or four years older
than me. The doctor launched into a lengthy diatribe describing the nature of my injury to the "students,"
all the while maneuvering various bits of my tackle around to give everyone the most advantageous
view. This is the one and only point in my life where, if I would have had a gun in my hand, I would have
used it on myself. Did I mention my mom was still in the room throughout all this? I'll spare you the tale
of my subsequent hospitalization at Ft Campbell US Army Hospital.
How I was laying in a ward full of G.I.s (all suffering various knife injuries from the local strip clubs) for
four days with an ice pack on my exposed parts. They were a rough group but I saw in their eyes that
certain brand of sympathy that only men can feel for other men in my predicament.
There was a lady volunteer who would come around with a trolley full of books, magazines, and plastic
Revelle military models (Kummelwagons, Panzer tanks, 88mm flak guns). Every time a soldier would
finish building a model he would quietly bring it over, solemnly place it by my bed and then turn away
quickly with a tear in his eye. By the time I was due to leave the hospital I was surrounded by Rommel's
entire Afrika Korps in 1:32 scale and was seriously contemplating invading Tunisia.
Anyway, I healed up, and went back to school to face the admiring throngs I knew were waiting for my
arrival. After what I had been through, telling everyone I met that I had been out of school for a week
because I got kicked in the nuts was easy.
Dave and the Flight Doc Part II - The Flight Physical
The story so far: In "The Prologue" you heard about a particular injury I suffered in high school. As we
pick up the story, you will read how that injury later came back to haunt me. I remind you that this is a
true story.
About three years ago, having entered my birth month, I was due my annual flight physical. The first
part of the physical was basically uneventful.
During previous physicals, I had always had trouble with the vision testing.
The gyrations I went through in order to read line 9C were nothing short of circus-like. I squinted, I
moved by head back and forth and sideways, and even held my fingers in a certain way in the mistaken belief that it would actually affect how well I could see. That was the year I discovered that my glasseswere quite simply too far away from eyes for the prescription to be effective. I discovered this by
actually forgetting my glasses and having to use my chem-gear inserts, which actually sat against my
corneas when worn. Don't ask me how I arrived for my physical without my regular glasses but with my inserts. I don't know. What I do know is that since that time I always bring my inserts and I always pass the vision test without having to pull side-show faces and make grunting noises. Profound as this experience was, it was not to be the highlight of my physical that year, nor would it be the thing which I would remember
till my dying day.
After completing the first part of the physical, I proceeded to the Mildenhall flight surgeon's office in
order to receive my yearly "examination." The unit flight surgeon at the time was one Colonel "Doc"
Bartlett. All military physicians seem to prefer to be addressed as "Doc" rather than by their rank.
Personally I can't help but envision one of the seven dwarves each time I use the term but nevertheless
respect their preference.
Doc Bartlett had, at the time of my physical, been a doctor and been in the Air Force for many, many
years. If I had to put an age to him, I would have guessed around 84 but this would have been based
purely on the size of his knuckles. I have always theorized that flight surgeons' knuckles grow and add
layers each year of their life much in the same way as the mighty oak or redwood tree. Doc Bartlett's
knuckles where roughly the size of Rhode Island. Cut through one of those knuckles and you'd be
counting concentric rings for weeks.
Why the seeming preoccupation with knuckles?
The only person who does not fear a prostate exam is the person who has never had one. Huge, scary
hands aside, Doc Bartlett was a deft surgeon, perhaps the best I had seen to that point, and he had more
than once skillfully lopped off an unsightly growth from a unit member which had baffled other doctors.
The man knew his business.
Anyway, after I signed in, a friendly medical technician took my vitals then told me to proceed to Doc
Bartlett's office. When I entered the room, Doc Bartlett was already perusing my medical records.
"Sergeant P, please sit down."
"Thank you sir." (I eyed his knuckles nervously - they were even bigger than I remembered them).
I sat quietly while he flipped through some 15 years of my medical past.
Occasionally, as he read, he would let slip a verbal "oh my," or "aha!"
This worried me as I assumed each "oh my," to mean he had discovered a life threatening illness in my
records which had not previously been brought to my attention. As he read the documents, and in
between "aha's," Doc Bartlett began a running conversation of sorts with me:
"Hmmm... so how're you doing these days?"
"Fine sir, probably not exercising as much as I should."
"Mmmm... Oh my, vasectomy at age 20. That's a little young isn't it?"
"Umm, yes sir, well I kept having kids and didn't know what was causing it."
Once I found out what it was I had it snipped."
"Uh huh... ACL reconstruction I see."
"Yes sir, frisbee accident in Berlin. It's been fine since they fixed it."
"Mmmm...Aha! I haven't seen one of these forms in years (he shows me the form - I don't know what
it is). You know we should still use these, they're good forms."
Doc proceeds to transfer data from a presumably newer version of the form into the older form.
"So Sergeant P, did you celebrate New Year's?... oh my."
"Umm you mean last new year's? (It was October at the time)."
"No, no, a New Year's party... for the end of the fiscal year in September. We used to call them... oh
what did we call them... rag parties! Yes, rag parties, that's what it was. We called them rag parties
because it was the end of the fiscal year and we were out of money so we came dressed in rags... oh
my!"
(Doc obviously has confused the end of the fiscal year with the Great Depression. I have no doubt he
lived through it).
"Uh... no sir, we didn't have one of those."
"Broken arm at the age of six, oh my, eye injury at 12... what happened there?"
"We had a fight with wild plums... I lost."
"Aha!" (Here it comes, he's found cancer).
"So, Sergeant P, do you know why the Mediterranean is so warm?"
(Okay this is way out of left field, but no more so than the rag party discussion...I take another look at
those knuckles and play along)
"No sir."
"Interesting thing about the Mediterranean, cold water flows down out of the Black Sea. It meets up
with the warm waters of the Mediterranean and forms eddies...these little whirlpool kind of things...
eddies..." (he seemed to be suddenly fascinated with the sound of that word - eddy - and repeated it a
couple of more times. To this day I still don't know why the Mediterranean is so warm).
Doc finished up perusing my documents and checking the results from part one of my flight physical
with many an "aha!,' and "oh my!."
"Well Sergeant P let's go to the exam room and have a look at you."
(I wasn't sure but I could swear is knuckles had grown since I first entered his office).
We got in the exam room and Doc Bartlett ran the standard battery of tests as prescribed by the Vague
Book of Flight Medicinery" - pokey thing in the ears, pokey lighted thing in the eyes, a good thump on
various reflex sites.
So far so good.
"Alright Sergeant P, if you would kindly drop your flight suit and your underwear we'll check you for a
hernia."
"Yes sir." (good, he said hernia not prostate).
I assumed the position as did Doc Bartlett
"Okay now turn your head and cough."
(I did)
"Okay now turn your head and.... Aha!"
(Oh crap)
"Sergeant P did you ever have a groin injury when you were younger?"
(He grasped my testicle cord a clinical doctorly manner)
/////squeeze squeeze squeeze///
(I shut my eyes and tried not to grimace)
"Yes sir... when I was about... 16... kicked... unconscious."
"Uh huh you have some substantial scar tissue here."
////squeeze squeeze squeeze///
(Sweat begins forming on my forehead and upper lip)
"Yes sir."
"Left testicle seems a little small."
///squeeze squeeze squeeze///
(Was that a question? I'm having a hard time concentrating. Sweat is now running down my cheeks. Do
I answer that?)
"Yes sir."
"Hmmm... right testicle is small too. How many kids do you have?"
///squeeze squeeze squeeze///
(I am now sweating profusely, my vision is dimming and I'm trying to think which type of court-martial
I would fall under for vomiting on an officer)
"Uhhh..... uhhhh... two sir."
"I see, well the injury seems to have healed okay - lots of scar tissue. I guess you're not used to having
a man with his hands on your family jewels eh?"
///squeeze squeeze SQUEEZE///
(I am drenched in sweat. I'm drooling. My vision has tunneled to pinpoints. I can't see. I can't hear. I
must not pass out cold. I have to answer this question and I have answer "No!")
In my mind I said:
"Of course not Doc, what a ridiculous notion."
What actually came out of my mouth was:
"Buhh..."
"Okay, we're done here. Get dressed and come back into my office."
Doc left the room but I didn't see him go. I dropped to my knees on the tile floor (I have witnesses to the
bruises on my knees which lasted for almost a month). I did not pass out but I couldn't move. With one
hand, Doc had completely incapacitated me. The door to the exam room opened and the med tech
walked in and took in the sight of me sweating and drooling on my knees with my flight suit around my
ankles - unable to even move my hands to cover myself.
"Doc find something during the hernia check?"
I nodded.
"I can give you about five minutes but we really need the room."
I nodded again and hoped he could read the gratitude in my eyes which I was unable to express in
words.
"Fangooooo," I slurred.
"No sweat."
When I had recovered enough to dress myself, I walked back into Doc Bartlett's office and sat down.
He was already three-quarters of the way through a conversation with me. I don't remember what it
was about but it may have had something to do with eddies.
After Doc finished up he signed my 1042 and sent me back to the front desk.
The same med tech took my records and did all the stamping things they do.
Then looked up at me.
"Don't worry, you're not the first."
Now I suppose that I should consider myself fortunate in that while I had found out in the way possible I
had small testicles... at least I didn't have a prostate exam by a guy with knuckles the size of
Pennsylvania (they had grown believe me). The poets say that a woman's soul resides in her heart.
There's no doubt in my mind where a man's soul resides.
**************
his is one of the funniest stories from one of our finest, an enlisted aircrew member in the USAF. I've
reduced the author's last name to the first letter as I am not sure if he wants the notoriety that comes
with this tale. It is a bit long but worth the read...
Cheers! M2
Dave and the Flight Doc - a personal tale of man's limitations
Part I - The Prologue:
When I was a senior in high school I had a good friend who received the sort of divine inspiration that
only a 16-year old in high school (or perhaps a 9-year old on the playground) is capable of...namely he
noticed my back was to him, my attention was centered on a second friend with whom I was engaged in
conversation, and he thought it would be the height of hilarity to surprise me with a swift kick to my
hind-quarters. It was a good plan and had the roles been reversed I am quite sure I would have come
up with a similar scenario. Of course the only flaw in the plan was he didn't count on my conversation
with the third party ending as abruptly as it did. I made a quick about-face in order to get to class before
the bell rang, and as I did I watched in slow motion as my friend's booted foot arced upward and
connected with my testicles. That was my last conscious thought until I came to, propped against the
bathroom wall with my two friends looking anxiously at me. I recognized the expressions on their faces
- it's the same expression I had when I talked my friend John Briscoe into riding down the hill in front of
our house on my handlebars in Mississippi and I dumped him on his face at roughly 20-miles-an hour.
The expression indicating I was weighing my options - "I think he's dead, do I help him? Or do I run
away?" Anyway they opted to help and stayed with me until I could form words. I found out later that
they had actually dragged me unconscious through the hallway (by my feet) into the bathroom and
propped my lifeless body up against the cold wall tile next to the urinals. After I was able to stand I
opened my jeans and made a BDA run. I almost passed out a second time after I saw my body's natural
reaction to such an injury - namely to swell up in order to protect the injured part. Due to the nature of
the wound each of my subsequent actions was not only physically painful but emotionally devastating as
well:
At the nurse's office:
School nurse: "Hi what can I do for you today?"
Me: "Ummm... I got kicked in the nuts" (I wasn't very well versed on medical terms at that point in my
life)
School nurse: "Uhhh... I see... well... uh... ummm..." (she thought for a moment, looked over at a jar of
wooden tongue depressors, considered her options some more, then decided to punt) "would you like to
call your parents to pick you up?"
(Good, I wasn't going have to show her my testicles)
Me: "Yeah I think I should."Later in the secretary's office:
Mom: "Hello?"
Me: "Mom, it's me. I need you to come pick me up from school."
Mom: "What happened?"
Me: "Umm I got hurt."
Mom: "What happened?"
Me: (urgent whisper) "I got kicked in the nuts."
Mom: "What?"
Me: "I got kicked in the NUTS!!!"
(At this point everyone in the office looked up at me then quickly turned away as if they hadn't heard
me. I wasn't too worried as I was sure most of the school had already witnessed my friends dragging
me unconscious by my feet through the halls during class change. A story of that magnitude travels at
roughly the same speed as light).
Mom: "Okay but you better not be faking."
Once home I had, of course, to prove I wasn't faking. At the time I thought there was nothing more
embarrassing to a 16-year-old than showing your mom your family jewels. I was soon to find out how
wrong I was. As I was still a military dependent (my dad having retired a Lt Col from the Air Force
some years previously) my mom drove me to the U.S. Army Hospital at Ft Campbell Ky. Once in I
made it past the triage process (the med tech, to his credit, did his best not to smile) and was put in the
examination room.
The physician had me "drop trow" and proceeded to determine the damage. By this time my entire
scrotum had swollen enormously and begun to turn purple.
My penis, deciding it had quite enough abuse, was desperately trying to crawl back inside my body -
fearing a further attack no doubt.
"Fascinating," the doctor mumbled and turned to the attending nurse: "Have the students left yet?" (Oh
$hit, students? What students?) "No sir they're still in the area somewhere." "Go get them and bring
them in here.
We don't normally see a groin injury this severe and this will be good training for them." Ten minutes
later I'm still sitting on the examination with my knees apart, only now I'm surrounded by at least eight
medical-type people, four of which are attractive young females not more than three or four years older
than me. The doctor launched into a lengthy diatribe describing the nature of my injury to the "students,"
all the while maneuvering various bits of my tackle around to give everyone the most advantageous
view. This is the one and only point in my life where, if I would have had a gun in my hand, I would have
used it on myself. Did I mention my mom was still in the room throughout all this? I'll spare you the tale
of my subsequent hospitalization at Ft Campbell US Army Hospital.
How I was laying in a ward full of G.I.s (all suffering various knife injuries from the local strip clubs) for
four days with an ice pack on my exposed parts. They were a rough group but I saw in their eyes that
certain brand of sympathy that only men can feel for other men in my predicament.
There was a lady volunteer who would come around with a trolley full of books, magazines, and plastic
Revelle military models (Kummelwagons, Panzer tanks, 88mm flak guns). Every time a soldier would
finish building a model he would quietly bring it over, solemnly place it by my bed and then turn away
quickly with a tear in his eye. By the time I was due to leave the hospital I was surrounded by Rommel's
entire Afrika Korps in 1:32 scale and was seriously contemplating invading Tunisia.
Anyway, I healed up, and went back to school to face the admiring throngs I knew were waiting for my
arrival. After what I had been through, telling everyone I met that I had been out of school for a week
because I got kicked in the nuts was easy.
Dave and the Flight Doc Part II - The Flight Physical
The story so far: In "The Prologue" you heard about a particular injury I suffered in high school. As we
pick up the story, you will read how that injury later came back to haunt me. I remind you that this is a
true story.
About three years ago, having entered my birth month, I was due my annual flight physical. The first
part of the physical was basically uneventful.
During previous physicals, I had always had trouble with the vision testing.
The gyrations I went through in order to read line 9C were nothing short of circus-like. I squinted, I
moved by head back and forth and sideways, and even held my fingers in a certain way in the mistaken belief that it would actually affect how well I could see. That was the year I discovered that my glasseswere quite simply too far away from eyes for the prescription to be effective. I discovered this by
actually forgetting my glasses and having to use my chem-gear inserts, which actually sat against my
corneas when worn. Don't ask me how I arrived for my physical without my regular glasses but with my inserts. I don't know. What I do know is that since that time I always bring my inserts and I always pass the vision test without having to pull side-show faces and make grunting noises. Profound as this experience was, it was not to be the highlight of my physical that year, nor would it be the thing which I would remember
till my dying day.
After completing the first part of the physical, I proceeded to the Mildenhall flight surgeon's office in
order to receive my yearly "examination." The unit flight surgeon at the time was one Colonel "Doc"
Bartlett. All military physicians seem to prefer to be addressed as "Doc" rather than by their rank.
Personally I can't help but envision one of the seven dwarves each time I use the term but nevertheless
respect their preference.
Doc Bartlett had, at the time of my physical, been a doctor and been in the Air Force for many, many
years. If I had to put an age to him, I would have guessed around 84 but this would have been based
purely on the size of his knuckles. I have always theorized that flight surgeons' knuckles grow and add
layers each year of their life much in the same way as the mighty oak or redwood tree. Doc Bartlett's
knuckles where roughly the size of Rhode Island. Cut through one of those knuckles and you'd be
counting concentric rings for weeks.
Why the seeming preoccupation with knuckles?
The only person who does not fear a prostate exam is the person who has never had one. Huge, scary
hands aside, Doc Bartlett was a deft surgeon, perhaps the best I had seen to that point, and he had more
than once skillfully lopped off an unsightly growth from a unit member which had baffled other doctors.
The man knew his business.
Anyway, after I signed in, a friendly medical technician took my vitals then told me to proceed to Doc
Bartlett's office. When I entered the room, Doc Bartlett was already perusing my medical records.
"Sergeant P, please sit down."
"Thank you sir." (I eyed his knuckles nervously - they were even bigger than I remembered them).
I sat quietly while he flipped through some 15 years of my medical past.
Occasionally, as he read, he would let slip a verbal "oh my," or "aha!"
This worried me as I assumed each "oh my," to mean he had discovered a life threatening illness in my
records which had not previously been brought to my attention. As he read the documents, and in
between "aha's," Doc Bartlett began a running conversation of sorts with me:
"Hmmm... so how're you doing these days?"
"Fine sir, probably not exercising as much as I should."
"Mmmm... Oh my, vasectomy at age 20. That's a little young isn't it?"
"Umm, yes sir, well I kept having kids and didn't know what was causing it."
Once I found out what it was I had it snipped."
"Uh huh... ACL reconstruction I see."
"Yes sir, frisbee accident in Berlin. It's been fine since they fixed it."
"Mmmm...Aha! I haven't seen one of these forms in years (he shows me the form - I don't know what
it is). You know we should still use these, they're good forms."
Doc proceeds to transfer data from a presumably newer version of the form into the older form.
"So Sergeant P, did you celebrate New Year's?... oh my."
"Umm you mean last new year's? (It was October at the time)."
"No, no, a New Year's party... for the end of the fiscal year in September. We used to call them... oh
what did we call them... rag parties! Yes, rag parties, that's what it was. We called them rag parties
because it was the end of the fiscal year and we were out of money so we came dressed in rags... oh
my!"
(Doc obviously has confused the end of the fiscal year with the Great Depression. I have no doubt he
lived through it).
"Uh... no sir, we didn't have one of those."
"Broken arm at the age of six, oh my, eye injury at 12... what happened there?"
"We had a fight with wild plums... I lost."
"Aha!" (Here it comes, he's found cancer).
"So, Sergeant P, do you know why the Mediterranean is so warm?"
(Okay this is way out of left field, but no more so than the rag party discussion...I take another look at
those knuckles and play along)
"No sir."
"Interesting thing about the Mediterranean, cold water flows down out of the Black Sea. It meets up
with the warm waters of the Mediterranean and forms eddies...these little whirlpool kind of things...
eddies..." (he seemed to be suddenly fascinated with the sound of that word - eddy - and repeated it a
couple of more times. To this day I still don't know why the Mediterranean is so warm).
Doc finished up perusing my documents and checking the results from part one of my flight physical
with many an "aha!,' and "oh my!."
"Well Sergeant P let's go to the exam room and have a look at you."
(I wasn't sure but I could swear is knuckles had grown since I first entered his office).
We got in the exam room and Doc Bartlett ran the standard battery of tests as prescribed by the Vague
Book of Flight Medicinery" - pokey thing in the ears, pokey lighted thing in the eyes, a good thump on
various reflex sites.
So far so good.
"Alright Sergeant P, if you would kindly drop your flight suit and your underwear we'll check you for a
hernia."
"Yes sir." (good, he said hernia not prostate).
I assumed the position as did Doc Bartlett
"Okay now turn your head and cough."
(I did)
"Okay now turn your head and.... Aha!"
(Oh crap)
"Sergeant P did you ever have a groin injury when you were younger?"
(He grasped my testicle cord a clinical doctorly manner)
/////squeeze squeeze squeeze///
(I shut my eyes and tried not to grimace)
"Yes sir... when I was about... 16... kicked... unconscious."
"Uh huh you have some substantial scar tissue here."
////squeeze squeeze squeeze///
(Sweat begins forming on my forehead and upper lip)
"Yes sir."
"Left testicle seems a little small."
///squeeze squeeze squeeze///
(Was that a question? I'm having a hard time concentrating. Sweat is now running down my cheeks. Do
I answer that?)
"Yes sir."
"Hmmm... right testicle is small too. How many kids do you have?"
///squeeze squeeze squeeze///
(I am now sweating profusely, my vision is dimming and I'm trying to think which type of court-martial
I would fall under for vomiting on an officer)
"Uhhh..... uhhhh... two sir."
"I see, well the injury seems to have healed okay - lots of scar tissue. I guess you're not used to having
a man with his hands on your family jewels eh?"
///squeeze squeeze SQUEEZE///
(I am drenched in sweat. I'm drooling. My vision has tunneled to pinpoints. I can't see. I can't hear. I
must not pass out cold. I have to answer this question and I have answer "No!")
In my mind I said:
"Of course not Doc, what a ridiculous notion."
What actually came out of my mouth was:
"Buhh..."
"Okay, we're done here. Get dressed and come back into my office."
Doc left the room but I didn't see him go. I dropped to my knees on the tile floor (I have witnesses to the
bruises on my knees which lasted for almost a month). I did not pass out but I couldn't move. With one
hand, Doc had completely incapacitated me. The door to the exam room opened and the med tech
walked in and took in the sight of me sweating and drooling on my knees with my flight suit around my
ankles - unable to even move my hands to cover myself.
"Doc find something during the hernia check?"
I nodded.
"I can give you about five minutes but we really need the room."
I nodded again and hoped he could read the gratitude in my eyes which I was unable to express in
words.
"Fangooooo," I slurred.
"No sweat."
When I had recovered enough to dress myself, I walked back into Doc Bartlett's office and sat down.
He was already three-quarters of the way through a conversation with me. I don't remember what it
was about but it may have had something to do with eddies.
After Doc finished up he signed my 1042 and sent me back to the front desk.
The same med tech took my records and did all the stamping things they do.
Then looked up at me.
"Don't worry, you're not the first."
Now I suppose that I should consider myself fortunate in that while I had found out in the way possible I
had small testicles... at least I didn't have a prostate exam by a guy with knuckles the size of
Pennsylvania (they had grown believe me). The poets say that a woman's soul resides in her heart.
There's no doubt in my mind where a man's soul resides.