Balls Read online

  Between the brown examination table and hazardous material box and jars of syringes, Martz pulled off his gloves. He didn’t answer Henry’s question, but told him to dress. Anxiously rubbing his mouth with thumb and forefinger he remained silent, his light eyes flickering, his face tense and searching. He said, Henry, I want you to listen to me. I’m not going to tell you to worry just yet.

  You’re not?

  No. I want to give a call over to Dr. Glen Dahl. He’s a urologist on East 74th Street. You’ll see him today.

  I’ll go there this minute?

  Exactly.

  Martz placed his hand firmly on Henry’s shoulder. Staring into his patient’s eyes, he said, We don’t know what this is. It could be nothing. So please, Henry, try and be calm.

  Try and be calm? said Henry, to himself. But how?

  It was forty minutes later and he was in his second examination room of the day, this one at the Park Avenue offices of Dr. Glen Dahl. In a blue gown left open at the back he paced the cool, metallic room. The air conditioning was degrees colder here than at Martz’s and Henry, still damp from the rain, was shivering. He had arrived by taxi. But on the way over he’d already begun to feel that he was being had. These doctors were using fear to ensnare him. He was their victim, he and others. They threw you into these trials and what could you do but follow their orders, paying at each stop along the way. Thank god for George. His father’s brother owned a car dealership up in Yonkers. Three year ago he’d put Henry on payroll so as to provide him with medical insurance (albeit illegally). Henry couldn’t afford to be here otherwise.

  The room was small and gloomy, and the furniture—an examination table, a wooden coat stand, a red felt upholstered chair and metal file cabinet—struck him as old. The mahogany cupboard storing medical supplies was also an outdated model. But where had Martz sent him? Who was this doctor that couldn’t keep up with the times and present the newest designs? His lips fluttering, Henry’s attention shifted to the medical literature tacked to the walls. His hand on his brow, as if anticipating pain there, he began to read about infections of the epididymis, torsions of the testicle, the TSE:

  Testicular Self-Examination:

  1. Place thumb atop testicle; the index and middle fingers below.

  2. Roll the testicle back and forth.

  3. Be aware of any changes to your testicle, of size or shape, or if any lumps or swelling have occurred.

  4. A healthy testicle is egg-shaped, firm, yet smooth

  5. Lastly, check the epididymis, attached to the top and back of the testicle. It’s tube-like in shape. Be aware of any changes to the epididymis.

  Be aware of any what?

  Terrified, he said, But I can’t do it. I can’t.

  Then he heard behind him the metal click of the door, and jumped—there was Dr. Dahl coming forward to shake his hand.

  Henry Schiller?

  Yes, he said.

  You were sent here by Martz?

  I was.

  Wasting no time, Henry explained to Dahl that he’d found a growth on his testicle. The doctor, nodding his head, asked Henry how long ago this was.

  A couple weeks, said Henry.

  Okay.

  But I could be wrong. It might have been longer. I mean, I don’t know.

  All right. Don’t worry, Henry.

  Dr. Dahl was in his late sixties and appeared in good health. Tall, thin and strong, with a wide forehead which rose above thick eyebrows, he could give up urology today and go into commercials. His honest face and full head of gray hair would sell drugs for enlarged prostates and erectile dysfunction, diet drinks, golf magazines, multivitamins, too. But that didn’t mean Henry would lay back and let himself be taken advantage of. Not a chance, said Henry, to himself. He was ready to defend against any ploys. The doctor asked him to stand up straight. Henry did as he was told. With his right hand Dahl started to walk his fingers across the surface of Henry’s testicles. Unlike Martz, Dahl didn’t wear a glove. His fingers were cold, the tips coarse. He apologized before squeezing, he knew this was unpleasant, it had to be done.

  I understand, said Henry. I’m okay.

  However, he was losing the strength to stay up, and to himself he was saying, Oh, fuck me, god.

  Dahl continued to feel about Henry’s left testicle. He was slow and delicate, precise. After another twenty seconds, in the doctor’s eyes appeared a look of grim discovery. Henry caught it, and asked if everything was all right. Dahl didn’t say, but instructed him to lie down on the padded table.

  We’re almost done here, he told Henry. Just hang on.

  Feeling the doctor’s long fingers seize the tumor, Henry swallowed hard. His mood swung lower. Measuring his tone for spite—in his vulnerable position, he didn’t want to come off rude and offend the man—he said, So, how is it, doctor?

  Dahl wasn’t finished, the tumor was still between his fingers and he was applying pressure there, his face close to Henry’s testicles.

  Is it very bad? said Henry.

  The doctor was touching Henry’s forearm with his free hand. His fingers held him tightly there, to the point of pain. He then released Henry’s testicles. With lips pursed, he looked blankly at the patient, not saying anything. Finally, he told him, I want you to dress and meet me in my office. Take your time.

  Your office? Dr. Dahl, whatever this is, you can tell me here.

  Yet Dahl said, Henry, just come next door to my office, and he left the room.

  A minute later Henry was seated at a large glass desk looking out through a window facing Park Avenue where the rain still came down hard. Positioned across from him in a brown leather chair was Dahl. The warm, sympathetic voice he was using to explain the likeliness that Henry had cancer of the testicles could not be taught at college. This was real compassion. Henry thought so. But what was this next part about? He would have to undergo a scrotal ultrasound? If a tumor were discovered, blood work and radiography would be used to determine the stage of the cancer? The rest would be known once pathology results on the testicle came in?

  Dahl was apologizing. I really am sorry, Henry. Do you want to take a moment?

  But Henry, numb from the shoulders down, was unable to speak. There was a low buzzing in his head. He felt tightness in his throat, his groin. Looking up at the doctor, trying to answer him, he choked back his words. At last, what came out was:

  Just tell me what I do?—and he coughed so that his shoulders curled inward.

  Dahl said, If the ultrasound shows that it is cancer, we’ll have to perform an orchiectomy.

  Which means what?

  It means that the testicle would be removed, Henry.

  For good? he cried.

  Yes, for good.

  Henry’s head slumped forward. With a pleading look he asked why the doctor couldn’t just clean the testicle and put it back where he found it.

  No, I’m sorry to say we don’t do that, Henry.

  Why not? he shouted.

  Dahl crossed his arms, and gazing sadly at Henry, he said, Because the testicle is not good anymore.

  Leaning forward between his knees, Henry let out a scream. Dahl got up, offering him water. But Henry said no, he didn’t want to drink anything. He was fine.

  I’m fine, he said. Though he looked like he might faint, and his eyes were closing. So what, you’re saying my testicle is gone—gone for good?

  If the ultrasound shows signs of a cancerous tumor, I’m afraid so, Dahl said. I’m very sorry, Henry. I’m really very sorry.

  Oh—fuck.

  His large hands patting down the air around him, the doctor said, I have to tell you quite often, Henry, Henry quite often, depending on the stage of the cancer, recovery happens at a very, very high rate. Which is good news. You’ll still have your life.

  But why couldn’t I have never been b
orn in the first place? said Henry, to himself. He slapped his hands to the table, standing. I can’t believe it, he said. I knew it was going to be cancer, I did. But to hear you say it, it’s just, it’s—

  Do you need a moment? the doctor asked again.

  No, I’m fine, I’m fine. He returned to his chair. The doctor was speaking, but Henry, collapsing mentally, couldn’t hear him. He interrupted Dahl, blurted out:

  What about sex?

  The doctor said, Henry, in most circumstances the healthy testicle compensates with good results. Likely you’ll still be able to produce sperm and sexually little if any changes will occur. This will all depend on a few specifics, for instance, the stage of the cancer, whether it’s been caught early and can be treated without chemotherapy, as well as a whole list of variables that we shouldn’t get swept up in now. But I’m sure you’ll be able to have many, many, children.

  Many children? said Henry.

  Here, Dahl told him they shouldn’t get too far ahead of themselves. Let’s see what the ultrasound looks like. We’ll set up an appointment for tomorrow morning.

  Henry gave the doctor a strange look with the eyes unfocused and the mouth stretched wide. He said, I have to be at my girlfriend’s graduation at ten. I can’t miss it.

  You might have to.

  Henry told Dahl he’d rather postpone the ultrasound than not be at Paula’s graduation.

  Postpone? Dahl said he was risking his life with every day he waited. I’m sure your girlfriend will understand.

  Can you schedule the ultrasound for early in the morning?

  I could try.

  It’s very important I be there. This is a special time in a person’s life.

  Dahl, nonplussed, said, I’ll see what I can do. I can’t make any promises. But you need to have that ultrasound, Henry.

  I will.

  Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow, Henry assured him.

  So children. Many children. That was the purpose of his testicles—to give life. However, Nature was pulling him out of the pool, giving him a tap on the shoulder, saying, YOU. Not your sperm. Grab a towel and get on the side.

  Henry, stumbling with a half-broken mind from Dahl’s office out onto Park Avenue, knew this had to do with more than just reproduction, though. This, he shuddered, is a matter of life and death.

  Besides, as far as reproduction went, Nature didn’t work that way. Or did She? Did She? But how did Nature work when she worked like this? And was it Nature that had done this to him, or, was it something else? Something I did in the past to harm myself?

  The rain had stopped and Henry looked south to the top of the MetLife Building where the sun poking through white clouds shone bright. In the path of a warm June breeze he recalled a time when the MetLife sign had read PANAM and he was young, healthy, mischievous, free. He could plead and protest with a great freedom of mind, he could fantasize about the impossible, he could even fear God.

  But what did I do? said Henry, to himself. How did I ruin my testicle?

  Thinking back through the apartments in which he’d lived, those uptown and downtown, on the East Side and West, on no block did he see a power plant or chemical refinery, a garbage facility or telephone company which might have housed cancer-giving toxins. He ate well, lots of fruits and vegetables, drank moderately, smoked only on rare occasions. His coffee intake could be very high. But what did that mean about his testicles? Perhaps this was the result of stress.

  It was true, six years ago, in the autumn of 2004, Henry did begin to suffer an odd condition. He didn’t feel right, he was off, his equilibrium askew, his vision gray. He saw the world as if a filter had been slipped over his eyes. He thought he was dying, but he went to doctors and they told him he was fine, a strong and healthy young man. Try not eating salt, suggested one neurologist, it could be that you have high blood pressure. For three months Henry hardly ingested salt. His state didn’t improve. (He could kill that doctor.) But he let another doctor scan his brain and yet another peer into his ears, his chest and liver, too. Nothing explained his symptoms. An ophthalmologist outfitted him in a pair of wire-rimmed specs, but the dizziness persisted. Because his vision was fine, the world was in focus, it was the color, the tint and vibrancy which appeared unlike it had in his first twenty-four years of life.

  He was earning money teaching piano to children, but he could barely get through a lesson. The filter strained his energies. At home his writing was suffering. Fragmented parts which he couldn’t expand into whole songs, he had more of these than he knew what to do with. For the first time ever his mind was too clouded to make sense out of notes. His frustration mounted. It became too painful to sit at the piano. He even covered the instrument in a white tablecloth, the sight of it was cutting away at whatever good judgment remained in him. He began to think and behave in other odd ways, too. For instance, he’d written in black marker on his refrigerator a statement about his body, that it must be functioning according to its age:

  For why did I ever think that I’d feel physically well through my twenties when a time existed not long ago in the long history of humankind when thirty—not eighty—was considered old age? Why wouldn’t I be breaking down at twenty-four? This is normal. The body changes. It weakens. It chips. It fractures and fails. Don’t fret. Don’t cry about it. But accept and move on. This is life.

  Every day Henry feasted on new platitudes, and for a while he bought into them, too. Along the edge of his desk he’d scrawled in blue ink:

  Visual filters are a physical reality faced by all people everywhere. No two people see the world alike. We all have our own filter. And mine is gray in tone. So there it is.

  One rationale after another refracted through him until his second year of dizziness when he descended further into depression. His piano remained covered in a sheet. He’d stopped giving lessons and was working concession at a movie theater downtown. The fear of spending the rest of his life in a vertiginous state had him considering suicide. To live sixty more years perhaps, just like this.

  I’ll never make it, thought Henry.

  Riding the subway one afternoon he ran into an old friend, Whitney Shields, the clarinetist. Whitney was twice Henry’s age. The nose on his tender face was long and narrow with a complex, ridged tip. His large brown eyes were full of knowledge. At the sight of him, Henry’s guard lowered and he told Whitney about his dizziness.

  Brother, he said, to Henry, it sounds to me like you need help.

  You’re probably right. It’s hard for me to admit, but I think I do.

  You ever tried a shrink?

  I haven’t.

  I tell you, they’ve pulled me out of a few slumps.

  Henry called Martz to ask for a referral. He suggested a psychiatrist, Penelope Andrews, on the West Side. Martz didn’t know her personally, but had heard good things. Henry contacted her at once. Just minutes into their conversation, in a soft, unhurried tone, she’d told him he sounded troubled. Henry had felt grossly misjudged. How could she know so much about him? Was she a psychiatrist or a psychic? He considered canceling his appointment. But desperate to feel better, he showed up at the scheduled time. Indeed, many of the doubts he’d had about coming were soon quashed by the doctor’s long, smooth, un-stockinged legs which crossed before him during their first session. She wore a short dress of a kind of powder blue color. Hers was a full bosom and she had the sort of fleshy stomach which made Henry want to grab on. Brown wavy hair hung past her shoulders. Greeting him at the door to her office on West 81st Street, her mouth, full and red, had smiled at Henry.

  He’d said, Nice to meet you, doctor.

  And she’d told him, Please, call me Penelope.

  Before sitting Henry had looked around the room. Would he be open with his thoughts here? The brown wall to wall carpeting was oppressive. The drawn curtains sealed them into a semi-darkness, which affect
ed him like a soporific. The dark wood shelves and thick medical volumes were stifling. He found a number of things to complain about. But sitting across from Dr. Andrews, his energy, his spirit, returned. Oh, she was something to look at. She was beautiful.

  During the first half-hour Henry spoke about his condition, when it began, why he believed it had. He told her of his struggles with music. But he wanted her to talk. He knew his own thoughts, and was tired of them. However, not until the end of the session did she say much of anything. With Henry’s throat dry from speech, in the sleep-inducing light, Dr. Andrews, who had exceptional calves, gazed sideways at her patient and said to him:

  Henry, you remind me of a man who came to see me about a month after 9/11. He was maybe ten years older than you. He’d worked in the north tower. Or was it the south? She touched her forefinger to her lips and said, I don’t remember. But the first things he complained of were symptoms just like those you’re describing: Dizziness. Filter. Exhaustion. Trouble working. Depression. I diagnosed him with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He’d been through something which had shocked his whole system: Getting out of that building alive, losing friends, watching it all happen again and again on the television—he fell apart. But I’m left to wonder, Henry…were you here on 9/11?

  Henry’s neck lengthened, his eyes shut. He wasn’t sure how any of this was relevant. But he was not the expert. Shifting forward in his chair, he said:

  I was on my roof. I’d been living downtown.

  Did you see the towers fall?

  I did.

  And how did you feel afterwards?

  How did I feel? Like anyone else, said Henry, I suppose I was shocked, afraid.

  She said, Right, then wrote something on her yellow pad. Tell me, did you experience any loss of appetite?

  No.

  Libido?

  I can’t say.

  Were you alone when it happened?

  I was, doctor.

  All alone?

  There were others on my roof.

  Friends?

  Henry gave her a cross look. As much as any neighbor in New York is a friend. I guess we did talk to each other.