Under the knife, both attempts.

The morning of my deconjoining, or as the doctors less dramatically call it, "orchidectomy", wasn't the easiest morning I've ever had, like with cannulas, I'm not the best with being spliced open, but needs must to avoid dying.

I was ushered through to the day surgery unit, one of the first to go through, what a result! I sat with my nerves, pulled up my stockings and waited my turn. Boredom has never been my strong point so I made the use of my electric recliner chair, raised it to the roof and was promptly told off by a nurse for doing so.

That, was about as fun as my day was going to get. I was left, uninformed and nil by mouth for 16 hours that day, then told me they were running late and I wasn't going to be seen. I was given a super cheap, egg sandwiches and two small cups of water for my troubles. I wasn't best pleased and to make things worse, on the way out of the hospital YANK! That excruciating pain reared its ugly head again, this time I couldn't walk it off, I felt sick for the rest of the day and some of the next.  It was this pain that decided me to opt out of having a prosthetic ball put in,  I was so fed up of pain and discomfort down there, and the fake ones don't come without any risk so I decided not to have it.

Two days later I returned to the hospital, my life slowly emulating Groundhog Day only with more scrubs. I bagged my nerves up and got ready for the impeding doom that was the surgery. I sat in the waiting room only to be forgotten once again. The surgeon had to come and get me himself and demand I was seen first after my cancellation a few days before. I had no time to sit around and wait, I was ushered straight into a surgical gown, I decided not to wear the paper pants they provide to protect my dignity, they were going to see it all anyway. I then went down to be anaesthetised. My veins decided this was the best time to do a runner so multiple attempts at sticking a cannula in followed, I was pretty scared, I had visions of complications, but I always had been a worrier. I drifted of to sleep staring at the clock, it was 09:02.

Elation! I was alive! I'd made it through surgery! I still remember the sheer joy of coming round, to make things even better, I had a slightly low temperature so I was under a big duvet being pumped with warm air. The Surgeon came round to see me, he said as it had got so big it was a bit of a struggle to get out. They had also scanned me and couldn't find any signs on any cancer anywhere else. The combination of morphine, warmth and joy was next to none, the anaesthetic was having a bit of a laugh with me too, I was so happy I just wanted to wave at everyone, it was bloody brilliant.

I went home after I'd proved to the nurses my bladder still worked, that's standard procedure, I didn't wet myself or anything. My dad wheeled me around the hospital in a chair which was pretty novel, we looked like a right pair. He then had the joy of driving me the 60 odd miles back to the South coast. The pain wasn't too bad, I managed to control it with the 3 over the counter pain killers they provided. I did lose some dignity though, being unable to put my own socks on or do up my trousers was a bit limiting, but luckily my girlfriend took to the role of carer like a pro.

During all this time I was never really concerned about becoming one third eunuch, losing a testicle didn't really bother me, I guess that was mainly because the bastard was trying to kill me, I didn't feel less of a man, or have any hook ups with it, like most things in our body, we only need one to get by, we just have two should these situations occur.

It took a few weeks to fully recover, I suffered none of the nerve damage they warn you about or any other side effects. I've a nice little scar for my efforts, one that I wont show you a picture of, you don't deserve that, it sits just a few inches to the lower right of my belly button.