I’ve had about a thousand physical exams since my original diagnosis. The exam I got two months after finishing treatment for my first cancer, age 17, really stands out…

My examiner pushes on my belly, and then goes downstairs to check the lymph nodes in my groin. “Pull your jeans down,” she says.

By this time I’m lying on the exam table flat on my back, staring at the tiles on the ceiling. She feels my groin for swollen lymph nodes, then my balls for a simple cancer check. Depending on the appearance of the examiner, this kind of attention can bring the little guy out of sleep. Times like these you wish your examiner is a fat, hairy, Italian guy. But she isn’t, so I start thinking about football. Then dinosaurs. Then…fuck, are you done yet?

“So, how’s your PT going?” she asks.

“Good.”

“I’m going to check your leg strength now.”

She starts rubbing my thigh, checking my muscle size and tone.

Champ Bailey is the best cornerback in the league. I think I’ll get his jersey. Football. Football.

She creeps further and further up my thigh. By the time her hands get inside my boxers I feel movement. Oh God, no. At this point there’s nothing I can do but wait until she finishes. I don’t know if she fails to notice or if she just thinks I’m tenting, but she continues to massage me.

“You’re definitely getting stronger. Why don’t you get down from the table and stand on the floor.”

Now I’m fucked. I get off the table and stand up, still with my jeans around my ankles. My examiner starts really getting into it, pushing with both hands on my upper quadriceps and hamstring. I’m so nervous I begin to sweat. I know if she doesn’t stop soon Ole Benito will poke her in the eye.

Holy fuck I’m at 80% salute. Make it stop.

“Uh...we’re done,” she says.

I pull up my jeans and leave the room faster than you can say, “Oh shit, I have a boner.”