Figuratively speaking of course. Because I don't have balls. Although I've often been accused of having big brass ones.
But alas I've been blessed with dysfunctional lady parts. Seems like the damn things have never worked right! That's why I had a rough pregnancy. That's why I had a hysterectomy at the age of 25. That's why I've had two surgeries, countless laser ablations and several rounds of topical chemo.
And now that's why I don't even care if I never have sex again. Sex hurts. And when it hurts I look. And when I look I am reminded of the cancer that continues to fester.
(By the way, if you know me outside of cyberspace and pick up the phone to call me, don't. There's a reason I haven't mentioned it. I don't want to talk about it.)
It's been back for a while...came back not long after I healed from the last surgery. Some days it doesn't bother me at all and I don't even think about it. Most days it's a mild annoyance...a constant irritation, reminding me that all is not right in the region. It reminds me of Winston's varicose ulcer in Orwell's 1984.
Then there's days like today. A quick round of sex brings about pain and of course me being me, leads me to investigate the source of that pain. The investigation reveals everything I expected to see (from previous examinations) and confirms earlier suspicions that yes, it has clearly spread to previously uncharted territory.
I am immediately annoyed. I am then filled with that nagging, haunting sense of doom as I envision this invader creeping, slowly taking over. The fact that I have these thoughts only annoys me more. That wave of nausea washes over me. I can't speak. A piercing pain grabs my mid-section. And I wonder stupidly, for a fleeting second, if this is what it feels like to get kicked in the balls.