You Never Can Tell with Nuts

I have testicular cancer, which, on one hand, kind of sucks, but on the other hand, at least I have something new to blog about.

I discovered something was amiss a few days ago in the shower when I noticed the right fella had become a bit firm and enlarged. At first, I thought that was pretty neat -- growing an actual pair of enormous, manly, Paul Bunyan-esque stones. (I would never miss another clutch jump shot again, and maybe, just maybe, I would finally be man enough to carry two 24 packs of Coke and Emma from the van to the house at the same time -- as it stands, I'm close, though she definitely needs to learn to balance better.)

But the Jilb, God bless her, convinced me to see a doctor. I went to the clinic this morning, and they sent me to Fargo, and there I had an ultrasound, had some blood taken, ate at Arby's, bought a pair of blue jeans (excellent shopping in Fargo), and found out I had cancer -- which wasn't so neat. (You already know the severity of my reaction. I was so distraught I ate at Arby's.)

I have surgery on Tuesday. They're taking away the right fella. Prayers, of course, are welcome and appreciated.

Going to the waiting room and telling the Jilb was the hardest part.

"It's cancer," I said.

She cried. After a while she quietly exhaled, "Wow."

"Yeah," I said. "Wow."

We held hands for a moment, looking at each other, looking down again, looking at little Emma in the car seat and wondering what the future held. I grasped my wife's hand even tighter and caught her gaze.

"Can I get an X-Box 360?"

"No."

"Dang. Worth a shot."

After all, things aren't changing that much.