The doctor held my penis in his right hand for my parents to see. I was 7 and lying on the examination table at my pediatrician’s office.My right testicle was the focus. It had made a home within my groin.
I learned about these health risks when I overheard Dr. R whispering to my parents. On many nights following the visit to the doctor, I stayed up late praying to God that I would be able to have kids. I prayed that I wouldn’t get cancer.In middle school, we watched a video in health class showing the boys how to perform a testicular self-examination. The teacher passed around a synthetic model of a scrotum.
Dr. R tried a couple of more times at annual physicals to push my testicle down, when I was 9 and 10. Those tries also left me in tears. By age 13, Dr. R told me he’d make “one last try” before surgery became necessary. The appointment was scheduled for a week before my bar mitzvah. The timing felt like an ominous coincidence or the opportunity for a miracle.On the car ride to the doctor’s office for the final appointment before surgery, my father and I didn’t talk.
I avoided swimming pools after noticing that cool water pushed my right testicle upward. Doctor visits still stirred the same dread. I fixated on the slightest discomfort in my groin. An MRI in 2009 revealed a benign mass in my inguinal canal, likely from the years in which my right testicle resided there. It is the literal scar of my experience, hidden, as the condition was, from nearly everyone else.
I now understand that trauma derives a lot of its power from the shame we layer upon it. I know that one way to deprive a challenging experience of some of that power is to let others in. I know about the corrosive effects of secrecy. I had once held a different kind of secret about my sexuality from family and friends. I was fortunate to be met with affirmation each time I confided in others. But I amplified my unease for years by keeping my truth a secret.