I told myself that I’d never write a vasectomy post. But apparently I lied, which I’m totally comfortable with given this whole Santa Claus scam I’ve been clobbering my kids over the head with. (Say what you want about the fat jolly bastard, but you gotta give him this: he makes December bedtimes a LAY UP.)
See, I wasn’t gonna write about the big V because I believe that vasectomy posts are overdone. But a coupla things occurred to me shortly after the procedure as I sat in bed watching TV in a pain-pill-induced stupor. First, there’s no shame in crying at the end of Home Alone. It’s a tender reunion between an abandoned, vulnerable little boy and the mother who never meant to leave him.
And second, the elective surgery I had undergone just hours before was a seminal moment in my life. (Quite literally a seminal moment given that one of seminal’s definitions is of, relating to, containing, or conveying semen or seed.)
But not because I gave up the chance of ever having another child. Five’s plenty the same number, in fact, that Macaulay’s Home Alone parents had and we all know how that almost turned out. But, instead because I found it psychologically trying, this transformation to impotency. Which, incidentally, is between me and my head doctor, capiche? Still, psychological insecurities notwithstanding, I determined the experience was profound enough to warrant documentation.
So here I am. And as tempting as it might be to pepper the rest of this post with jokes about frozen peas and / or elephantiasis of the nuts, such is not my style. Especially when there are so many other tangential topics I could tackle.
Anxiety that didn’t even exist before a well-meaning friend suggested I check to see if my urologist gave his patients anything before the procedure to help them relax, if you will.
Given the delicate area affected by such a procedure, it seemed obvious to me that every urologist in the world would slide their patient some pre-op love. But I decided to call and ask just in case, an awkward question to pose, you realize, so I crafted a sound bite or two to help me through.
“I’m getting a vasectomy next week,” I said to the nurse, “and I’m wondering whether or not y’all’d be giving me something beforehand to take the edge off.”
Ah, sound bite number one. A tasteful inquiry from a gentleman with a need versus a crass demand from a fiend with a habit. I was pleased with how it rolled off the tongue.
“Of course,” she said. “We’ll take care of you.”
“Wonderful. What do you use?”
“Not sure, but I’ll check.”
How helpful, I thought as I lost myself in the serenity of the hold music. The Carpenters, no less.
“Sir?” she said after a moment.
“We use a local anesthetic.”
Okay. Cue the dipshit music. Did this lady really think I was wondering whether or not they numbed your, you know, before a vasectomy? What? Did she think I was some kinda numb nuts or something? (sorry)
“Local anesthetic, huh? Say, let’s think globally, shall we?” I said, as I dusted off sound bite number two. “I’m not looking to freebase or anything, but I get a touch jumpy and was therefore wondering if valium might be an option.”
Sound bite number two was met with “No sir, it’s not.”
Eeesh. Given that I live in morbid fear of having another child, wasting precious time by rescheduling the procedure with a different doctor who practiced more liberal pre-surgery techniques was not an option. Which made me wonder why I even called in the first place. Yet as it turned out, there was nothing to worry about. Because I came through with flying colors.
If only the same could be said of my family. My four-year-old daughter discovered the jock strap that I was required to wear immediately following the vasectomy. (NO! I wasn’t wearing it during said discovery. Thank God.) And it seems as if she’s developed a bit of a fixation with it, equal parts intrigued by and scared of it of this mysterious “jog” strap as she calls it.
And, by the way, just how, exactly, am I supposed to explain a vasectomy to an inquisitive four-year-old, much less three of them?
Yes, this yuletide vasectomy has proven to be the gift that keeps on giving, alright. But even with all the challenges, I’m happy to say that I’ve bucked up and handled everything like a man.
An impotent man.
Who cries at the end of Christmas comedies.
And recently put his therapist on speed dial.
Photo courtesy of Loimere via Creative Commons