It was a lovely, warm summer’s morning. The sun was beaming through the windows, and the birds outside were singing.

I’d just put on some Bob Marley to listen to whilst I shower, and the water took no time at all to heat up. I had a text on my phone asking if I wanted any coffee, and now it was waiting for me two floors below. It was a perfect start to a day.

I’m showering away, when I realise that one of my bollocks is seriously hurting. A quick feel around showed that it had also gotten bigger.

With Easy Skanking blaring away in the background it was clear; I was going to die. My balls had betrayed me.

I’d accepted my fate. I thought that the visit to the doctors would just be a formality where he tells me how long I’ve got left. I called and booked anyway.

I’m not shy at all. I had my trousers round my ankles in no time, whilst the doctor was poking around. I wish I could have thrown in a “you are a doctor aren’t you?”, or even a “I usually expect dinner first”, but my heart wasn’t in it.

He told me to take some antibiotics, but wanted to refer me on to a specialist as well. He was just delaying the inevitable here in my mind.

Now I’m lucky; my Dad has private healthcare that covers me as well. I get to enjoy the lovely benefits of the NHS as well as the speed of private. In this case it was even better, because the wait I was looking at through the NHS was over a month. I would surely be ashes by that point, so it’s a good job we had private.

The doctor gave me a special letter. This letter is apparently different to the one you get if you go through the NHS. One call to BUPA, a quick call to the fancy private hospital down the road and I was booked in a few days later.

I may be 22 years old, but you need your mum in these scenarios. She took me to my appointment with the consultant. The waiting room was like a fancy coffee shop, and I enjoyed my cappuccino whilst waiting to be called. It was a different world to the one I saw through the NHS. But then again, this route costs a load of money.

The consultant looked about 90. He’d been dealing with people like me for longer than I’ve been alive. He had a good feel of the…problematic area, before booking me in for an ultrasound. He also wanted me to wee in a cup, which I’m used to doing through the police. I managed all this without any significant difficulty; my aim has always been impeccable.

This guy also made it clear that I can ring him anytime to discuss anything at all. He couldn’t have made the situation any easier. I reminded him of his own son apparently, and he understood how I was feeling.

A few days later I was back for my ultrasound. My Dad took me this time.

I was lying on the bed, balls out, whilst this man did his thing. It was like watching an ultrasound on TV, except instead of rubbing it on a woman’s belly, it was on my bollocks.

My comedic relief was back in full force, which I demonstrated by telling my Dad that “I’m expecting a boy” when meeting with him afterwards in the waiting room. I didn’t realise there were other people there, who sniggered at me as I walked round the corner.

At least I knew that the ultrasound man didn’t see anything abnormal!

The next day I was back with the consultant. He told me that all my tests came back fine! I wasn’t dying! The sky immediately seemed more blue and grass greener! The antibiotics must have done their job.

He told me that I can get in touch with him anytime about any testicular issues, and not to hesitate to come back if anything changes.

Happy days.

I lived to fight another day.