Well, I mean, more of that stuff than there normally is. So if you are a person that is bothered by this type of thing you might stop here. Or you might get over yourself and keep reading. It’s up to you.
Right, so I had a vasectomy. I really hate that word. Pretty much anything that ends in ‘ectomy’ or ‘scopy’ is bad, and I try not to even say them. That said, ‘getting clipped’ doesn’t do it justice. ‘Getting fixed’ implies you were broken before, which I wasn’t – not there anyway. Sterilized might work, but sounds too soap and waterish. ‘Vas’ sounds euro. ‘The procedure’ sounds pretentious. Victimized might be accurate but isn’t specific enough. So yeah, I was vasectomized. Good times.
I had thought to tell you all about it, you know, do a service to all the other fools – but a little research indicated that many, many people have already done that. Turns out I am not the first smart ass to have ‘it’ done, – so I refer you here. Or reprinted below with my comments.
Gord's Guide to Vasectomy
First off, there are the drugs. You get two valium. You are supposed to pop them down your gullet about a half hour before the procedure. Apparently there was problem with guys clutching their privates and rocking back and forth in crazy-eyed terror in the waiting room.
So I only got one valium. Shit. From what my wife tells me most of the other guys in the waiting room looked stoned. I didn’t notice, I was too busy trying not to clutch my junk and rock back and forth.
The doctors don’t like that. It’s bad for business. So they give you a couple downers and hope that you don’t drool too much on their five-year-old copy of Field and Stream.
My doctors copy of Field and Stream was only 6 months old. But it’s not like I could read it.
Well, I’m a smallish person, so I only took one. I figured that one valium would be plenty to get me mellow (and I would have a little party-pill locked away afterward, should I ever want it.)
It would be good to have an emergency valium. Or eight.
Important Vasectomy Tip #1. Take both pills one hour prior to your appointment. I was sweating like a whore in church while I waited for them to call my name. The drugs didn’t kick in until after I had a hole in my sack.
Right. That would be a good tip if you had multiple valium. I rolled in with a little buzz on, but hardly what I needed to prevent teeth grinding, shaking and profuse sweating. I tried to act like I wasn’t worried, you know, because I am a guy – but I don’t think it was working. I am not really an advocate of medical marijuana, but if there was ever an application I think this might be the time.
The nurse led me to the operating room, and handed me a blanket. She said I could use it for “privacy” after I took off my clothes. Privacy? Wha? You’re going to shave my balls? What exactly am I going to keep private? I threw the blanket on a chair with my clothes and reclined in naked glory. When the nurse returned, she looked at me and smirked. She hefted my unit up onto my belly and covered the top..oh, 18 inches or so with the blanket “to keep everything out of the way.”
Yup, living large. They taped it out of the way and framed the boys with miscellaneous sheets. So there you are all covered up except for the one part of you that wants to be covered up – that’s exposed.
Then the doctor walked in, grabbed the razor, and got down to the business of shaving my trembling, wrinkled scrotum.
I clearly got ripped off. Only one valium, and I had to shave my own balls. Yeah, that was, um, weird. So whats the first thing you do when you have to do something you have never done before? That’s right, google it. Right, so yeah, if you google shaving your bits don’t dig too deep into the results, you might find yourself somewhere you didn’t mean to go. Turns out there are other reasons to remove the hair from your man parts than vasectomies. Go figure.
Anyhow, there I am with the clippers… Oh God. And then the razor… ugh. One slip and you don’t need the procedure right? Like woops! There are my bits on the floor. I gotta say all those years of leg shaving paid off nicely here. Finally I know the real reason cyclists do that. I only cut myself once, but when I came to the bleeding had stopped. I recommend you start practicing now.
Every time the nut-doctor went to shift anything, he’d give me a warning first. “I’m going to work on the other side now.” It cracked me up. Like I’m going to suddenly say, “Hold it, doc. You shave the left side, and that’s cool. But you shave over Mr. Right, and I might turn gay.” Once he was done shaving, he uttered the words every man dreads when a he’s spread eagle, naked, in front of a stranger – “Nurse, fetch the zucchini.” Just kidding. He said, “This is going to sting.” Sting is what a bee does when you step on it. Sting is how it feels to get shot with a BB gun. Sting is not the sensation of a needle boring into your scrotum. There should be another word for that sensation. A bigger, scarier word. A word like “strazoogalachalachowie.”
Shit yeah it hurts. The needle prick isn’t so bad, but then they inject magma from the river of death in the bowels of hell. I don’t know how they get magma from the river of death in the bowels of hell, but I know that’s what they use. So it was right about the time the magma hit that I realized that a man’s balls are connect to every other part of his body. Not by the nervous system mind you, something far less elegant – more like a series of fish hooks connected by string. That’s why my eyeballs almost sucked in and my toes curled in and locked up. Fortunately it only hurts for a few seconds before your left nut turns into one of those Styrofoam balls. Why is it always the left one?
But no. I got “stung.” Then the Doc cut a hole in my sack and started fishing around. My nuts wanted nothing to do with this. They retreated to the back of the room and tried hide. Vasectomy Tip #2 – It hurts. Don’t believe the guys who tell you otherwise. When the most sensitive area of your body is opened up and prodded, it hurts. Why there is even debate on this, is beyond me.
Yeah, did I mention it hurts. I am giving it a solid 7. Maybe some peaks of 8 or so, but averaging out to 7. You know what hurts the worst though? Yeah, remember when I told you they taped the member out of the way? Well right, they rip the tape off at the end. My man filter failed and colorful combination of f-bombs, s-words and even a JC came out at considerable volume. Tearing tape off the Johnson – that’s a 9.
At this time, I think I need to send a special shout out to the women who are reading this. Before you send me the “That’s nothing compared to what a woman goes through during birth / hysterectomy / gang-bang” email, let me just tell you to please shut your pie-holes. I know. Women are tougher than men and we all know it. I’m sure if you ladies had scrotums, you’d pound them with bricks and wouldn’t even flinch. I don’t want to hear about it.
Yeah, what he said.
Vasectomy Tip #3- Valium is your friend. Finally, mercifully, the valium kicked in. It was like being drunk – good drunk, riding the crest of the perfect ethyl wave. I was high. I was, in my opinion, a brilliant conversationalist. I was funny…no, I was hysterical. Shucking and jiving with the professionals attending to my crotch, I didn’t have a care in the world. A scotch and soda would be nice though. And maybe pants. Ya, pants… I was a riot. I was so busy laying down my drug-induced comedy routine that I barely noticed when the doctor picked up what must have been H.R. Giger’s crochet hook and stuck it into my sack-hole. It was funny, in a Jackass sort of way. I almost made a joke about him crocheting an afgan out of my vas deferens. But when he hooked Mr. Left’s delicate tether, and tugged it out the hole, nothing was funny. It was a baaaaaaaaaad feeling – sort of a cross between getting kicked in the ‘nads and pulling your intestines out your ass. The doctor cut the cord. He tied the ends into elaborate knots (either Botswain’s whistle knots or jug-sling hitches, its hard to recall), and he cauterized the whole mess with an industrial-grade soldering iron. Then he repeated the process with Mr. Right’s plumbing. When the whole thing was over, the doc crammed my wounded spaghetti back into the sack and stitched it up.
I clearly did not have enough valium. I mean, I did have to bite my tongue to prevent myself from laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. And I did have to fight not to hum the ‘I’ve Got Big Balls’ song that was running in my head. Not to mention I wasn’t really phased by the sound and smell of burning man flesh, which likely was my own. Mostly I sat there worrying about the inevitable second injection of magma. Why in the hell do you have two nuts anyway?. Sometimes redundancy sucks.
Vasectomy Tip #4 – It’s not over until you say it’s over For what its worth, getting stitches in my bag wasn’t as bad as it sounds. It was already numb there. The bad part comes days later, when you get your stitches caught in your underwear just prior to taking a pee in a public restroom, and you nearly bite your tongue off trying not to squeal while the guy at the urinal next to you pretends like he doesn’t notice you gyrating and chewing on your tongue. They say that the recovery period is supposed to last two to three days. It took me about a week before I stopped trying to walk AROUND my ice-covered crotch. I spent the week trying to avoid (with marginal success) anything that might move, jar, strain, jiggle, or otherwise traumatize my junk. Some of the post ballbag-cutting activities one should steer clear of include: walking, running, driving a stick, sitting in any position that does not allow you to keep your legs spread like a Tijuana hooker during Fleet Week, and, of course, getting punched in the junk by a three-year-old child. Explaining to Junior that “we need to be gentle with Daddy” from a fetal position on the kitchen floor was not one of my better moments in parenting. There were a couple longer-term effects too. Effect #1 was the bruising. I won’t go into details here, but let’s just say “stuff turned black.” Effect #2 was that I carried around the low-grade got-whacked-in-the- cajones-half-an-hour-ago feeling for about a month. But it’s over now. And I thank the gods of modern medical science that the operation did not go south like the one on my foot. I don’t know if I could have dealt with packing an infected scrotum with sterile gauze. Am I glad I did it? Hell yes. They say that after the surgery, a married man can go from having sex once a month, to TWELVE TIMES a year!
I implied to my facebook friends that the boys swelled to basketballs – but that was a bald lie. Didn’t even make nectarines. Golf balls maybe. But smoother. There was a bit of smurfiness too, but I didn’t even notice till I built up the courage to lift up my bits and look at the incisions.
The first few days were below average, but not too bad. Never underestimate the effect of frozen vegetables on your junk. I may never eat another pea, but that is ok.
Here I am a week and a half out, the incisions are all but healed and the stitches all but dissolved and I am still concerned about blowing a stitch and having spaghetti in my pants. That would be bad. Spaghetti in the pants. Nothing good could come of that.
Against my better judgment I rode my bike this weekend. It was largely uneventful, but I have to say it is difficult to pedal around your nuts. I’m afraid I was rather duckish, and there is nothing I hate more than duckish bike riders.
I suppose this too shall pass. It will be a few more days before I am secure in the belief my insides will, you know, stay inside, but its rolling.
So now there is only one more hurdle. It seems you have to provide some samples over the next few months to confirm your hardly earned sterility. I gotta say I am a little nervous. Not about that part, I can do that part. Not sure about the cup, but I will work that out.
The part I am nervous about is the part where you do turn it in to the doctors office. I’m pretty sure It will go like this…
Me: “yeah, I have a sample to get analyzed”
Old lady receptionist: “A sample of what?”
Me: “um, sperm. Wel,l I mean hopefully not sperm. Hopefully the other stuff. I had a vasectomy.”
Old lady receptionist: “Semen, do you mean semen?”
Me: “um, yeah, ok”
Old lady receptionist: (through the PA system) “lab assistant to the front desk. Mr Angry is here with his semen sample”
At that point all the younger women will giggle and point, the old people in the waiting room will scowl, the new vasectomy patients will grab their junk and rock, and I will shrivel up just a little bit.
Yup. The gift that keeps on giving.
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