matthearn.com

What with Hearnwife and I having a baby, the following topic frequently comes up in conversation: “Dude, so like, are you gonna pass out during the delivery or something? Ha ha!”

The reason for this is that I have a bit of a history when it comes to medical activities on the, um, Area, as my sister likes to call it. It first manifested itself in the 7th grade, when during Health class we were discussing the fact that occasionally little boys’ testicles do not naturally drop as they grow out of their early years, and sometimes require surgery.

I calmly raised my hand to tell the teacher I felt queasy, and then I remember dreaming about trains and waking up on the floor of the classroom with Ms. Kupchick and her righteous mullet hovering over me with a look of abject terror on her face. I did get to miss a couple days of school over it, and then most of another day next week when I got to go to the hospital and have an EEG to ensure that I hadn’t had a seizure of some kind. It was all very interesting at the time, although to be honest it didn’t even occur to me until just now how terrifying it must have been for my parents. So, uh, sorry about that, Mom and Dad. My bad!

A few days later I went back to health class and didn’t even make it to my seat before the simple act of returning to the scene of the crime caused me to go down like a lump. The rest of that term, I spent health class in the library. I think I may have been required to do some kind of research project to make up for the fact that I was going to miss a significant portion of required subject-matter, but I don’t remember much about it aside from the fact that I can virtually guarantee it didn’t involve the subject of testicular surgery. (Even typing the words now, roughly 15 years later, makes me have to close my eyes tight and take deep breaths for a moment.)

The following year, I went into Health class with a certain amount of trepidation, but luckily there was no discussion of nad slicing. There was however, much discussion of what childbirth was all about. Honestly, it didn’t really bother me too bad, until the day that the teacher said “Hey, we’re gonna watch a video of a delivery!” She then turned off the lights and rolled the TV over, right in front of me (I was in the second row of seats), and hit play.

We didn’t even get through the credits before I was on the floor.

That year, I spent just a few weeks going to the library during period three, and was able to return to Health class after the reproductive unit of instruction was complete.

In high school, the situation seemed to largely have rectified itself. There were two cases in which I did actually pass out in high school: in health class, in which I think we were discussing my usual favorite topic; I just went to sleep on my desk and nobody even noticed, and I just woke up at the end of class when the bell rang; and in biology. I don’t remember what Mr. Twilley had been discussing, but I know I hadn’t eaten all day. On the way out after class was done I slumped against the wall and slowly eased my way onto the floor. I didn’t even get sent home afterwards, since I just had one class left, and it was in the band room, my usual safe haven of misbehavior.

In college, I majored in music and computers, two subjects that tend to steer away from the discussion of genitalia, so I was pretty much safe.

Sarah and I were having difficulties getting pregnant, however; we’d been trying for over a year, with no luck. Sarah went to see her doctor, who poked and prodded (ew) and reported that everything was fine. Either we just hadn’t gotten lucky yet, or something was wrong with ME.

Well, this affront to my manhood was going to be disproven, dammit, even if I did have to have my nads examined by a doctor. So I steeled up my courage and had Sarah drive me to a very nice specialist in Male Fertility. He had me drop my drawers and copped a lengthy feel, which was definitely FAR more detailed than anything my Primary Care Physician had done, and which caused me to have to sit down, screw my eyes shut tight, and take some deep breaths.

Then he began discussing some things that he had felt that might be problematic, and my having sat down came in handy, because my head flopped back and my tongue lolled out. I obviously don’t remember much, except that I vaguely recall dreaming about something that was so horribly terrifying that when I woke up, Sarah said my entire body tensed like a flexing body builder. She had caught my head to keep it from breaking the window behind me (my noggin has some serious destructive power, along with several orbiting satellites), and the doctor had put my feet up on the examination table to rush some bloodflow to my head.

Now, in my defense, I had given blood that morning. And I stupidly hadn’t eaten anything aside from the silly cookies they give you afterwards. So I was probably low on iron, or hemoglobins, or something that prevents you from looking like a big wuss. But still, the only thing that kept me from crying like a little girl was the knowledge that the doctor’s visit had turned out to be largely unnecessary; we had found out just that morning that Sarah was finally knocked up.

Anyway, you can imagine my friends’ and family’s dismay at the very strong possibility that I won’t even get two steps into the delivery room before I faceplant into an instrument tray and have to have a speculum removed from around my eyeball.

Tomorrow: my plan to alleviate the rather bizarre issue I face.