On the car ride to the doctor's office for the final appointment before surgery, my father and I didn't talk. It was a continuation of years of silence.
Trauma is a stubborn thing. It doesn't just disappear. It shifts shape. After Dr. R's success in descending my testicle, I lived in fear of it happening again.
Once in the examination room, it was another high-tech affair. This time, it involved my standing in front of the patient examination table with my pants down - my father stood in the corner because why the hell not?
My entire body exhaled. I could have floated to the ceiling. One week from my bar mitzvah, I was a new man. If there were anything that could prove God's existence, this was it.
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