Ummm… Look at that thing. It’s the monstrosity that was shoved up my dilly.

Holy shit, right? Yeah, I agree.

I snuck that selfie once my procedure was over, after the surgeon left the room so I could put my pants back on. I may have even still had my drawers off when I took it. I don’t know. Not that you would have seen anything if the camera was pointed any lower. My body had officially sucked my dilly and beans clean up inside it at that point. Had I seen a Ken doll sitting on the counter, I would have been jealous of his generous endowment.

We all know most guys are growers, not showers (ahem). Apparently I’m something more. I’m what I shall hereby and forevermore label as a “Shrinker Overthinker.”

As you’ll remember (from this blog post), I had crazy high anxiety about the procedure to remove the ureteral stent a surgeon placed in me a week and a half ago. All I knew was that it was going to be fifteen minutes with a camera up my dilly hole. I didn’t even tell you the quarter of what was going through my mind all the way up to the appointment.

I pictured a team of a half dozen people holding me down on the exam table, while I screamed in agony. I pictured my dilly being split open from the inside, like an overmicrowaved hotdog. I pictured this mysterious dick camera getting stuck while it was inside of me, and the doctor swinging me around the room like I was attached to a sling, trying to dislodge it. I pictured a lot of other shit, too. It’s scary as hell knowing you’re going in for something like that, having no idea what to expect.

Oh, in case you forgot what the monstrosity looked like, here it is again.

Dan Pearce urology camera

I promise, I won’t let you forget it. If I don’t get to forget it, you don’t get to, either.

Anyway, my anxiety. Higher than the sky.

Thirty minutes in the waiting room didn’t help. But what really didn’t help… The nurse who finally called my name was really cute. I’d say sexy, but nothing was sexy in the whole world yesterday. “I’ll be assisting with the procedure,” she said, as she walked me to the room. Not a cute nurse. Please, anything but a cute nurse.

Anxiety. Increased. Drastically.

Kill. Me. Please.

What came next taught me the true amazingness of the human penis.

Have you ever seen a mouse disappear through a crack the thickness of cardstock? Have you ever seen a cockroach escape through a hole the size of a pen tip? Well, apparently men (or at least this one part of us) also have the ability to do the same thing.

First off, the room was cold. Really cold. Enough said.

Kill. Me. Please. 

I did as she instructed me to do before she left the room, stripped naked from the waste down, and laid supine on the exam table. She gave me a tiny disposable piece of plastic to put over my junk. I did so, and that is when my mind went into emotional and mental survival mode.

I pulled my beanie down over my eyes, crossed my arms over my face, and I felt my throat close off as the anxiety grew.

She came back in and wasted no time yanking the cover away that she had just given me. “Just going to sanitize you now,” she said.

Think… Mouse. Cockroach. Dilly. I literally felt my junk try to disappear inside of me the moment it was exposed. An acorn taped to me would have been more impressive.

Kill. Me. Please.

I put all of my focus on not hyperventilating, as she started digging around in the deep pit I’m sure had formed where my dilly used to be. She found what she was excavating for, and started doing something cold and dripping wet to the tiny nub she finally located. I don’t know what she was doing. I was trying really hard to pretend I wasn’t there at all. It’s beyond difficult to picture yourself on a warm beach when you’re laying half naked in a urologist’s cold exam room. I know this now.

Kill. Me. Please.

“I’m going to insert a numbing gel into the end of your penis,” she said.

No needles? No injection? No stabbing sharp objects into what once was my manhood? That was good. I grunted to confirm. It was all I could get out.

Holy shit that gel burned like hell. But only for a few seconds. It really wasn’t that bad. Then it all went numb. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all, I thought.

Then the surgeon came in and fucked up the tiny positive mental progress I had just made by being… friendly to me.

At this point, I had a different and much larger cloth draped over me with a hole cut out of it where my dilly could poke through, like a seedling trying to find sunlight from below the Earth’s surface.

He asked me how I was doing.

I grunted. I think. I don’t even know if I was able to get that much out.

He started talking about God knows what. It was small talk. Fucking small talk. I finally found enough voice to cut him off. “I’m really trying to stave off an anxiety attack right now,” I said. “So I don’t really want to talk.”

And it was true. My heart felt like it was going to burst through my throat. My breaths were getting increasingly heavy. My mind was clouding. It was taking all my mental concentration to not lose it. Urology and people with anxiety problems really shouldn’t ever cross paths. I know that now, too.

Bear in mind, my beanie was still pulled over my eyes. My arms were still clamped across my face. And I hadn’t even looked at the nurse or surgeon since she first led me into the room. I just needed to pretend it wasn’t happening, and seeing them hovering above my half-nakedness would have made it too real. My brain was just rational enough to tell me that looking at anything is what would do me in.

“It’s not that bad,” he said. “Only takes about thirty seconds.”

I couldn’t open my eyes, and wouldn’t open them until it was all over and they had both left the room again. But his words did make my panicking heart sing. “The woman on the phone told me it would take fifteen minutes,” I wheezed. “So that’s good news.”

“Nah, thirty seconds. Maybe a minute tops.”

This did not make me more chatty. It calmed my nerves, but I went into mega survival mode. I could make it through thirty seconds of anything. I clamped my arms even harder against my face, gritted my teeth, and waited for whatever was coming.

“Do you want to watch on the screen?” He said.


The next minute and a half or so was indeed hell.

I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know what was being used to make it happen. I just know that I felt it, and I felt all of it. I felt something enormously too big go up my dilly. I felt it enter my bladder. I felt it poke and dig around inside my body.

Kill. Me. Please.

The whole time it felt like I was uncontrollably and painfully urinating everywhere. I guess this is because they were shooting some solution into me as they went.

The surgeon kept saying things like, “now entering the this and such,” and “got it,” and “do you have a good hold?”

“Yes,” the cute nurse replied to that one.

“Gorilla grip?” he asked.


“You’re gonna feel this,” I think he said.

The cute nurse did not have a gorilla grip on whatever she was supposed to have a gorilla grip on.

In one drastic and fast yank, he pulled whatever he had put inside of me out. It felt like my stomach and intestines were being yanked clean from me. “Oops, we didn’t get it,” I heard him say. “We’re going to have to do it again.”

Kill. Me. Please.

Insert monstrosity. Get a better gorilla grip this time. Yank out my guts. Check. Check. Check.

The whole thing really was about a minute and half of sheer hell, but nothing more.

And while it was bad, it really wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t so bad that I needed to lose sleep for ten days, and not eat, and imagine all the horridness that I did.

“Do you want to see the stent?” the surgeon asked.

My hands were still clamped over my eyes. I just wanted to leave and pretend it never happened. I just wanted them to exit the fucking room. I just wanted to put something, anything, over my junk. “Nope,” was all I gruffed.

“You sure? It’s pretty interesting.”

“No!” I gruffed more sharply from below my beanie, which at some point I had pulled all the way down to my upper lip.

At that point the surgeon got the anxious point. He told me to get dressed and meet them outside for instructions on what to do next.

I never looked at him. I literally never once saw him.

I heard the door shut, things got quiet, and I burst from the bed. “Fuck this,” I said as I ripped the plastic off. The sudden light fried my pupils and it took a moment to adjust.

And that’s when I looked over and saw it…

The monstrosity that had been shoved up my dilly. It was even bigger than I expected.

Just in case you forgot…

I looked down and saw that I still had no noticeable manhood whatsoever. It was in that moment that I realized just how much I had overthought all of it. It was also in that moment that I somehow came up with the awesome term Shrinker Overthinker. You’re all welcome for that.

I redressed and exited the room.

I know that photo of me looks like I was with it, and like I was being silly about the whole ordeal. That was just some weird sickness I had in that moment to remember the fucking thing via visual documentation. When I walked out, I felt humiliated, and completely violated. I caught a brief peripheral glance of the surgeon and nurse standing in the hallway, and approached them with my eyes glued to the ground. I couldn’t bring myself to look at them. I just had to get the hell out of there.

Which I did.

And that was that.

Dan Pearce | The Dan Pearce Blog

PS. Just in case you forgot…