The scene of "the incident." While it may not be as transformative as other New Year’s resolutions, resolving to never, ever, lift heavy objects when your bladder is full has greater potential to prevent physical and mental discomfort. Especially if you’re a man.
I learned this lesson the hard way. After helping some friends move into their new Toronto apartment on a brisk winter Saturday, my wife Angela and I joined another couple on a double date.
On our way out of the cinema, an intense stabbing pain suddenly took hold of my left testicle as we descended the unusually long escalator serving the glitzy downtown complex. I winced and instinctively pressed my left palm into the distressed region, which only worsened the agony.
Feeling nauseous and woozy, I sat down on the steel escalator stair. Looking back, Angela asked if I was okay, then quickly added, “You’d better stand up, the ride’s almost over.”
I tried to do exactly that but to no avail. Stumbling forward, I crashed through the velvet rope at the foot of the escalator, and fell face-first onto the cinema’s crowded, marble foyer.
When I regained consciousness moments later, a surreal ring of faces hovered over me. Angela, our two friends, and a trio of security guards stood wide-eyed with concern. The scores of other onlookers, on the other hand, seemed more curious and amused than anything else.
One of the guards knelt down beside me. “Sir!” he shouted. “Can you hear me?!?”
I nodded.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?!?”
I gestured for him to lean in. He looked puzzled, so I repeated the gesture, waving him close enough to hear me whisper, “It’s my left testicle.”
“Nobody panic, it’s only his testicle!!” the guard said a little too loudly, backing up and spreading his arms wide as if to shield me from further testicular injury. Laughter erupted from the assembled masses as the guard dialled 9-1-1, and as my face turned even redder than it already was.
With an ice pack on my nether regions and an IV in my arm, I was paraded out of the theatre on a stretcher and into the back of a waiting ambulance. Had I known of the size and volume of potholes between the theatre and our local hospital, I might have requested closer medical care. As it was, I felt every bump in the road during the high-speed drive.
Over the next few hours I was poked and prodded by a remarkable number of hospital personnel – so many, in fact, that my painkiller-addled brain half-expected janitorial staff to have a go. A nurse soon informed me that “the best urologist in town” was on her way, and sure enough, she showed up at around 3 a.m.
About 15 minutes into her examination, the urologist calmly shared a speculative diagnosis: “You may have a small hernia blocking the supply of blood to your left testicle, and that blockage could be causing the pain. To confirm this we’ll need to do an ultrasound, but the ultrasound technician isn’t in for another three hours.”
Morphine-drip button firmly in hand, I slurrily asked if waiting three hours was a problem.
“Well,” she replied, “your testicle needs blood to survive, and without an adequate supply it could die before the technician gets here. In that case, we would have to amputate.”
My jaw dropped as blind panic obliterated my mental fogginess.
Then the urologist delivered the least comforting silver lining of all time: “But you’ll still have your right testicle!”
As my panic turned to outrage, I levelled her with the most withering stare I could muster. “Now you listen to me,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “Either I get scanned STAT” – I knew from Grey’s Anatomy that this meant immediately – “or you’ll be hearing from my legal team!”
About 30 minutes later, an ultrasound yielded a more conclusive diagnosis. “It’s not a hernia,” the urologist reported. “Rather, your vas deferens are inflamed, likely due to a bacterial infection. Antibiotics should clear that right up.”
She paused, consulted her clipboard, then added, “May I ask if you’ve done any heavy lifting lately?”
“Yes, I helped some friends move yesterday morning.”
“Did you empty your bladder beforehand?”
Then it all came flooding back: The rushing out of bed to meet the moving truck, the chugging of an extra-large double-double, the lifting of a 17-ton sofa bed, the mandatory mid-move beer, moving a ridiculous oak armoire, yet another extra-large double-double, this time paired with Timbits … and nary a bathroom break between any of it.
“So now you know,” the urologist concluded, smiling sagely. “Never lift heavy objects on a full bladder, as the lifting motion can force urine into your vas deferens and cause an infection that can spread to your testicles and prostate.”
So the next time you lug a loveseat or reposition a refrigerator, be sure to make a trip to the loo ahead of time.
I learned this lesson the hard way. After helping some friends move into their new Toronto apartment on a brisk winter Saturday, my wife Angela and I joined another couple on a double date.
On our way out of the cinema, an intense stabbing pain suddenly took hold of my left testicle as we descended the unusually long escalator serving the glitzy downtown complex. I winced and instinctively pressed my left palm into the distressed region, which only worsened the agony.
Feeling nauseous and woozy, I sat down on the steel escalator stair. Looking back, Angela asked if I was okay, then quickly added, “You’d better stand up, the ride’s almost over.”
I tried to do exactly that but to no avail. Stumbling forward, I crashed through the velvet rope at the foot of the escalator, and fell face-first onto the cinema’s crowded, marble foyer.
When I regained consciousness moments later, a surreal ring of faces hovered over me. Angela, our two friends, and a trio of security guards stood wide-eyed with concern. The scores of other onlookers, on the other hand, seemed more curious and amused than anything else.
One of the guards knelt down beside me. “Sir!” he shouted. “Can you hear me?!?”
I nodded.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?!?”
I gestured for him to lean in. He looked puzzled, so I repeated the gesture, waving him close enough to hear me whisper, “It’s my left testicle.”
“Nobody panic, it’s only his testicle!!” the guard said a little too loudly, backing up and spreading his arms wide as if to shield me from further testicular injury. Laughter erupted from the assembled masses as the guard dialled 9-1-1, and as my face turned even redder than it already was.
With an ice pack on my nether regions and an IV in my arm, I was paraded out of the theatre on a stretcher and into the back of a waiting ambulance. Had I known of the size and volume of potholes between the theatre and our local hospital, I might have requested closer medical care. As it was, I felt every bump in the road during the high-speed drive.
Over the next few hours I was poked and prodded by a remarkable number of hospital personnel – so many, in fact, that my painkiller-addled brain half-expected janitorial staff to have a go. A nurse soon informed me that “the best urologist in town” was on her way, and sure enough, she showed up at around 3 a.m.
About 15 minutes into her examination, the urologist calmly shared a speculative diagnosis: “You may have a small hernia blocking the supply of blood to your left testicle, and that blockage could be causing the pain. To confirm this we’ll need to do an ultrasound, but the ultrasound technician isn’t in for another three hours.”
Morphine-drip button firmly in hand, I slurrily asked if waiting three hours was a problem.
“Well,” she replied, “your testicle needs blood to survive, and without an adequate supply it could die before the technician gets here. In that case, we would have to amputate.”
My jaw dropped as blind panic obliterated my mental fogginess.
Then the urologist delivered the least comforting silver lining of all time: “But you’ll still have your right testicle!”
As my panic turned to outrage, I levelled her with the most withering stare I could muster. “Now you listen to me,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “Either I get scanned STAT” – I knew from Grey’s Anatomy that this meant immediately – “or you’ll be hearing from my legal team!”
About 30 minutes later, an ultrasound yielded a more conclusive diagnosis. “It’s not a hernia,” the urologist reported. “Rather, your vas deferens are inflamed, likely due to a bacterial infection. Antibiotics should clear that right up.”
She paused, consulted her clipboard, then added, “May I ask if you’ve done any heavy lifting lately?”
“Yes, I helped some friends move yesterday morning.”
“Did you empty your bladder beforehand?”
Then it all came flooding back: The rushing out of bed to meet the moving truck, the chugging of an extra-large double-double, the lifting of a 17-ton sofa bed, the mandatory mid-move beer, moving a ridiculous oak armoire, yet another extra-large double-double, this time paired with Timbits … and nary a bathroom break between any of it.
“So now you know,” the urologist concluded, smiling sagely. “Never lift heavy objects on a full bladder, as the lifting motion can force urine into your vas deferens and cause an infection that can spread to your testicles and prostate.”
So the next time you lug a loveseat or reposition a refrigerator, be sure to make a trip to the loo ahead of time.
