Kittyhawk
Established Member
A lot of years ago I assisted a neighbour in yarding a mob of cattle for TB testing.
I recollect him as being a contemplative sort of man and as he surveyed his penned cows in typical farmer fashion, leaning his arms on the fence railing, one foot up on the bottom stile and chomping on a stalk of paspallum that he'd pulled up from somewhere, he began espousing the opinion that cows could be unpredictable at times with a principal governing modus operandi of desiring to cause the maximum amount of consternation and distress to the farmer with the minimal amount of inconvenience to itself.
This opinion became relevant to me shortly thereafter when one of the animals determined my position astern of her with precision and let fly with a hoof which caught me dead centre on my manly equipment, lifting me off the ground and propelling me several feet backward. 'Yep,' he said eyeing my prostrate form with interest and spitting out a wad of grass. 'That'll be Rosie. She does that now and then..'
I'm sorry if reading this brings tears to your eyes. At the time it did me as well.
And that's why I was recently sat in a surgeon's office listening to his explanation as to why the increasing levels of discomfort I was experiencing could be traced back to that earlier trauma, the resultant scar tissue from the injury restricting the blood flow to one testicle to the point where it had atrophied to the size of a peanut rattling around inside the scrotum. A condition, he said, known as a 'bell clapper.'
Well I know that my sense of humour is a bit off centre and I have the unfortunate tendency to burst out laughing at inappropriate moments and this bell clapper term was totally clutching the sides rolling around the floor in hysterical laughter material, made worse by the sight of the surgeon, an unsmiling po faced man impatiently tapping his desk top with a pencil and looking pointedly at his wall clock which in turn prompted me to even higher degrees of impropriety. 'No no, that's not your clock...that's just my testicles you can hear clanging..12 o'clock, ding dong ding dong...' Just then his nurse or secretary or whatever she was knocked and entered, presumably to see what all the fuss was about. 'Reschedule the patient's consult for after lunch,' he said to her. 'When he's more composed.'
So now a week later I'm in the recovery ward. The surgeon stopped by this morning with a gaggle of interns in tow. Pausing at my bed he gave them a brief resume of the original trauma, the resultant tissue degregation and an account of how on the preceding day he had performed open surgery to remove the testicle and repair other related damage within the abdominal cavity. Then, deigning to acknowledge my disreputable presence, 'and how are we today?' 'We are fine', I replied in my best imitation high pitched squeaky voice, 'but I can't speak for the one of us you chopped off..' This got a restrained chuckle from a couple of the students, quickly stifled by a frosty glare from the surgeon and with a 'harrumph' and a distasteful glance in my direction he and his retinue moved along. Some people just dont know how to get a laugh out of life.
Hopefully they will let me out pretty soon. In the meantime all I can do is lie here totally bored out of my brain with nothing to do which is why I'm writing this account - something to do to pass the time. And also to contemplate the great irony of the situation. Since the original mishap I have always subconsciously kept a cupped had on standby ready to protect my precious equipment against any perceived threat of injury or harm only to end up having to fork out somewhere around 11 grand for the dubious pleasure of having it cut off.
I'll get a laugh out of that as well but not today. It's a bit too sore for that just at the moment.
I recollect him as being a contemplative sort of man and as he surveyed his penned cows in typical farmer fashion, leaning his arms on the fence railing, one foot up on the bottom stile and chomping on a stalk of paspallum that he'd pulled up from somewhere, he began espousing the opinion that cows could be unpredictable at times with a principal governing modus operandi of desiring to cause the maximum amount of consternation and distress to the farmer with the minimal amount of inconvenience to itself.
This opinion became relevant to me shortly thereafter when one of the animals determined my position astern of her with precision and let fly with a hoof which caught me dead centre on my manly equipment, lifting me off the ground and propelling me several feet backward. 'Yep,' he said eyeing my prostrate form with interest and spitting out a wad of grass. 'That'll be Rosie. She does that now and then..'
I'm sorry if reading this brings tears to your eyes. At the time it did me as well.
And that's why I was recently sat in a surgeon's office listening to his explanation as to why the increasing levels of discomfort I was experiencing could be traced back to that earlier trauma, the resultant scar tissue from the injury restricting the blood flow to one testicle to the point where it had atrophied to the size of a peanut rattling around inside the scrotum. A condition, he said, known as a 'bell clapper.'
Well I know that my sense of humour is a bit off centre and I have the unfortunate tendency to burst out laughing at inappropriate moments and this bell clapper term was totally clutching the sides rolling around the floor in hysterical laughter material, made worse by the sight of the surgeon, an unsmiling po faced man impatiently tapping his desk top with a pencil and looking pointedly at his wall clock which in turn prompted me to even higher degrees of impropriety. 'No no, that's not your clock...that's just my testicles you can hear clanging..12 o'clock, ding dong ding dong...' Just then his nurse or secretary or whatever she was knocked and entered, presumably to see what all the fuss was about. 'Reschedule the patient's consult for after lunch,' he said to her. 'When he's more composed.'
So now a week later I'm in the recovery ward. The surgeon stopped by this morning with a gaggle of interns in tow. Pausing at my bed he gave them a brief resume of the original trauma, the resultant tissue degregation and an account of how on the preceding day he had performed open surgery to remove the testicle and repair other related damage within the abdominal cavity. Then, deigning to acknowledge my disreputable presence, 'and how are we today?' 'We are fine', I replied in my best imitation high pitched squeaky voice, 'but I can't speak for the one of us you chopped off..' This got a restrained chuckle from a couple of the students, quickly stifled by a frosty glare from the surgeon and with a 'harrumph' and a distasteful glance in my direction he and his retinue moved along. Some people just dont know how to get a laugh out of life.
Hopefully they will let me out pretty soon. In the meantime all I can do is lie here totally bored out of my brain with nothing to do which is why I'm writing this account - something to do to pass the time. And also to contemplate the great irony of the situation. Since the original mishap I have always subconsciously kept a cupped had on standby ready to protect my precious equipment against any perceived threat of injury or harm only to end up having to fork out somewhere around 11 grand for the dubious pleasure of having it cut off.
I'll get a laugh out of that as well but not today. It's a bit too sore for that just at the moment.
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