…and by You I mean me.
What follows most assuredly falls into the T.M.I. heading. I’m sure no one really wants to take about my boys, but much like everything else in this blog, I’m trying to demystify some common misconceptions.
This one just has to do with balls. Not footballs, soccer balls, or basketballs. I’m talking about testicles, kids.
Read on…if you dare.
Let me start by saying the Wife is a beast. I mean that in the most complimentary way possible. She had three, count ’em one, two, three, natural labors. That means no dope, friends. She has always said, “God made my body to do this. I can do it.” She was beyond amazing during the birth of our three kids. But, we’re done. No more MClets.
No way was I going to ask her to go through invasive surgery to ensure we have no more kids and I don’t want her to have to take birth control and its myriad of potential side effects for the next 20 or so years.
Time to man up. *Gulp*
It started with a trip to the hospital for a class to knock out some paperwork and watch a video (circa 1980) about the procedure. You wanna talk about a room full of morose SOBs? Yeah, I was in that room. I was also the only one with the forethought to bring liquor.
A couple of months later, I got a postcard in the mail that said something to the effect of:
CONGRATULATIONS! COME ON IN ON THURSDAY SO’S WE CAN SLICE YER BALLS!
At least that’s the way I read it. So, with trepidation and not a little bit of fear, I headed to the Urology department for my vasectomy. And then, it got weird.
The nurse took me to a surgical room and said to strip down and put on the gown. I did.
Then she told me to lay down on the table and hike up the gown. I did.
Then she painted my nethers with iodine (I assume. What am I, a doctor?)
Now, I realize she does that kind of thing dozens of times a week, but I had to keep from laughing. My defense mechanism was in full effect. A few minutes later, the doctor walked in.
The female doctor.
The female doctor proceeded to grab herself a handful of Rightie. Um, ouch. Then she mentioned a bit of a “poke and burning” for the needle. She was not kidding. Now, I’ve had shots before. As a matter of fact, I had three shots a week for four years for allergies when I was a kid. I am not afraid of needles. I have four tattoos. You know where they don’t inject you for allergies? Your balls. You know where I don’t have tattoos? My balls.
Consequently, I was not a huge fan of the experience.
Did I forgot to mention the death grip she had Rightie in? Shame on me. I was picturing Darth Vader crushing the Rebel in Episode IV.
What happened next can only be classified as straight weird. I could feel things internally that I knew weren’t supposed to happen. Of course, that was before someone was yanking and cutting on the ol’ vas deferens. Who knew one could have one’s spleen tickled by yanking on the vas? I now know better.
Then there was the smell. Have you ever smelled someone cauterizing your internal bits? I have. Let’s just say Ralph Lauren won’t be bottling the scent.
The whole experience lasted maybe ten minutes until the doctor uttered what I thought at the time was the greatest statement ever:
“That’s it for the right side.”
Then she started to go to the other side of the table. The only thing going through my head was, “Just where the fuck do you think you’re going???” I said something eerily similar, if not less vulgar, to which she humorously replied, “I do the second side for free.”
Just what you want when someone’s is batting your boys around: a funny bone.
And the whole experience happened all over again.
It didn’t hurt much (with the exception of the needle), but it was wicked uncomfortable.
The worst part? Recovery.
If someone tells you the were back at work the next day or two days later, one of the following two things is true: 1) They lied or 2) They have tiny, hairless gerbil balls. I had the procedure done last Thursday. This will post on a Tuesday morning and I’m still moving slow. If you think there’s any way I’m getting on a motorcycle this week, you are insane.
If there’s anything I pride myself on, it’s my ability to lounge. I could raise it to an art form. But, after four days, I tried to get moving a bit more.
Huge mistake. I don’t so much feel like I’m getting kicked in the nuts every step I take, but I’ve been overcompensating using different muscles than my body is used to in order to get around. Consequently, I’ve got some decent lower back aching and high pelvic aching/cramping.
My point in sharing all of this is twofold: First, the procedure itself wasn’t nearly as bad as I was anticipating. Sure, it hurt a bit, but it wasn’t a huge deal. Secondly, when the doctors tell you to anticipate at least five days of doing next to nothing? Listen to them. Make sure your spouse is aware of the needed recovery time as well. Have meals pre-prepared…especially if you have little ones around.
Finally, I want to thank those of you that gave me encouragement via Twitter. FoxNotShocked in particular echoed something very similar to what the Wife told me…”It’s an act of love.”