February 25: "Confessions," Memoir, "First Confession"

As promised, this post contains the next installment of my Lenten memoir.  I'm pretty happy with myself.  Two weeks of Lent, and I have two sections of my Confessions done.  Last week, I went to the university library and picked up a copy of Augustine's Confessions.  I figure I better check out my competition.

Anyway, Saint Marty has part two of Confessions.  It's called...

First Confession

I frequently convince myself I have fatal illnesses.  When I was thirteen or fourteen, I started experiencing sharp pains in my left testicle.  These scrotal attacks occurred several times a day and sometimes made it impossible for me to walk.  I would sit in whatever chair was available and contemplate the source and meaning of my affliction.  At night, I would lie in bed, fondling my balls, searching for a lump or dent, anything abnormal.  I convinced myself I was being punished.  Being a teenage boy, I'd fallen into the habit of abuse.  At least that's what the priest called it in the confessional.  "How often do you abuse yourself, my son?" he asked.  "Once or twice a week," I said, although it was like once or twice a night, more if I watched an episode of Family Ties before I went to bed; I had a thing for Mallory.  Up until that point in my life, I never realized abuse could be such good company.


Of course, with this company came a whole lot of guilt, and with this guilt came the belief that God was using my left nut to visit divine justice upon me.  Over several months, I progressed from believing I had some kind of penile toothache (painful, but treatable) to full-blown testicular cancer that had already invaded my major organs (a stigmata of the dick, so to speak).  Thus, when I ended up on the pediatrician's examination table, I was prepared for martyrdom.

The doctor, a kind man from India, poked and prodded and rolled me for a minute or two.  Then he said, "Sometime testes can twist in scrotum."  He looked at me.  "It can make short breath," he said, "like this."  He panted like an overheated cocker spaniel.  "And pain."

It took me a few moments for me to realize I wasn't dying.  I sat up.  "Then," I said, "I don't have cancer?"

"No cancer," he said.  "Just twisting."  He made a motion with his fist in the air.  "Twist."  He rotated his testicle/fist several times violently.

That was one of the first times in my life I was given a stay of execution by the Almighty.  I'd like to say it ended my nightly sessions of self abuse, but I'm reminded of an old joke:  Why does a dog lick his balls?  Because he can.

Bless me, Father...