I trust no one.
What type of cold blooded heartless people would lie to me about something like this.
A feeling that I will experience and I will know without a doubt that they have lied. These trusted advisors use little misleading descriptions like, “uncomfortable” and “not too bad”. That is like describing someone experiencing the Stigmata as “eccentric” or “a little bleedy”. There is probably more detail to be conveyed.
I have tried to reconcile these lying liars but I don’t know if it is possible. Some betrayals are too great.
Although to be fair, once I became a parent, I would tell other monogamous couples that they should probably have kids because reproducing things that scream and poop up to their shoulder blades is next to Nirvana. Just like newly-weds toss symbols of marriage (garters and bouquets) to single people who jump and fight to be the next in line for a life-long commitment. We are biologically built to dupe others into the next stage of life. Misery loves company right?
Seriously, men think about this. Dating is alluring because of the thrill of the hunt, ask a girl out and get a phone number. Feel the rush! Date this girl and eventually you will define the boundaries or limits to her “liking” you. What could be next? See if she would marry you. Awesome! She said yes! Another feather in the cap but you realize that you are now married and your buddies are still living it up as bachelors. The only answer is to glorify marriage and get those bastards locked down so you can stop hearing about late nights that turn Legen… –Wait for it – dary!
Kids are the same cycle. Somewhere in the insomnia and sleep deprivation your brain gets starved for energy and eats the only thing it can find to stay alive; Your pride and ambitions. You don’t have a need to prove yourself through offspring because they have sprung. There is no physical “next step” in which to lure your friends. The only feasible goal is to prevent whatever sex drive you have from digging you deeper into the hole of life. (My personal shovel is reproduction and that son-of-a-bitch is a sharp shooter. It dug me right into four kids before I knew what was happening.)
People I am close with understood that I was ready to take some steps to stop having kids. Many had been through the sterilization point in their life and shared the experience with me. I didn’t know they were luring me towards a path they had taken using bold face unmitigated outright fucking lies.
Just to be clear. This is about a vasectomy. Permanent birth control via snipping some unmentionables in the old man sack. Feel free to stop here and call it good. Short summary => The procedure happened.
See. No surprises. You can leave if you want to.
For the people who like to watch a train wreck or may need one of these procedures one day….Let’s get going.
Here are the facts.
We reached a point in our family growth (4 constantly crying girls) where we felt that our home was complete (busting at the seams with only three bedrooms for six people) and we decided that more children were just not part of our plan. So family-doctor-mom sets up consult with a professional scrotal fondling doctor. We go to the consult and sign papers that we both are required by law to be present for and get the standard pamphlet. Fun pictures of dear old dad in mild discomfort on a recliner while Mary Tyler Moore brings him a plate of fresh apples. Big red swollen and painful apples.
The doctor wants to know if I have any questions. It is hard to think of intelligent questions for the man who was just holding your balls. I try not to focus on too much technical details and more along the lines of what will I feel and how can I keep from feeling any of that.
Dr: Do you have any questions?
Me: I am going to be numb right?
Dr: We will be using a localized agent that will allow us…
Me: N-u-m-b. No Feeely. This is a yes or no question.
Dr: … Yes you will be numb. There will be parts that are uncomfortable like when we cross from one cavity through the wall to the….
Me: BLAH BLAH BLAH *Fingers in my ears* BLAH BLAH
Dr: Are you done?
Dr: Yes. Numb.
Me: Okay. Perfect. See you in a week.
We get the instructions and shopping list. Tight pants. Jock Strap. I say we because this is a fun family experience.
I haven’t shopped for a jock strap in decades but the old questions come right back in. Which way does this thing go? Is this one big enough or too small? I’m totally confused by the end of the trip and I think I just bought some padding and stretchy boxer briefs at about a size too small. Step one complete-ish.
Surgery prep requires you shave your “area” to make things easier on the staff. Oh God. The staff. What staff will this be? Women nurses, men nurses, I don’t even want the doctor in there longer than he has to be. I hadn’t considered the show that I might become. This is rapidly getting worse. I shave everything off. All the nooks and crannies got the military buzz cut. Actually, one place kind of caught in the clipper teeth and I had two cuts very near the work area. Hope those aren’t a problem. (Note to men: Don’t paper-cut your sack. = Awful.)
DAY OF THE PROCEDURE
We show up near the end of the day and it is a farewell from my loving family before my walk down the grey mile. I am the last patient of the day and they all know my name and procedure. They usher me into a room with a Male Assisting Nurse (M.A.N.) who gives me the low-down on what we will be doing here today. I have heard this speech several times but this time I listen to the speaker. He has an effeminate tone in his voice that suggests he doesn’t mind being a man and holding other men’s balls all day. And he likes to talk. I love to talk most of the time but today I am in more of a reflective/scared of scalpels mood. Just cradle me sensitive man, we will get through this.
I sit. The infamous stirrup chair. Ladies should have great pleasure knowing that one day your man will meet the stirrup chair. Enjoy this part.
I ask the M.A.N. if we are ready to begin and he says “Sure, just drop your pants and undies there and hop right up on this little table for me. We’ll get things ready for the doctor so it will go nice and fast.” I imagine a ninja running by with a katana.
I do as he asked because I don’t have much of a choice at this point. I climb up into the cold metal framework and slide my feet into stirrups. I sit in the chair with no pants. Like some weird biological radar tower. Center stage. My prison for the next 30-45 minutes. Looking around I notice that the window blinds on two sides of the room are wide open. I wave to the nice Hispanic gentleman mowing the lawn on a zero turn John Deere. Sweet mower and that wide brimmed hat is a good idea too. He smiles. I wave.
“Do they usually close the blinds?” I try to ask casually.
“Nah it is the third floor, nobody is looking up here.” Except lawn maintenance personnel apparently. Oh well.
“Okay” I feel I need to make another small suggestion, “Shouldn’t there be a curtain between here and the hallway or can we close the main door?”
I don’t want to scare innocent people in the hallway.
He giggles, “Sorry about that.” He closes a curtain in front of the door. “Silly me.”
Another male nurse M.A.N.2 pops into the room with a starter kit. M.A.N.1 starts to prep me for the procedure. He pulls out a bottle of iodide solution which, I remember from my childhood, stains your skin orange and really burns in small accidental cuts. Did I mention small accidental cuts somewhere else? Yeah, I remember those now. He gets a drippy swab of it ready and says, “It’s Oompa Loompa Time!”. He paints everything on my undercarriage Oompa Loompa orange. He enjoys it entirely too much. I feel like a living room wall getting repainted and he is the perfectionist who never thinks that the last coat is enough to get the job done.
Second part of prep is to secure anything that may get in the way of the procedure. I’m sure you can figure out what “anything” is and they secure “anything” by taping it to your leg.
Then you wait. With your penis taped to your leg and your undercarriage shaved bald and painted safety orange. I could double as a marker for an emergency exit.
The doctor gives you a good ten minutes to let all the shame and pride and whatever else has been hanging around fall to the floor with the used orange cottonballs. That is the longest I can remember having my naked ass hoisted to eye level, painted orange, taped into position, and then left to wait. Ever. If there was a shred of dignity left, it died that day.
The doctor enters with M.A.N.3 carrying instruments and M.A.N.2 with the needles and drugs. Oh God Bless M.A.N.2! Let’s get those drugs going. “Is there some sort of mind erasing hypnotic?” I wonder.
M.A.N.1 asks, “Would you like the mirror to see what’s going on?”
I stutter through a response, “What the f….Hell no. What kind of person wants to watch this?”
“Sometimes the wives like to watch.”
I bet they do. Sadists.
“No mirror. Just. No. Why would a sick.. Nevermind.”
Doctor starts laying out instruments like my kids arrange My Little Ponies. I’m thinking to myself, “Playtime Yay! You with the drugs, get to numbing something up.”
M.A.N.2 reads my mind and pulls out the syringe and sets it down. Dammit. I want to be totally out of service below the belt before he cuts but they seem to have different plans. The Doc and his three M.A.N.’s gather around me and once more go through the procedure. This borders on harassment or cruel and unusual punishment. Cutting, uncomfortable, more cutting, tugging, stitches. All done. Ready to roll. Got it.
Doc picks up the pain shot and injects it into the cutting area. He sets the syringe down and in the same motion picks up a scalpel and ninja swipes my man sack. SWEET JESUS DOC! Not even a count to five and let things get good and ready, just straight to work for this go-getter.
“Woah, felt that. Should I feel that?”
“Maybe a little more anesthesia?”
“Are you asking me? Because I’m going to say yes regardless. You are the professional here you keep me alive but take me to the edge.”
“Okay a little more then.”
This time I get a ten second window and it seems successful. A few seconds later as things get more involved I realize I am not totally numb.
I remember in third grade when I fell and straddled the balance beam. Exact same feeling. I am going to puke.
M.A.N.3 is dabbing my forehead with wet rags while the doctor is telling me things I don’t want to hear. “Hmmm, well I can’t give you more numbing medicine. You have had a lot already.” Or “That’s odd….” Or “Wow there is a lot of blood here.”
I need a seatbelt to keep me from falling into the floor. The doctor keeps cutting something and checking with me, “Can you feel that?”
“Can you feel this?”
“What about this?”
“Dammit are you the Verizon guy? I can HEAR YOU NOW! Just finish.”
“I’m going to have to just hurry and finish.”
“That would be great. Just clip it with some garden shears and shoot me in the head.”
Chatter box M.A.N.1 is trying to keep my mind elsewhere and asks me about my family. It makes me dislike them a little to think of them while I am being dissected.
The rest of the procedure is fuzzy for me. I remember being packed like a fragile Fed-Ex package. M.A.N.1 walks me out to the waiting area and talks with my wife and our youngest baby, Lady Bug. All I want to do is leave and never come back. He hands my wife a bag with two empty cups for follow-up specimens to make sure the procedure was effective. It felt effective.
For the uninformed, the follow-up procedure is a check of fertility. You bring in a sample in a cup and it has to still be warm. I live fifteen minutes away and put in five for parking so I wasn’t sure if twenty minutes still counted as fresh for “baby batter”. The only other option was the bathroom stall at the doctor’s office. I was in a hurry that day and opted for the office. I could face a stranger easier than my own kids who would no doubt be looking under the bathroom door wondering why I am standing up but not peeing. “Hurry up daddy I need more juice, change the channel, she hit meeee.” Yeah the doctor’s office would be a better environment.
I emerge from the restroom with my warm cup in-hand and stroll up to the front desk.
“Can I help you?”
I lean in a softly say, “I have a sample for doc, for my vasectomy”
She leans back in her chair and yells across the office, “KATHY! SEMEN CUP! She can help you at the next desk.”
A lady that I assume is Kathy comes out smiling and takes the sample from me. She is holding it like it is coffee or something while I had held it like nuclear waste. I wonder if she could tell if I was a home or office donor. Did it feel too warm? Her words were buzzing at me but my mind is finished for the day and I nod and leave.
The first sample came back negative for sperm and the second cup will never be used. I am willing to chance another kid. If I ever have to get something worked on down there again there will be a fully blown large gauge IV, breathing tube, and constant dripping drugs to knock me into Neverland.
To the unsuspecting husbands being directed into vasectomy by their wife, this post is for you. Whatever she tells you about the female forms of birth control. For the man, they cut your balls. You’re welcome.
-Underdaddy to the rescue.