I had a neighbor taxi me to the clinic yesterday for the procedure. She’s almost fifty as well, so she understood the reasons why I allowed something sharper than a chin near my sack. My math skills made it apparent that if I completely lost my mind and decided to fall in love, marry, and have a child, the process would likely take two years minimum, leaving me over seventy by the time the offspring left the nest and returned my serenity. That’s scarier than Dr. Snip’s scalpel.
Men, please allow the wincing to begin.
As instructed, I brought two pair of ultra-tight skivvies. As we waited for the fixer, I signed the required documents (who reads these things?), which probably included waiving my right to sue if a ball happened to come loose and roll into a floor drain. When the nurse called my name, my neighbor gasped.
“What the hell kind of support is that?”
“I know. Sorry.”
“You’re supposed to tell me everything will be fine, not gasp like I’m about to be put down.”
“I don’t know why I reacted like that. Look, my palms are even sweaty. Say, do you think they’d let me take pictures with my iPhone?”
“Really? Tweet pictures of my balls being sliced open?”
“Wouldn’t that be cool?”
“No, it wouldn’t. Here’s last June’s Cosmo. Sit there and read it … quietly.”
The nurse led me into the procedure room which had the usual “table” with quarter-inch rubber mattress, toilet-seat-covering paper, and what appeared to be a flattened diaper.
“Take off everything below the waist, sit on that pad, and the doctor will be right in.”
I sat there staring at my frightened penis. If it were a female doctor I would have fluffed up a bit, but this fellow has been snipping for 42 years. I’m sure he’s seen more shafts and balls than a driving range.
The doctor came in, checked my frank and beans, and complimented me on my grooming. (It’s not easy shaving balls. Take my word for it.) He grabbed a needle, explaining that he was going to give me a dose of Valium to relax me.
“You’re going to feel a tiny prick.”
“Guess that makes two of us.”
“Huh? Oh, well, it is a bit chilly in here.”
“What he said.”
Valium is good.
Then he stuck me once on each nut with Novocain. Ten minutes later he was done.
NOTE: For those of you who have no idea what a vasectomy procedure entails, I’ll give you a quick rundown. The doc removes a section of the tubes leading from balls to shaft, thus leaving the sperm no way to see the light of day (more often) or (unfortunately, less often) the inside of a vagina. So, where do they go? No, not to flea markets. They are absorbed into the body.
Once complete, the doc kindly wiped up the blood (or else I would have probably done a header) and had me step into two pairs of the tightest underwear ever worn by man. Now I have two days of icing my sack through a wedgie, five days of antibiotics, ten days without the gym, twelve doses of painkillers, and six weeks until I bring a sample back to make sure the coast is clear. I’m also not allowed to have sex for ten days. Murphy’s Law says I will have numerous sexual opportunities with women way out of my league in the next ten days, which will ironically dry up on the eleventh.