Colorless Light
Rainier Roos


 

The light switch clicked somewhere behind me and the room went dark.
 
A sound took my sight away.
 
There was a hum, then colored dots, all green but for two blinking yellow ones, and a rectangle, possibly made of colorless light, but too faint to be considered glowing. Her footsteps made no sound, only the clatter of the rolling wheels of an approaching stool.
 
"This will be easier if you stand," she said professionally. The darkness claimed her words but not her lavender shampoo, wintergreen breath mint, or the microwaved popcorn from down the hall.
 
"It'll feel cold at first, and then warm," she said in a timbre as sweet and comforting as I needed it to be.
 
My eyes adjusted. The radiologist pushed a sequence of lighted buttons on a panel, each producing a new set of numbers and letters on the rectangle I now recognized as a monitor setting her face aglow.
 
She was right about the cold, but she should have said wet and cold, even though I would've recoiled just the same. She resumed and I looked from her face to the screen, where static arranged itself into a cone of light enveloping an ostrich egg.
 
The gelled wand was warm now, and I asked, "What are we looking at?"
 
"Your right testicle."
 
"Yes," I said, "but where...where, exactly, is...it?"
 
"That whole thing. That whole oval." She traced my giant testicle on the screen with her index finger. "Don't worry, it's magnified."
 
I'd say so.
 
"I need to reach in to get pictures from behind," she said. "My hand may make contact with your thighs, penis, scrotum or anus. Say stop if at any point you feel uncomfortable."
 
If at any point.
 
A few days later my new urologist said, "I can't rule out cancer, but it seems unlikely." He could, however, rule out a surprising number of conditions involving tubes twisted like licorice, and glands or organs that were inverted, asymmetrical, distended, engorged, or obtuse.
 
"You still have pain?"
 
Yes.
 
Are you physically active?
 
Yes.
 
How so?
 
I ran thirty-five miles last week.
 
Was that painful?
 
Yes.
 
More so than usual?
 
No.
 
I see you smoke cigarettes?
 
Yes.
 
You ran 35 miles and smoked how many packs of cigarettes?
 
Ten. Fifteen. I don’t know.
 
Have you tried to quit?
 
No.
 
Would you like support with smoking cessation?
 
No.
 
Do you masturbate?
 
Yes.
 
Excessively?
 
Excessively?
 
More than five times a day.
 
Five times a day?
 
That might be considered excessive.
 
No.
 
Are you sexually active?
 
Yes.
 
With one or more than one partner?
 
Yes.
 
Which? One or more than one?
 
One.
 
Is your partner promiscuous?
 
No.
 
Has your partner been promiscuous in the past?
 
Yes.
 
Have you and your partner been tested for HIV or other STDs?
 
Yes.
 
Have your or your partner tested positive for HIV or other STDs?
 
No.
 
Do any of the above worsen the pain?
 
No.
 
Do any of the above alleviate the pain?
 
No.
 
 
This urologist, like the two prior, returned me to my primary doctor. "I like when you come in," Dr. Metz said with an amused and familiar tone that signified a joke was forthcoming. "You're fifty years younger than my other patients."
 
He used that one the last time, so I reused my response, "A few of them are taking their afternoon nap in the waiting room." Being 9:15 a.m., he must've realized the gaff and tried a new one. "Your testes are being testy," he said, holding on to each "s" for full effect. "You know the drill."
 
"How are you doing?" Dr. Metz asked, now scratching on his prescription pad. "..with everything."
 
Fine, I said. I'm fine.
 
It's been, what...six weeks, since—?
 
Seven. Seven last Thursday.
 
Your mom...she was...she had a hard go of things.
 
I know.
 
She was one of my favorite patients. She was funny. She...doted on you.
 
I know.
 
She was so proud. Talked about you constantly. I'm very sorry. I'm sorry we couldn't—.
 
I know.
 
It wasn't your fault.
 
 
I made a small rip in the white paper covering the patient table.
 
 
You know that, right?
 
 
The emergency exit map on the door was hand-drawn by a student from the nearby middle school named Greg Morris.
 
 
There was nothing you could've done to help her.
 
 
How many tongue depressors are in that jar?
 
 
I wish...I could've done more.
 
 
I, too, wish you could’ve done more.
 
 
I also wish this room wasn't so bright.
 
And that I couldn't hear another patient coughing through the wall.
 
And the nurses laughing in the hallway.
 
 
I wish I wasn't only twenty-five.
 
And that my balls didn't hurt.
 
And that pain was always real, never imagined.
 
 
I wish they removed the ventilation tubes before saying, "You can go in and see her now."
 
And that they closed her mouth.
 
And eyes.
 
 
I wish she wasn't alone in there.
 
And that then we weren't alone in there.
 
And I stayed alone in there longer.
 
 
I wish they straightened out the impossibly violent arch in her frozen spine that only death throes can bring.
 
And that they didn't bring it.
 
And for one more chance.
 
 
I wish a new sound would take my sight way.

About the Author: Rainier Roos works for the masses. This is his first published work of creative nonfiction, and
he can be reached at rainier.roos@gmail.com. Rainier lives on the edge of town.​

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