Shrinking Balls

Shrinking Balls

I get a phone call from the school secretary whom everybody deferentially calls Mrs. Pearson. She is the gate-keeper at my son’s primary school. Nothing escapes her attention. Her job is to ensure that the school runs smoothly and to keep the unruly barbarians, us the parents at the gate where we belong, anxiously waiting to catch a glimpse every day of our precious off-spring.

My phone rings and shatters my mid-morning stupor. I recognise the number and I know exactly what comes next. “Hello Mr Ayiotis, sorry to bother you, Heather here. Your son is in the sick bay again. Could you please come and collect him? He’s not feeling well” I demur obediently and tell her I’m on my way.

My plans for the day are well and truly scuppered. My son looks fine. His cheeks are rosy and as we walk back to the car he makes the time to smile and call out to the school dog, a friendly blonde Labrador called Max. I remind myself not to be annoyed and to be gentle with him just like his mother would be. He complains of continued stomach cramps. They started on Friday morning during school, miraculously disappeared on Saturday and Sunday and mysteriously reappeared again on Monday morning. The week had not started on a good note. I should have stayed in bed this morning and refused to play house.

I cross-examine young Stelios and after lengthy probing and a process of elimination I am none the wiser. No fever, no sore throat, no diarrhoea. The cramps have now flared up again, are intermittent and severe but are now accompanied by nausea and headaches. I am alarmed and immediately think that extreme water contamination has caused some dreadful disease. After years of professional experience gleaned from reading women’s magazines on the lavatory, my initial diagnosis is acute scholastic tummy bug syndrome with a twist of whimsy, but I take no chances. A general and long overdue check-up from head to toe will do no harm and will reassure me. I immediately book a slot and take him to a no-nonsense female GP who runs a paediatric practice.

Stelios gets a thorough medical and after checking his ears and his tonsils, she takes her stethoscope to his chest and back. During this procedure he gets to keep his school shirt on which I think is very considerate of her. She then feels his stomach with hands that can see and after testing his urine, the good doctor concludes that it’s not hepatitis, it’s not diabetes and it’s not appendicitis. I’m thinking lady, enough with all the nots. Get to the punchline. Get to the essentials. Who taught you to communicate? I am desperately waiting to hear good news and I need it fast. Cut to the chase. They should teach doctors at medical school to deliver the good news first and then launch into lengthy clinical and incomprehensible analysis of the results. All patients want to hear is the following re-assuring words: “It’s not serious, you are going to live.”

Eventually after what feels like a lifetime she utters the words I want to hear. It’s relatively good news. It turns out it is nothing other than a seasonal stomach bug. She prescribes Buscopayne and probiotics. I am grateful and relieved. Stelios is delighted that he doesn’t have diabetes. Her advice is no dairy or spicy food for a few days. He needs to drink lots of fluids and I need a stiff drink. We’re driving back after our consultation. I’m deep in thought racing through a mental check-list of what I need to buy at Woolies and what I’m going to cook for supper. Let’s forego pizza and go healthy today, I decide. Baby carrots and organic long-stemmed broccoli sautéed in olive oil with some form of protein should do the trick. I decide on crumbed east coast soles. They’re easy to prepare and quick and can all be cooked in the same pan in under 15 minutes.

The words that next come out of my son’s mouth shatter my peace of mind and my composure.

“Dad, my balls are shrinking!” he utters with a very concerned look on his face.

I take a deep breath and grip the steering wheel a bit tighter. I try to hide the panic in my voice. We’ve just averted one potential medical emergency, what now?

In a slow and measured tone I calmly enquire: “What do you mean your balls are shrinking? How do you know they are shrinking?”

“Because they’re smaller than they were two days ago,” he replies matter of factly.

This is all I need in my complicated domestic arrangements right now and we haven’t even reached puberty yet. My mind thinks of all the dreadful possibilities. There must be some disease out there that afflicts your gonads. Under-developed testicles? Miniature testicles? The Greeks must have some name for it. I wrack my fevered brain. It must be something to do with orchidia, the ancient Greek word for testicles and for the flower that goes by the same name on account of its unusual tubular shape.

Now I’m a very worried man. I have an instant dread-filled knot in my stomach. I need more facts so I start another interrogation.

“Are you sure they’re smaller?” I ask him.

He replies with an emphatic and impatient, “Yes dad! At first they looked OK in the water, but when I looked at them again they looked smaller.”

“Well”, I reassure him, “things look much bigger in hot bath water.”

“But Dad, my balls were in cold water!”

Cold water I think. What the hell was he doing dunking his balls in cold water. He must be missing his mother and trying to toughen up or is this some kind of bizarre science experiment.

“OK” I reply relieved, “that explains things then. That’s perfectly normal my boy. Things tend to shrink in cold water.”

“But dad, they’re not supposed to look that small! They’re supposed to grow bigger each day.”

“Bigger each day? You’re only ten! Who told you that crap? Some idiot at school?”

“They’re not idiot’s dad, they’re my friends and they told me that if I put my balls in cold water they’ll grow bigger every day.”

Now I’ve heard a lot of weird and wonderful things in my life but this was a new one. I’ve heard of wet towel lifting exercises and I’ve heard of Sudanese tribesmen tying string and rocks to the tips of their manhood to stretch their willies, but this one was completely new and very disturbing.

“I’ll have a look at them when we get home.” I tell him.

“Thanks dad”, comes the relieved reply.

I have one final question that bothers me: “But my boy, why on earth didn’t you mention this to the doctor when we were there?” I enquire of him.

“No dad! Don’t be silly! I’m talking about my balls not my nuts! You know those squidgy balls that Dario gave me that grow in water and make babies when you feed them sugar. And they only like white sugar otherwise they don’t grow.”

“Oh, those balls.” I’m laughing now as we get to Woolies, the tension immediately easing out of my body. I can breathe normally again but I still need that drink. “You really had me worried there my boy.”

I feel like a complete idiot. All is well. The crown jewels are just fine. I’m a relieved and happy man again. All I now have to worry about is the evils of sugar.

Costas Ayiotis
August 2008
Hout Bay