Dear Family,
I had just undergone a minor procedure at Adventist HealthCare White Oak Medical Center (a nearby hospital whose unwieldy name I can only assume was the brainchild of the same consulting firm that gave us “Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport”) and the post-op nurse asked me to rate my discomfort on a 10-point scale.
Nurses ask this question a lot, and, I imagine like a lot of people, I never have any idea how to answer it. Is 10 supposed to be the worst pain I’ve ever felt or the worst pain I can imagine? I tend to assume it means the latter, but even if it is, then what is a 7, exactly?
For reasons that may become apparent later, I felt like I had just taken a soccer ball to the groin. I’m not sure where other men put that on the 10-point scale, but I give it about a four. Highly unpleasant, but there are far worse things.
“A three or a four, I guess,” I said.
“I don’t know about that,” the nurse replied in her disarming Filipino accent. “Judging by the look on your face, I’d say you’re probably a 6 or 7.”
My facial expression was probably more a reflection of my annoyance than of my pain. I felt like saying, “If you can tell by my face, then why bother asking me?” But I couldn’t bring myself to say that to the nice Filipina lady. I can’t remember what I actually said — it was probably something like, “Ok, well then why don’t you just put down whatever you think the right number is.”
The exchange irritated me not just because I dislike being asked to quantify qualitative things,1 but because it was so utterly pointless to begin with. Less than a half-hour earlier, the doctor who performed my procedure, the nurse — a different nurse — who tended to me during the procedure (and kindly stood in for the doctor’s bedside manner, which was lacking), and I had all agreed that an over-the-counter pain reliever was all I would need. The philosophical debate I was engaged in about the numeric value of pain was merely a pro forma exercise the nurse apparently felt was necessarily in order to dispense a gram of Tylenol to me.
I have no complaints about my care, but in the time it took to debate the pain number, retrieve my dose of Tylenol from wherever the hospital keeps its Tylenol (which, judging by the time it took, is apparently a considerably less convenient place than where I keep my Tylenol), scan my wristband to add it to my chart (I assume), remove the pill from its special container, transfer the pill into a sacrament cup, hand the cup to me, ask whether I’d like juice with it (stupidly, I said yes, only because I’d been fasting since the night before, as directed, which also turned out to be unnecessary since I ended up getting only local anesthesia), waiting while she tracked down one of those little apple juice cups that I don’t think exist outside of hospitals, hunt around for a straw to pierce the metal foil on top of the juice cup, hand everything to me in this painstakingly deliberate way like I’m 106 years old, and then carefully observe while I ingest all of it.
…all the while, I’m just sitting there thinking that in the same amount of time, I literally could have taken the elevator down to the lobby, walked out of the hospital, crossed the street to Target, and bought a lifetime supply of Tylenol (or just driven home, where I already have more Tylenol than I’ll ever use).
But I guess that’s just how they roll at one of Maryland’s safest hospitals (according to the signs proudly displayed throughout the facility).
I have to hand it to the Seventh-Day Adventists (whose world headquarters is here in Silver Spring) — they’re not obnoxiously self-serving. They don’t claim to have the best hospitals in the world, or even the best hospitals in our little state. They don’t even claim to be the safest in the state, just among the safest (whatever that means).
Between that and the fact that May 1st, the day of my procedure, was the National Day of Prayer, which was being observed by a large gathering of clergy on the lawn in front of the hospital entrance, I felt like I was going to be okay.
The procedure was necessitated by the nearly half-liter — half a liter! — about a pint, if you still think in terms of clunky imperial measures — of fluid that had accumulated around my right testis over the past 18 months or so.
I’m happy to tell you everything you’d care to know about my right testis if you ask, but that’s as much as I’ll subject you to unsolicited. If you want to learn more without asking me, Google hydrocele. A fairly common condition in babies (where it usually fixes itself), not so much in adults (where it usually doesn’t fix itself) — but I’ve been accused of acting like a baby, so there’s that.
I’m not sure where the idiomatic expression “big balls” originated or how it came to be used as a compliment. All I can tell you is it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.
The urologist told me I had three options: 1) live with it; 2) undergo a simple procedure performed by an interventional radiologist that relieves the symptoms but only has a 10 to 30% chance of permanently fixing the underlying problem; or 3) undergo a more invasive procedure by the urologist with a much higher probability of fixing the underlying problem, but with a more protracted recovery time.
Naturally, I went with option 1 for as long as I could. When I finally decided last month that I was tired of living this way, I began weighing the other two options. I ultimately went with option 2 because it’s the beginning of race season, and I didn’t want to sideline myself right out of the gate.
Assuming option 2 turns out not to be a permanent fix (and I think I can already tell it isn’t) I’ll probably pursue option 3 this winter. Stay tuned!
Race Season!
Two days after my procedure, on May 3rd, I re-introduced my now regular-sized scrotum to my bike saddle for a 65-mile spin with my boss and another co-worker around the Virginia countryside. It was a little uncomfortable at first (let’s call it a 3), but I was fine after a couple of miles.
The ride was a fundraiser for Alzheimer’s research (stylized “Ride to End ALZ” to sound sharp, I guess). A retired KPMG partner we worked for many years ago had recently been diagnosed with the disease, and my boss felt this would be a fitting tribute to him. The boss is always right (and I actually agreed with her) and so we did it.
It was a beautiful day, a fun ride, and my testicles held up. So what more could you ask for?
A week after the Alzheimer’s ride, I returned to Virginia for my first triathlon in a year — an Olympic-distance event in and around Lake Anna State Park, in Virginia.
I went in with minimal expectations and pretty much lived up to them, finishing in 68th place (out of 265) and 7th (out of 19) in my age group. Among the male 50 to 54s, I had the 4th-fastest swim (which made me happy), the 9th fastest (or 11th slowest, depending how you look at it) bike, which was disappointing, and the 7th-fastest run, which I was okay with.
I took a couple of weeks off racing after the triathlon — making my next appearance at the Montgomery County Road Runners Club’s annual Memorial Day 4-mile run.
My friend Wendy directs the race. Unable to secure her usual person to sing the national anthem, she asked if I could do it. I explained that while I am a serviceable choir member, no one (seriously, no one) wants to hear my voice by itself.
But then I told her about Grace, who had just returned home for the summer after her sophomore year at Southern Virginia University.
As you’d expect, Grace did a nice job. She wasn’t delighted with it, and, having heard her perform the anthem many times, I know why she felt that way. But she still sounded great! (And p.s., no offense to anyone, but we really need to get ourselves a better national anthem — preferably one that’s easier to sing).
After the singing, Grace read a book while I took to the race course. I finished the 4 miles in 31:44, which is good for me but very much middle of the pack at a club race (9th of 18 age group, 128th of 447 overall).
I continue to take great pride in my mediocrity!
Music
Speaking of singing, Crystal and I and the rest of the Washington D.C. Temple Choir are performing this weekend (Saturday in Woodbridge — about a million miles from here — and Sunday at the temple visitors’ center).
Both concerts start at 7:00.
This is our traditional summer “pops” concert, which is typically attended by literally dozens of people, so you should be able to find a seat.
It’s actually quite an entertaining (and not a long) program if you can make it. Not sure why we omitted Moses Hogan from the list of contemporary composers on the flyer. We’re performing his well-known arrangement of The Battle of Jericho, which we do reasonably well (for a bunch of mostly white people). A bunch of other fun stuff, as well.
It’s been an interesting rehearsal season. I think there’s about a 70% chance we’ll sound pretty good (and about a 15% chance we’ll totally crash and burn). Either way, you’ll want to see it! From where I sit, the sopranos are sounding very good, the altos are mostly pretty solid, the tenors are outstanding, and the basses (my section) are hit or miss, depending on who shows up. We have about three really strong deep basses who totally make the section sound good. (I am not one of them.) When they aren’t there, we’re kind of at sea. So, fingers crossed.
Teacher Appreciation
I think Crystal is officially ready for the school year to be over. Just a couple more weeks to go. For teacher appreciation week, she got bagels, Cafe Rio, I don’t know what else, and a potted rose.
The potted rose was handed to her by a student who said flatly, “My mother told me to give this to you.”
Crystal also achieved legend status among her fellow teachers by breaking up a fight between two sixth graders in the hallway.
I’m pretty sure Crystal really likes her job, but she’s also pretty excited about summer.
And finally
While pulling out of the YMCA parking a lot a couple of weeks ago, I noticed that the odometer on my 2005 Toyota Avalon had hit exactly 177,771 miles. I felt this was worthy of a picture. I nearly drove into a light pole while I was taking it, but I got it!
All is right in the world. Well, not really, but we’re fine. Hope you are, too!
Love,
Tim
Managing Editor of The Famlet Monthly
Echo the sentiment of impressiveness at your quick recovery. It’s no fun staying in a hospital for any length. Pro forma is a good way to describe the pain rating, I also find it a pointless perfunctory 6th vital sign and regret having to ask people to rate their pain over and over. Asking often leads to increased thinking about it versus redirecting the dialogue as a remedy, maybe the question could be how is your well-being on a scale of 1-10