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After about 90 minutes, the door opened and the physician stepped out into the hallway and beckoned us inside. Justin was laying naked on the doctor’s operating table, his feet in stirrups, legs spread apart. We walked to him and looked down at our son’s lean, well developed body. I could plainly see each one of his six abdominal muscles and remember thinking that I could bounce quarters off his stomach. His smooth, muscular chest moved rhythmically up and down as he slept. Gone was his thick mass of dark pubic hair that was always so evident beneath his thin, sweat-soaked white shorts he wore to play basketball—Dr. Dunn obviously had shaved our son in preparation for surgery. His large, flaccid penis, which we knew was well- developed from the bulge that always seemed to outline his pants, was pushed up and over to one side. On both sides of our son’s scrotum were two incisions, tightly sutured closed. I thought Justin’s scrotum would look deflated after the doctor removed his testicles, but it didn’t. Although clearly empty, Justin’s scrotum actually looked puffy. As if he was reading my mind, the surgeon spoke. “Cutting and sewing the testicular cords always induces inflammation and swelling,” explained Dr. Dunn, “in a few days the swelling will reduce and his scrotum will become a winkled fold of skin. Then the old doctor begin chuckling, his shoulders rising up and down as he laughed. “You son had what is commonly refer to in a locker room as low hangers. In fact, his testicles hung unusually low for an 18 year old. That’s what was making his manhood so evident underneath his clothing.” Quietly, my wife asked, “Where are they?” Dr. Dunn didn’t speak—he just sweep his hand towards his nearby instrument tray. There sitting in a small stainless steel bowl were Justin’s testicles. They were bluish-gray, egg-shape, and larger than I imagined—the severed testicular cords sticking out the top of each one. A small amount of blood covered both testicles. My wife and I didn’t speak as we looked down at the two organs that almost keep Justin from pursuing his life with the church. They had created embarrassing laundry problems for my wife, changed Justin into a sexually charged young man who wanted to chase girls, and gave his body a lean, rippled muscular look that made his mother and I nervous. Again told myself again that his castration was for our son’s own good, that he would be happier and more fulfilled with a life serving the church. But if that was true, why did it I find it such a thrill to arranged for an operation that would take away his hard, trim body and make him look soft and fleshy? This is going to turn him into a shapeless eunuch and end his sex life even before it begins I remember thinking. Dr. Dunn covered the bowl with a small towel and pulled a blanket up to Justin’s chin. He began patting our son’s cheek with the back of his hand and, raising his voice, said, “Justin, wake up, I want you to wake up now.” After a few moments, Justin’s eyes fluttered open. He quietly groaned, his eyes desperately trying to focus on Dr. Dunn. Justin made an attempt to look over at us, his mother even leaned closer to our son so she would be in his sightline, but the effort was too much for him and his head rolled back towards the doctor. Justin looked at the physician and licked his lips trying to speak. His eye lids finally stopped fluttering. “How’s our patient?” said Dr. Dunn cheerfully. “I…I…..feel so light headed,” said Justin with a slur. The sedative that the doctor gave him to make him sleep during his castration not letting him wake fully. He doesn’t know what has just been done to him, but he will in a few months I thought triumphantly. “He’s just a little groggy right now, but he’ll be fine in a few minutes,” said the doctor. “Mom and Dad, why don’t you go back to the waiting room. I’ll help Justin dress. We’ll be out in awhile.” After about 20 minutes the door to Dr. Dunn’s office opened, and they walked out. Justin’s shirt tail was hanging out and his hair was going every which way. He leaned down, said something to the doctor, and slipped into the bathroom across the hall and closed the door. The surgeon walked over to us smiling. “He wanted to wash his face and tuck in his shirt.” My wife looked at the door to the bathroom apprehensively. “Is he all right in there alone?” “How do we know he won’t become hysterical when he looks at himself,” I added. “Nothing to worry about,” said the doctor. “The hypnotic let me put him into deep subconscious state during our counseling session. Right now he’s confused to what has just happened, and won’t be able to put two-and-two together for months, if ever. When he looks at his scrotum it won’t really register in his brain what he’s looking at…or in this case, what he’s not looking at,” laughed Dr. Dunn. He reminded us that Justin shouldn’t let his incisions get wet, and that he would see us tomorrow after church services to make sure there was no bleeding. At that time he would have another “counseling session” with our son to make sure he would not question his surgery, or become alarm with the changes that would happen once his hormone levels drop to certain levels. He gave us Justin’s pain medication, told us the dosages and that he shouldn’t feel anything more than a little tenderness by tomorrow morning. The door to the bathroom open and Justin walked out. His hair was slicked back with water, his shirt was tucked in with the top two buttons unbuttoned that showed off the his smooth, defined chest and broad shoulders. His belt tightly cinched against his small waist to keep his chinos up, his hands in his pockets. But although he looked neat, his face betrayed confusion and he looked pale. His eyes drifted to me, then to my wife for an answer to what had just happened to him. Just then Justin suddenly looked down at Dr. Dunn, and his blue eyes narrowed suspiciously at the physician, and the corners of his mouth turned down. No one said a word. End of part VI
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