My Balls Are Killing Me

Words Chris Robinson,
Pictures Andreas Hykade

 Each issue of Galaxy Brain Magazine will contain an instalment of Chris Robinson’s book, “My Balls Are Killing Me.”

You can read the first instalment HERE  

The second HERE 

The third HERE 

The fourth HERE.

Chapter 9 – Intestinal Fartitude

Mr. Pimp gets up slowly from his lazy boy chair. Surgery is scheduled for 8am. They have to be at the hospital for 6am. He hasn’t slept and he’s, somehow, constipated. “How the hell is that even possible?”, he wonders.

Outside, it’s dark and cold. Clea and Mr. Pimp drive in silence.

They arrive to what appears to be an empty hospital until they turn the corner towards the registration desk and see a long line of people. 

“It’s like we’re getting on a flight,” he tells Clea. 

They reach the desk and the airline woman points them in the direction of the first class lounge. While Clea reads a magazine, he looks out the windows. It’s exactly like an airport runway area, but instead of planes there are beds. All the airplane workers wear blue scrubs. An attendant calls them using directional flags. He then guides them to the security screening area. There, Mr. Pimp checks his bags in and security helps him change into surgery clothing. 

Once they have passed through security, they check the surgery TV monitor. They’ll be leaving from gate 19. 

He sits on his own personal plane. 

Clea sits nearby. 

A flight attendant comes by to give him a blanket, pillow, and pills. 

Eventually, an attendant comes by. He says goodbye to Clea and they take off, flying towards the operating room. He looks down and around at the other beds and people. He feels calm here. “There is nothing to worry about,” he thinks. “I will be beyond sleep. There will be no dreams, no nightmares. Nothing. I’d never even notice if he died… I mean… if I died.” 

They land in front of another gate. An assortment of people introduce themselves. Some inspect him, while others scrub their arms and hands.

The operating room is like a frantic restaurant kitchen during the lunch rush. Utensils, Machines, Chatter, Clanking, People.

Mr. Pimp is jolted by intense pressure in his back. They’ve stuck an epidural in him. They froze the area first but he can still feel it. There are pricks in his back, hand and arm. They stick a tube down his throat and attach another to his penis.

“It’s a never-ending game of pricks,” he thinks.

At that moment, there is a small explosive sound, a cloud of smoke. Out of it emerges Doctor Wizard Bob. He’s wearing his wizard outfit again.

“Hey kid, how you feeling?”

“How the hell do you think I’m feeling!?”

He laughs. I laugh. Everyone laughs. Then he’s gassed.

“Take deep breaths.”

We have liftoff.

–

Darkness

Sliced light collapses.

Sliced light larger, flicker.

Darkness.

“I know about Calypso.”

 

Blurred Slices of light flicker and fade.

Darkness.

“You’re in the recovery room”

Darkness.

–

Mr. Pimp is on a bed. Clea sits nearby. An IV Machine is beside him, hooked into his left hand. There’s a tube in his left arm just above the elbow. Another tube pumps oxygen into his nose. A catheter swallows the tip of his penis. 

He vomits on himself.

Darkness.

Sliced light.

A small round face.

“Hi, you made it!” says a chirpy Athena.

“Come on!” he moans weakly. “I thought I was done with you.”

“No no no. We have a long road still ahead of us.”

A nurse enters, pushing a blue machine. She places the blood pressure wrap around his arm, a heart rate clip on his finger and inserts a thermometer in his throat while checking his oxygen levels. This will continue every day he is at the hospital.

“Every day an arse wash”, says a voice.

There are others in the room but he can’t see them.

Dinner is water and ice chips.

Mr. Pimp looks at himself. He wears a blue gown and has long white circulation stockings on his leg to prevent blood clots. He sneaks a peek at his incision, but a large bloody bandage covers the wound.

He wants to walk. He worries that being inactive will create a blood clot. He asks Nurse Debbie. “It might be too soon, but if you feel up to it, we can give it a go.” Slowly and hesitantly, he lifts himself up and gently swings his legs over the side of the bed. He looks unsteady and takes deep breaths. Finally, he goes to stand up. 

He is not alone. He has the IV pole on wheels and carries his piss bag in his right hand. Clea and Nurse Debbie tag along. He feels like Frankenstein taking that first step. He walks about 20 yards and then turns around. Once back in the room, he sits on a chair and then hurls black liquid.

His sleep is restless. There’s a pill buffet. Hot sweats. Moans and voices and noises of other patients and staff. 

“Lord Jesus,” someone groans.

“Home, home, whatever that is,” says another in his sleep.

Darkness.

Calypso appears. 

Her long dark hair flowing. 

‘Tonight you are my water.” 

She falls out of her long white dress, grabs Mr. Pimp and slowly pours him all over her.

Slivers of light. 

Clea’s face appears. 

It is morning now. She is quiet. 

Nurse Debbie comes in. She removes his Band-Aid. The scar is prominent. There is a red line that starts near his sternum, does a brief half circle to the right of his belly button before continuing on straight to the groin area. 

He changes out of his hospital gown and now wears a brown George Carlin t-shirt with AC/DC boxers. He feels a little more human again.

He rises to walk again. Doesn’t get any farther than the previous day. Returns to the bed, sits, pukes.

Nurses come and go throughout the day performing the same tests. Blood pressure, thermometer, heart clip, breath, blood. Everything is low today. The oxygen tube can’t come out until his oxygen level reaches near 95%.

“I think she knows,” Mr. Pimp says to Athena, perched upon his right shoulder.

“Well, it’s no surprise. You were obsessively checking your phone for the last two weeks. You’ve been completely distant from her and your kids.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Nothing. There is nothing to do. You have everything you need here.”

“So why isn’t it enough?”

“Because it’s just easy for you to find distractions. It’s easier to live in an illusion than to work at reality. Calypso is not real. She’s just another excuse not to be in the here and now. You know nothing about her. So, she writes cheesy love poems and sends you daily email kisses. You have a wife who has stood with you through a lot. You have 2 kids who need a father to be present.”

His phone buzzes. As he grabs it with his right hand, Athena sails off his shoulder. It’s an email from Calypso. He eagerly opens the message and reads it:

“You make me laugh,
make my heart leap over mountains
make me nervous
you have intrigue, solace, mystery and thought
and i want to be part of every inch of your soul.”

Before he can finish, Clea, his sons and his mother arrive. 

Jimmy sits with his father and they embrace. 

His mother discusses bus service. Clea feigns interest. 

Marcus sits in a chair, saying nothing. 

Mr. Pimp’s voice is weak and gravely. He has little energy for small talk. After time everyone leaves except Marcus. He takes a seat on a chair at the end of the bed. They say very little and instead mostly just sit and watch the hard rain hitting the windows. Eventually, Marcus gets up to go. He will take a bus home. It’s a relatively new experience for him. He likes the feeling of independence. Mr. Pimp doesn’t want his son to go.

Darkness

Slices of Light.

Mr. Pimp shuffles in his bed. One moment he sweats; his clothes are soaked. The next minute, he’s freezing. In between, the nurses wake up him up every few hours for the blue machine tests.

He drifts to sleep. 

A boxing ring. It’s from his perspective. He rises from the corner of the ring to face not one but two boxers who resemble Arturo Gatti and Micky Ward before shifting into changing faces that include Calypso and Clea then Marcus and Jimmy. A flurry of punches to his head and body. Mr. Pimp’s body shuffles uncomfortably on his hospital bed. There are various spasms throughout his body as though he were absorbing punches. 

He’s startled awake and immediately vomits into a bucket.

His room neighbour sounds like an older man. Maybe in his mid-60s. He talks on and on each day, repeating the same tales about strokes and heart attacks. He runs a gas bar with his wife. They care for their granddaughter. No one ever visits him.

Two beautiful sirens fly into the room. They carry a small tub of water. “Come in. We will bathe you and clean you. You will feel much better after.” “No thanks,” he says sharply, fearing an erection with the catheter still attached would cause great pain. With that, they vanish from the room.

He then grabs a cloth and starts washing himself.

–

Morning. Jello. His first somewhat solid food. As he takes the first taste, two doctors rush into the room and assume a spot on either side of his bed. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Doctor Wizard Bob and Doctor Wizard Tobin!” Just then there is a small explosion and a cloud of smoke. The two men, in their wonderful wizard garb, emerge from the smoke.

“Well hello!” says Doctor Wizard Bob.” How are things going!?”

Before Mr. Pimp can answer, the two men approach him and immediately check the incision. They look pleased, like artists admiring their work.

“Everything looked good,” says Doctor Wizard Tobin. “We didn’t see anything unusual.”

“We should get the results back in a few weeks,” adds Doctor Wizard Bob.

“Can you give me a percentage?” Mr. Pimp asks.

“I’m about 90% sure you’re clean,” says Doctor Wizard Bob

Doctor Wizard Tobin approaches Mr. Pimp and whispers: “Doctor Bob is a cautious sort. He leans towards the negative, so this is great news.”

At this moment, Mr. Pimp elevates from the bed and looks towards the reader: “Hi. Sorry to spoil the flow of the story yet again, but I just want you to add that previous Doctor Wizard Bob line to your list of things to remember. In case you’re just joining us, Doctor Wizard Bob has said that the RPLND surgery will be nerve sparing. Meaning I’ll still be able to ejaculate. Then, I was told that the RPLND surgery would pretty much ensure that the cancer doesn’t return. It’s not really a lot to remember.”

As he lands back on the bed, there is another small explosion and a cloud of smoke. “We will call you soon with the results” and with that the Doctor Wizards are gone. Just as they disappear into the smoke, the nurses enter with the Blue machine and the pressure, oxygen, heart test start again. Everything is normalizing, but the tubes stay on and in.

–

Mr. Pimp walks more. There is no puking. But there is no farting either. Farting is celebrated here. It’s the trumpet of life, a sign that the intestines and innards are getting back to work. Mr. Pimp thinks back to the week before, when he was visiting friends in Montreal for a weekend.

He is now sitting in their apartment. There are two women and a man with him. Two sit on a sofa, while Mr. Pimp and a shorter woman sit on the floor. There are drinks, laughter, chatting, music. He has terrible gas. Each time he goes to speak, he farts instead.  Stomach problems from the biopsy. He’s a farting machine. “Sgt Farts a Lot” says one of his friends. He blushes but the friends reassure him that they understand it’s part of the recovery. Back in the hospital hallway, Mr. Pimp longs to be Sir Farts a Lot again.

–

Mr. Pimp is frustrated with the catheter attached to his penis. He feels a constant need to urinate. He complains to the nurses. They bring in a mini-ultrasound scanner so that they can look in his bladder. It’s empty.

Clea arrives. She’s ordered him Television so that he can watch the boxing bout. She also brings him a milkshake. As she hands it to him, she whispers, “I know about her and the emails.”

As Clea leaves the room, Mr. Pimp slowly sucks on the milkshake. It is uncomfortably delicious.

The next morning is a good one. The sun blasts into the room. There is a solid food for the first time and the IV tube and pole are removed. 

After breakfast, Mr. Pimp rises jauntily and walks around the hospital. He stops by the elevators and reads the newspapers. When he returns to the room, his oxygen tube is removed. He begs Nurse Debbie to remove the penis tube, but is refused. “Maybe in the morning,” she says.

Mr. Pimp feels differently about his unseen roommate. The poor guy has had a string of bad luck: stroke, heart attack, cancer, and now has problems with his legs. His family arrives and shower him with love and reassurance. 

Outside of the unseen neighbour, there are generally at least two other patients in the room., though each day someone new comes and goes. He prefers to keep the curtains closed around his area, so he never sees the other patients, and then also avoids having unwanted conversations. They are always men of course. Most of them are in for prostate cancer.

“I wonder if I can ejaculate,” thinks Mr. Pimp.

–

In the morning, Nurse Debbie comes by the remove the catheter. Mr. Pimp’s spirits rise instantly. The Doctor Wizards visit briefly to tell him he can return home tomorrow, but they just want to be sure that all the levels are normal and that there’s no more vomiting.

There is not, though there is bloating, constipation and no farting. It gets so bad that Mr. Pimp asks Nurse Debbie for something to help his situation. She mentions a suppository. He has no idea what that is, but says, “sure.” When she returns she says, “Do you want to do it or should I?” 

“What do you mean,” he asks. “Should I have a glass of water with it?”

“Okay, just roll on your side,” she laughs.

He suddenly lets out a big yelp. What the fuck was that?

Nurse Debbie has anally violated him with her fingers.

“Stay on your side for 20 minutes,” she says before leaving.

Mr. Pimp now knows what a suppository is.

20 minutes later, black goo, the texture of toothpaste oozes out of him.

“That’s really unpleasant,” adds Athena.

–

It’s the last day. Mr. Pimp sits on the bed, bloated, tired and in some pain. He will not tell the hospital staff this. He cannot tolerate another night in the hospital. A nurse comes to remove the epidural tube, his last. “Be gone Cyborg,” he thinks. They tell him to keep an eye out for any leakage or swelling in the wound. An assortment of paper arrives. Some are signed. Others are for future appointments, prescriptions, and cautions. 

On his feet, his bags packed, Mr. Pimp exits the room and says farewell to the nurses and roommates.  He walks into the elevator, alone. That’s it. No fanfare.

Someone will take over his bed before he reaches the front door of the hospital.

So it goes.

In the front lobby, he waits for Clea to arrive. As usual, she’s late. She’s always late. He sits and observes all the people coming and going, the looks of joy, fear, exhaustion, tears, and hope.

He sees Clea and heads out of the hospital. His head swims in confusion. He knows where he is going but he is not sure if it’s home anymore.