Author’s Note: A while back one of my favorite blogs wrote of her detailed account about purchasing new bras. It was obviously a post that could only really be appreciated by female readers. Well, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Here’s one that only a man can appreciate.
The story came to mind yesterday when my nephew told me he had just gotten a vasectomy. I asked him how the procedure went. He said it was a piece of cake. No problems whatsoever. I was disappointed. Misery loves company. He was the fourth guy I knew who had the same surgery, and not one had any problems. Was I the only fluke of nature whose surgery was a horror story? I know one thing for sure, it was fortunate for them that none asked me about my experience of going under the knife, or their their little fishys would still be merrily swimming unhindered.
After having our third child in five years, my wife said it was time to bring this pattern to a screeching halt. One of us had to be “fixed.” I agreed and asked when she was going to make her appointment. That was not what she had in mind. I was going to be the sacrifice put on the altar of fertility. But I wasn’t about to give her the last word. I had the last word. “Okay, dear.” I replied.
Living out in the country, we had one doctor who practiced in a small town near by. I called to make an appointment.
“Yes, I would like to make an appointment for a vasectomy.”
The cheerful female on the other end replied. “He does vasectomies on the third Thursday of the month. I can put you down for nine o’clock.”
“I can be there that morning,” I said.
“No, nine o’clock at night.”
I was surprised. “What, is he going to meet me in a back alley with a clothes hanger?”
My joke was met with a long silence. Finally she replied without a hint of humor. “No, in his office.”
I was there at the time appointed. Very nervous, but there. Finally I was led back to a room and told to undress from the waist down and lay on the table. In came the doctor wearing street clothes. No white overcoat, no sterile gloves, just dressed as a normal Joe Blow off the street. After a little friendly conversation, he explained what was going to be done. An incision would be made, and the two tubes the sperm travel through would be snipped and tied. A piece of cake. WRONG! As I was later told all men have a coiling of these two tubes that can be easily cut and tied. But 1 in 1.565,799 do not, meaning the extra slack would have to be pulled down to cut and tie. Guess who was that one lone exception.
Now I don’t know where those two chords originate. All I know is each time he pulled down, one of my eyeballs drooped. The doctor used this as a useful tool to know the left tube from the right. Anything I can do to help. But the real problem was where I was deadened, which was down around the operating area. But I was very much alive just a short distance north, making the experience very painful. Like I told the doctor later, “You and your town’s dentist have a lot in common. When he pulled one of my teeth it hurt all the way to my family jewels. When you pulled my family jewels it hurt all the way to my teeth.”
He gave me a polite and quick smirk. “Cute.” he said. Anyway, it was done. But before I staggered out I was given an appointment to come back with my wife, which we did. It was then that I was instructed that after approximately five ejaculations to return with a sperm sample. My wife told him, “If that be the case, he’ll be back in about six months.” Yeah, now the doctor suddenly has a sense of humor!
Anyway, a little over six months later I brought in my sample. The reception room was small, with the desk not more than ten feet from the row of chairs for waiting patients to sit. I bring this up for a reason. The receptionist ask my reason for being there. I turned and looked at the chairs behind me. Each one was occupied with people quietly reading magazines while waiting. Using a normal voice I could easily be heard. “I brought my sperm sample,” I whispered past a cupped hand.
“Pardon?” she replied, “Please speak up. I can’t hear you.”
Of course now all heads raised and looked at me. Oh the hell with it. “I have my sperm sample,” I said, handing her the small vial.
“How old is it?” She might as well have used a megaphone.
My face instantly flushed, knowing I had the full attention of everyone in the waiting room. “Aaaahh, last night.”
“Oh,” she replied with a wave of a hand, “that’s too old.”
“Too old!” I gasped, all personal pride drowned in a whirlpool of humiliation.
“Yes, it can’t be any older than one hour.”
“One hour!” my voice almost pleading. “I live two hours away!”
My mind was racing. Where’s the nearest alley? Wait. What if a policeman knocks on my car window? “It’s not what you think, officer. I’m getting a sample for my doctor.”
By now I was quite sure those in the waiting room believed they had already gotten their money’s worth without even seeing the doctor.
“That’s okay,” she chortled, “We have a room right over there. And there’s some magazines that may help you along.”
Instantly I pictured me in this room with a bunch of dog-eared magazines with half the pages stuck together, and a two-way mirror on one of the walls. And then as soon as the door closed behind me, one of the staff would call out, “Come on, gang, it’s show time!”
That was it! With only one life remaining from the thousand deaths I had already suffered, I replied, “Maybe later.” I then slinked out the door with, I’m sure, all eyes following me. I was almost surprised I wasn’t given a standing ovation for the unexpected entertainment.
I then went home and announced to the wife that I wasn’t going back. If she didn’t like it then she better learn the meaning of the word, “celibacy.”
That was some forty years ago and is, sad to say, forever etched in my mind….