The moment of decision comes to most couples at some point in their middle years. The complement of kiddies is complete, mom is tired of taking the “pill” (or perhaps can’t continue for medical reasons) and the pressure is on to consider a sterilization procedure. Most men, however, get a little tightness in their gut just thinking of a sharp object approaching the portion of the anatomy involved in a vasectomy.
Often faced with this choice my male patient’s response is simply “no way”. The long-suffering wife may then simply choose to have a more invasive tubal ligation performed, saving her wimpy spouse from psychic distress. Another approach that has worked for a few of my female patients is to simply stop the pill and refuse to have sex until their husband relents. Then there is the head-in-the-sand method. This was used by an acquaintance after his wife’s postpartum tubal was canceled following the birth of their fourth child. They now have six children.
My own philosophy is that if my good wife has gone through the discomfort of giving birth, the least I can do is take some responsibility for family planning even if it involves a little discomfort.
For this reason a few months ago I called the office of my friendly neighborhood urologist Richard Norman (who does NOT shorten his first name in the Retro colloquial manner). April 8th looked like a good day, the Thursday before Easter, giving me four days out of the office to recuperate. I proudly announced to Krista when I’d booked my vasectomy. She smiled sweetly and said what lovely fifth anniversary present that was, seeing as we’d be married five years on April 9th! Oops.
As you’ve probably gathered, I’m not shy about discussing my own health issues. Indeed, this procedure provided a great opportunity for me to propagandize the merits of vasectomies to reluctant husbands. No more could they ask me if I’d had one in way of rebuttal when I suggested the procedure. Of course everyone has to share with you their horror stories about vasectomies gone wrong. One pharmaceutical rep told me of an acquaintance who decided to ride his motorcycle three hours after his surgery. Three days later I mentioned my pending surgery to another rep, a bit of a character from Cape Breton, who told me how he took his Harley for a spin three hours after his vasectomy. He rode an ice pack the next two weeks.
Another acquaintance decided to “test drive” his wife less than 24 hours after the procedure. He also spent the following two weeks riding an ice pack.
Of course the irony of having a vasectomy just before Easter, which is really just a Christianized version of a pagan spring fertility festival, did not escape some people. My mother-in-law suggested that instead of an ice pack I freeze a bunch of little bags of chocolate Easter eggs, which I could then eat as they thawed.
The eighth of April arrived soon enough and with some trepidation I arrived at the urology clinic. Stripping to nothing but a johnny shirt and robe I sat down next to an elderly lady and waited my turn. I gathered she wasn’t in for the same thing as I was. We chatted and she told me she and her husband owned a dairy farm. When I told her I was having a vasectomy she gave me a detailed description of how they castrated young bulls on the farm.
My turn came and I was led to a small OR. Richard shook my hand promised to be gentle. His nurse, Getty, a smiling charmer, ideally suited to put prospective vasectomy recipients at ease, gave me a rundown on what to do after the procedure.
Richard and Getty painted and draped me, then I felt a moment of mild discomfort as Richard injected the local anesthetic. Afterwards there was no pain whatsoever. I told a few jokes while feeling some poking and prodding, then Richard showed me a pair of forceps bedecked with a piece of material which looked like a strand of three-day-old pasta. He explained that the ends of the vas deferens would be clamped with titanium clips. I asked if this would make a “vas deferens” to my sex life. I believe he muttered something under his breath about if he had a dollar for every time he heard that one, he’d be able to retire.
After a dollop of collodion was applied (no stitches!) Getty applied a pad and slipped a pair of sexy fishnet underwear on to provide support. She iterated and reiterated that keeping ice to the nether regions was the key to avoiding nasty hematomas. Also I was to do no lifting and only get up to go to the bathroom for the rest of the day. Most complications arise from people doing too much, too soon, as I gathered from the earlier “horror stories”.
So, heeding this advice, I am now sitting at the computer, clutching an ice pack between my legs, as I hunt and peck for keys. I feel surprisingly well, but in order to arouse sufficient sympathy and solicitude from my loving wife I’ll have to hobble around for a few more days. Two-and-a-half-year-old Ariana, who usually likes to jump on my lap from a running start, has been surprisingly thoughtful of Daddy’s “booboo”. She even poked her head into the room several times inquiring, “You feel better, Dada?”
“Oh, I’m still pretty sore,” I reply. “Would you ask Momma to bring me another cup of coffee. Oh, and tell her I need another foot rub.”
Photo Credit
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