According to the font of all knowledge (Google) on average men feel their balls seven times a day. At least I can be reassured that I am above average in this particular field. Indeed, touching them thousands of miles away from home led to a change in lifestyle that I think may possibly have added many more years to my lifespan and reduced my waist size from 38 to 30, after losing 3 stone in 12-weeks. 18 months later I have kept the weight off and the simple things in life like bending over is not such a herculean task anymore & I can now see the near neighbour of my balls without the use of a mirror.
In 2008 or thereabouts I became aware that my sleep pattern was being interrupted by frequent visits to the loo and being awoken by my own snoring. I was officially a lard arse and tipped the scales at a whopping 18 and a bit stone. Being 6’2” and broad I was able to carry it reasonably well although my face seamlessly blended into my neck and my double chin could have been sold as an occasional sofa at DFS. Being a practicing hypochondriac, I ambled off to the GP for a check-up. Type 2 diabetic! What the fuck?! There must be a mistake! No Kirkey you were obese in fact morbidly so. Although the jolt was real and immediate, as was the embarrassment, the promised rehabilitation that had to engage in ‘portion size’ never did materialise as quite simply I love food and drink. Indeed, I would list this as one of my favourite pastimes along with watching Notts County and going to the Speedway, pursuits that I could eat heartily at too. Furthermore, the cocktail of tablets gave me the seemingly plausible excuse that these alone would save me from losing my eyesight, a limb and early death. I was young (45) and death, so I convinced myself, only happened to really, really old people. So, after the initial shock to the system I didn’t change a thing and continued with my unabated eating and drinking taking more interest in the ups and downs (mostly downs) of following Notts than what entered my body via my gob.
In May 2015, my false and idiotic presumption that death was only the preserve of oldies was brutally shattered when my wife Theresa died of cancer at the relatively young age of 50. For 18-months I watched her in a non-responsive coma until her life ended way, way too early. On reflection I would have thought that this alone would have been the trigger point for changing my lifestyle as my kids Lucy (25) and Adam (23) now only had one parent. But it wasn’t. Having to arrange my wife’s funeral whilst she was still alive didn’t motivate me either. The planets had yet to align for me and on reflection I shudder at how oblivious I was to what I was doing to my body and how much I owed my children to live as long as possible so that I could support and irritate them in equal measure for many years to come.
Fast forward to December 2018 and I was in Hong Kong with my daughter, our stop-off for saying farewell as she entered another chapter in her life in Australia. As I left the shower in the compact hotel room with the mega widescreen TV showing some BBC World News documentary I sat on the bed following a vigorous towelling of my ample frame and conducted my above average obsession by checking the balls. The newfound lumps didn’t frighten me. A sudden and astonishing moment of calm overcame me. I had enjoyed a terrific life. There were so many things to celebrate and be thankful for that my own mortality didn’t seem that important. I had already convinced myself too that I had testicular cancer.
During this moment of relative tranquillity, I laid on the bed and watched the TV. The documentary that had been airing in the background for atmosphere was about obesity. Three patients or volunteers stood in a line. Two men and a woman. The blokes were clearly salad dodgers, yet the lady appeared only to be carrying a modest amount of additional timber. The Doctor talked about her Type 2 diabetes and made the remarkable claim that if she essentially ate less and reduced the intake of sugar in particular she could reverse her diagnosis in 12-weeks. There was no mention of going to the gym either. 12-weeks!
At that precise moment the Sun, Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune aligned, and I made an iron clad promise to myself that I would follow the sage advice. After all, if I couldn’t place some directed effort over such a small period of time I didn’t deserve the title of Dad.
And so, the initial and simple journey began. For the next 12-weeks I would eat less and reduce my sugar intake. I looked at the traffic light symbols on the side of food and plumped for the ones that had 2% or less of sugar. I found some superstars in the process! ASDA porridge (less than 0.5% sugar) and gin & slimline tonic which had much less sugar than beer. I discovered that tinned fish was a great tasting filler of a meal and Tesco own brand soup had regularly yielded a sugar content of circa 1%.
The weight just dropped off. I got addicted to the bathroom scales and quickly cottoned on that overnight I would lose around 3 pounds just sleeping! Add a poo to the equation and this could stretch to 5! Over the first 3 weeks or so I lost a stone. Or more visually 7 bags of sugar. Colossal! I must admit that I became a creature of habit and stuck rigidly to porridge for breakfast, a tin of fish for lunch and soup for dinner. During another TV programme I picked up the gem of a tip that not eating after 6pm significantly aided the weight loss programme too. There appeared to be no downsides! Until that is I noticed that the number two motions weren’t as consistent as usual. I was used to a hearty dump at least once a day that would always coincide with a good Facebook review and the odd Tweet. At this juncture I was pooing at a rate of one every 3 or 4 days. My diet had changed considerably in a short time and my body was adjusting to the new normal. When I did sit on the throne it was hard work and it was akin to, as I imagined, birthing a Mulberry handbag and could last long enough to read The Times, Speedway Star and the online Notts County gossip in one engagement. But this aside, and enjoying the prolonged me time, I was a man on a mission and the weight continued to fall at an alarming rate. This 12-week kick-ass programme was delivering the goods.
The waistline also joined in and I went from a 38 to a 36 to a 34 in the following weeks. Mistakenly putting on the larger ones once I became aware that I could have qualified as a stand in clown with my own baggy trousers able to accommodate a plethora of cannonballs and other circus items. Purchasing new jeans was incredible and I couldn’t resist passing an M&S without seeing if I could squeeze into the next size down. On my birthday, some 9 weeks into the programme, in Belfast I did a 32! Sure, it was a minor squeeze, but I was in! Talking like Joe Pasquale for a day or so afterwards seemed a small price to pay.
My fat face began to show some structure too albeit a potential turkey-neck look began to concern me a little and I wondered if I would have to wear a dandy cravat but then again I was in my fifties and my chiselled facial features more than compensated for any perceived faults in the neckline. To celebrate the 12-week anniversary I bought myself a new pair of jeans. I had to take a picture of the label and circulate it on Facebook. 30. I also tipped the scales at 13 stone 12 pounds. The only time in living memory that when I entered this data into the NHS BMI calculator the result was a green, healthy weight. OK it was on the extreme end of the scale but that was cause for a celebration with a couple of Gin & Tonics – at least!
Subsequent visits to see my diabetic nurse also turned into more pleasurable events and recently I was informed that if I kept the weight off I will be off the Type 2 register for good. I also kicked into touch the Metformin many moons ago.
Has my weight fluctuated? It can vary between 13 stone 9 pounds and 14 stone 3 pounds but keeping to the small portion regime of low sugar dishes of which I expanded to include, for example, chicken & mountains of vegetables, especially during the week, has allowed me to enjoy a meal out or takeaway at the weekend. Have I fallen out of love with food? Not at all. Indeed, I think it is important not to demonise food. It’s just that I used to eat too fucking much! Did I become a gym monkey? Not at all. OK I joined a gym, but my attendance was on my terms as it’s a pretty inefficient way to lose weight although overall health & wellbeing is more than just keeping an eye on what you eat. I even started to participate in the local park runs. Not too long ago walking upstairs would have been an effort. 5K is now commonplace and I can still regain my posture pretty quickly when I finish.
Is this the instruction manual for everyone? Of course not. We are all different and have various reasons to be pulled and pushed in life. Although the rule of 3, a maxim that I picked up on one of my many speed awareness courses, is a robust structure. It works something like this: Change your behaviour for 3-days and you will notice a difference. Keep it going for 3-weeks and the behaviour will become routine. Keep it up for three months and the newly learnt behaviour will become second nature.
My personal ideological planetary alignment occurred in a far-off continent when I felt my balls and happened upon a TV documentary. Inevitably your journey will be different but with effort and consistency it can be done. Just find your reason to start.
Oh, I nearly forgot to mention again the lumps on my balls. I got them checked out at the Hospital shortly after my return from overseas and they were benign pockets of water. Nothing to worry about and are commonplace with men of a certain maturity.
I never knew that the answer to my immediate wellbeing was always in the grasp of my own hands. Happy fondling!
© Ian Kirke 2020 and insert photographs
Title Photo by Jennifer Burk on Unsplash