I love my two girls. I love them so much that I am completely ok with not having another child ever again.
So at the ripe old age of 33 and with full understanding that my wife had only just recovered from another C-section, I volunteered to get a vasectomy.
At first, this sounds like a rather ominous undertaking. All you have to do is mention the procedure and someone will feel obliged to tell you about their friend who’s man jewels swelled up like balloons due to a lax understanding of the required recovery. What is prescribed? Sitting firmly on one’s ass for at least 48 hours.
Herein lies the problem: I move constantly during the day; annoyingly so. My max continuous sitting period each week is one hour, and that is for our team meeting at work. They won’t let me walk laps around the conference room.
Fear did not lie with the procedure itself. I have full faith and confidence in the drugs and numbing agents they will readily offer up to weenies like myself. Being still for several days was the real challenge. Commence stalling.
Admittedly, I waffled on scheduling my procedure for a hot minute, leaning on the ever-popular excuses of time and money. Another potential hurdle: My primary care physician resides at a Catholic hospital. If you are unfamiliar with the church’s stance on birth control, Monty Python has a lovely song that explains it in detail. I was not looking forward to having that conversation.
Excuses debunked. The urology center down the street does consultation and procedure in one visit. Start to finish, I was there for less time than it takes for a haircut. As for financials, the total investment was $100. Date was set for September 1.
Why that day in particular? They (meaning sterilized men) tell you to pick a good sports weekend. Ideally, if you are going to be mostly lateral, catered to, and in possession of the all-important tv rights for several days, then make it count. On average, I get about 30 minutes of television freedom on weeknights and a few auto races on Sunday viewed in fast-forward. Since the college football schedule has gone officially bonkers, Labor Day weekend consists of games Friday through Monday. Hallelujah.
When the day came, I was a bit shaky. The doctor informed me that I was the sixth and final procedure before his long weekend started. Per advice, I was prepared to ask for a little hit of feel-good gas. Their offering was positioned as “Something to settle my nerves” and reminded me more of how people do heroin in the movies. A nurse tied me off until everything was setup and then a needle of happy juice was injected. Before she did that, however, my dangles were “cleaned” with the coldest sterile water they could find. Honest-to-God worst part by a mile was the icy waterfall down my gooch.
Once Doc got to work, the whole deal was over in no time. I only recognized we were finished after he started going through the standard debrief and gave me a look that said “why aren’t you putting on your pants already?” Couldn’t help but take a picture of the instrument tray that contained some of my leftover bits. The readers of this blog will be spared, but my friend group on WhatsApp was decidedly not.
Important Side Note:
If your wife has recently (or ever, for that matter) weathered C-section childbirth, then you want to avoid all possible parallels. Complaining about a few tiny incisions into your man bits? Try getting sliced open and having a child extracted while they pile up your innards like a side dish. You catch my drift. Play it cool, take your meds, and keep the complaining to a minimum.
One thing for sure - I have never had a wounded body part so directly tied to my stomach. There were a few borderline moments where I didn’t know whether to curl into the fetal position or throw up. Sitting down constantly was a real problem, as expected. I iced the affected area like it was my job. No idea why, but people made it sound like frozen peas were basically prescription for a vasectomy. Allison even got the organic free range peas, so no GMOs came in contact with my special place.
Most of what I endured would best be described as discomfort, with the knowledge that any stupid move would cause a world of pain. But then Tuesday rolled around, and I put on jeans...
As soon as I arrived at work, there was no doubt that a mistake had been made. A comfortable position did not exist. Strategically, I hid myself in one of our call booths and only came out to waddle my way to the bathroom or kitchen. By lunch time, all I wanted was some ath-leisure wear, some of those peas, and a handful of Advil.
I am naturally impatient, so this process pretty much sucks. It seems I’ll be choosy with pant options and seating arrangements for at least a week. I guess the alternative is raising another child.
My buddy Fritz, who just started PA School, asked for a picture of my balls for “medical reasons.” What he got was a fringe case of elephantiasis courtesy of Google. Sorry dude.
Anyone want some slightly-used frozen peas?