The Urologist

My serum testosterone is a little on the low side. My doctor suggested I follow up with a urologist. So I went.

This post has nothing to do with “low t” or “hypogonadism” (that’s the referral diagnosis … stop laughing). What this is about is my serum PSA. PSA is “prostate-specific antigen.” It measures how healthy your prostate gland is.

Mine was healthy. Good.

“Good,” I thought. “That means he won’t have to palpate it.”

In order for a doctor to palpate your prostate gland, he must do so via the rectum which is just on the other side of  your anus. He needs to stick his finger in your ass. A fate, I’d determined, I’d avoided with a fantastic PSA result.

“Your blood work is good,” he said. “PSA is perfect. Even so, let’s do an exam.”

Whaaat?! An exam?! But … but … but … my PSA is perfect …

The next thing you know, I’m bent over the exam table with my pants around my ankle and my doctor is lubing up. So I did some math:

Let’s assume this particular doctor does five examinations each day, 5 days per week, 40 weeks per year. That means, in order to feed his family and pay for his car, he has to stick his finger into 1,000 assholes each year. At this point, I figured I win; I never have to stick my finger in anyone’s ass. Not once.

It’s thoughts like this that kept me out of the really good schools.