Peanut Butter Balls

Let’s be honest…all anybody wants to hear is the stories about genitals. And I have plenty, but let’s start with the boys.  Testicles are amazing things.  They alone are responsible for the continuation of mankind.  Or is it the ovaries and uterus?  Chicken or the egg?  For the sake of large egos (and testicles) we’ll say that without testicles, the world could not continue.  And what a big responsibility that is to have!  And so vulnerable! Naturally something with that large of a responsibility would have evolved an excellent means of self preservation.  Enter the cremaster muscles.  They contract and relax (to temperature as Lay are mostly familiar with) so that the testicles may draw closer or hang farther away from the body so as to regulate temperature.  Think chilly mornings or hot tubs.  Those sperm are such picky things, they can’t handle the truth! heat…or the cold! (But take a vagina, in the words of Betty White, that can “take a pounding” and still get up the next morning).

Generally as men grow older, their testicles prefer to hang lower.  LIke breasts or jowls I suppose.  They just say, “screw it, we’re gonna do what we want! And we want to relax and hang out!” Skin and connective tissue just isn’t what it once was.  Damn.  Often they peskily get in the way, as in this story I like to call “Peanut Butter Balls”.  Hopefully you’ll still want to eat creamy peanut butter after reading this.  Sorry Jiffy.

Folks often get diarrhea in the hospital.  The food, C.diff, tube feeding, antibiotics, stress etc. can all contribute to what we in the field call “loose bowels” in front of anyone deserving a certain level of professionalism, or what I like to casually call “butt pee” or “hershey squirts”  thanks to a lovely girlfriend in college who always described her hangover induced irritable bowels the following morning.  I would say, among a few select things (stupidity, low pain tolerance, elevated blood alcohol levels, annoying family members, heroin withdrawals, hair falling out on the linens and arrogant Residents), that diarrhea is one of my least favorite things.  (Make a song for that, Julie Andrews!)  I hate it.  It’s a pain in the ass* not only for the person urgently expelling it, but for my nurse’s aide and I who are cleaning it up.  It has a mind of its own, and I believe it choses to rage at the most inopportune times: physician rounding, communion, mealtimes, perineal dressing changes etc.

If we catch it in time, it’s a wonderful life.  Otherwise its a “code brown” in bed or a nice little explosive brown path from the bed to the bathroom.  As it was in this story.  Little Old Man (LOM) had an urgent need thanks to a left lower lobe pneumonia and a hefty dose of Levaquin, and my aide helped him to a commode chair (lovely, sexy things) while I stood outside preparing his meal of pills.  I waited for a few minutes until I thought they were done.  Then I threw open the curtains (relax all you “privacy/dignity” criers-the door was closed) to see him squatting and hovering over the commode chair with his relaxed old cremaster muscles and giant saggy testicles having just hung low enough to dip their lower half into the 3/4 full commode pan.  Such was the color and consistency of his bowel movement that at that very moment in time I couldn’t help but compare his testicles to a Christmas chocolate delicacy my mom makes, lovingly dipped in peanut butter and then laid out to dry on a rack to be later devoured by my brother and I.  Yum.  The vision is burned onto my retinas.  Among others.  Peanut Butter Dipped Balls.  PBDB.  I may never eat Mom’s chocolate delicacies again.


*no pun intended!