Ok…not THE Garrison Keillor.
My wife and I went to our first appointment with a specialist not too long ago and the man could’ve been a double for Mr. K. Anyways, typically for these appointments, I’ve been along for support and info. This time I discovered that this really was OUR appointment, which I figured out very slowly.
My first inkling that trouble was afoot should’ve been when I was handed a clipboard of paperwork and promptly began filling in her info.
“That ones for you,” my lovely said, scribbling on her own clipboard.
“Honey, are we confident my semen is fully deposited each time?”
We’re soon called back and meet the doctor and he is an amazing man! He also could be a double for Garrison Keillor. Mannerisms, speech pattern, humor…it’s uncanny.
He performs various exams on my wife as I sit in the room, simulanteously supportive and occupied by Angry Birds. I can mad multitask. As soon as Dr. Keillor finishes with my wife, he strides toward the door instructing her to get dressed and that now I should “strip down to your shorts” and he would be right back.
Wait…what? My shorts? Underpants? Man-ties? I do as instructed, but as I sit on the examination table, my thought turn on me.
“What if we heard him wrong?” I ask. “What if he comes back in here and I’m plopped up here in my underwear and he freaks out?! What if he’s kidding?!”
“No, I’m sure that he intends to examine both of us,” my wife says.
“Well, I’m drawing the line at the protate thing,” I state. Pause. “You don’t think…?”
GK returns, and sure enough, he wasn’t kidding. He takes my blood pressure, does the stethoscope, all the usual, and I’m starting to feel better.
“Well, why don’t you take down your shorts and I’ll get something from over here?” he asks, walking back over to the counter. Rummaging around in a drawer, he tells us that what he’s getting was illegal to have in the country in the seventies, but he found a way of getting it in. He pulls out a big piece of string, tied in a circle, with lots of bright, yellow ovals attached all around the ring. I’m laying back and he pulls my covering to the side and begins to prod my testicles. I cannot look.
“I like to call it my family jewel measurer,” he explains, as he finishes and returns them to their home. Here we go…I think. Of course mine must be off the charts, right?
“You’re a little smaller than normal,” GK tells me, each word a bullet to my male pride. “Have you had a prostate exam?”
“No…,” I reply, and I’m not going to today.
“I ask because sometimes diminished size is a result of prostate cancer. So, why don’t you lay back down and we’ll get this taken care of?” He’s already pulling out rubber gloves. “Don’t worry. I’ll use lubricant.”
I didn’t realize lubricant was a choice.
I look to my wife. I love you, she mouths to me, getting up to hold my hand.
And faster than you can say “finger up your butt,” there’s a finger up my butt.
And it’s over. And everything is normal. Which is a relief, except that I have small balls, of course. Oh, sorry…DIMINSHED.
He leaves and I get dressed. When he comes back, he gives us possible diagnoses, sends us to get some bloodwork going and disappears to think.
We go up front and give them blood and $1,386.
And we leave, violated and hopeful.