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The Hole In My Underwear

August 27th, 2012

There’s a hole in my underwear.

It all  started when I came back from a month in Italy.  I’d felt tired that whole month. I complained to my doctor:

“I’m feeling tired.  Maybe some sort of low-grade infection?”

“Tired?” he responded, “We’d better check on that.”

So he listened to my heart with his stethoscopes.

“Hmmm,” said the good Doctor.  “Let’s just take a reading…”

And in comes the nurse with the EKG machine.  She hooks me up with the cold little electrode patches, punches up some numbers and up comes a readout on her monitor.  Doctor comes in, looks at it.

“Anything wrong?” I ask.

“Hmm,” he replies.  “I can’t see anything here; but I think we’d better send you off for a a stress test.”
[DDET Read more…]

So two weeks later, I’m on a treadmill, shot up with thallium radioisotope, and the monitors are running.  “See anything?” I pant.

“The cardiologist will look it over; we’ll call you.”

Two weeks later, the cardioligist in his office: “We see some minor discrepancies in your cardiac diagnostic,” he says.  “This could indicate a blockage.  With these figures, there’s a seventy percent chance of a blockage.”

“So what does that mean?”

“I recommend we do a cardial catheterization.  We can schedule it next month.  The earlier, the better.”

“But I’m not feeling tired anymore.  Maybe it’s nothing.”

“Better be sure than sorry.”

The general practitioner recommends I go ahead with it; my wife thinks I should go ahead with it.  “You never know.  And, seventy percent…”

So in I go to the hospital.  Before they stick the thing into myveins, they have to prep me.

So I’m lying there, doped up on don’t know what, and nurse comes along with her razor.  Now, I’ve already insisted that the catheter go into a vein on my wrist, not through the groin.  But she pulls my robe up above my waist.

“Hey, we’re doing this thing through the wrist!”

“Well, we have to be prepared,” she smirks, “incase we can’t go in there.”

And she gets out this razor thing, looks like a Bic disposable razor, but it’s electric, and buzz, buzz, the hair’s gone from the right side of my crotch, and then from my right wrist.

Soon I’m rolled on my gurney into the operating room, doped up some more, and wake up in a recovery room.

“Did I get a stent put in?” I ask, as I come to.

“No, doctor didn’t find any blockage.  You’re good to go.”

And that was that.  Charge for stress test: $5,000.  Charge for catheterization: $15,000. Insurance covers all but $1200.

So what does this have to do with the hole in my underwear?

It’s the rash that develops a week after the catheterization.  The doctor says it’s jock itch, and prescribes a salve.  The salve doesn’t help, after using it for five weeks.  He prescribes a pill, which has no effect.

“You’d better see a dermitologist,” he says.  So I go to the specialist: “Jock Itch,” he pronounces.  Another salve.

Still the rash persists.  I suggest to my doctor that it’s something I picked up from the razor.  “Nonsense,” he responds, “those things are sealed in sterile…” and sort of fades out, because he hadn’t seen it, he wasn’t there.  But I was, and I never saw a sterile wrapping come off.

“Try wearing boxer shorts,” he suggest.  “Let air get at it.”  I t ry that; it just makes my balls rub up against my thigh, making things worse.

After a year of this back-and-forth of trhying this and that, my wife suggests I try the ointment she uses when she has a rash: zinc oxide ointment.

I try the zinc oxide: it seems to work.  But there’s the problem of rubbing of balls against thigh.  Boxer briefs work somewhat, but not great.

My solution: bikini briefs, with a hole cut in front for my penis to stick through.  I don’t usually like bikini briefs, with everything scrunched up, but I do like the ball support.  So with mylittle scissors, I make a slit in the briefs in just the right spot (being careful not to nick myself!).

That combination has almost entirely cleared up the rash! Zinc oxide ointment, just a dab, and the ball support (no rugging on thighs) has done the trick.

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