Monday, May 21, 2012

Monday Morning Stories With Mookie - Episode 17

The Time Mookie Got A Vasectomy

Having kids is great.  My wife and I have two boys, and they definitely keep us on our toes.  They are awesome, funny, and make me proud to be their Dad.  They also cause never-ending anxiety, stress, tears, pain, sleepless nights, drained bank accounts, and embarrassment.  Oh! I forgot to add the utter lack of a sex life too.  But that is what having kids is all about right?  Right??

It took my wife and I several years to decide to have kids.  When we got married, kids were not in the foreseeable future.  Over time we eventually softened up to the idea and decided to go for it.  Needless to say, we didn't have to "go for it" very long because she got pregnant pretty quick.  This blows because we went from having a LOT of sex to NO sex.  Reason?  My wife was virtually nauseous for the entire 9 months, and most days she just wanted to die.  It was awful.  It definitely put the brakes on sexy time.

Our first son was born and he was more of a handful than we (or anyone) could have ever  prepared for. Wow.  So between that, and memory of my wife feeling like death for 40 weeks.......we were good on kids for awhile.  However, time has a funny way of making us forget, and making it seem things weren't as bad as they really were.  So after a few years we decided to give our son a sibling, and to "go for it" again.  Once again, we didn't have to try very long this time either.  Needless to say it is reassuring knowing that our carefulness in "trying not to have kids" over the years was energy not wasted.  If we had found out down the road that one of us was unable to produce a child, we would have been pisssssssed.

This pregnancy goes better than the first, mainly because the wife was not sick 24/7.  It was more like 14/6.  Son #2 arrives safe and healthy, BUT now we have two needy people depending on us.  Most days it seemed like they were fighting over who could be the neediest (they still do).  Between all of this, our jobs, the loss of our sanity, and the cost of daycare draining our bank accounts, we felt very confident in saying we were done having kids.

"Megan (*)" and I had talked about it over the years, and always said that when the appropriate time came that I would get a vasectomy, as opposed to her getting a tubal ligation (tubes tied).  The vasectomy is actually quite simple and less evasive than a tubal ligation (significantly cheaper too).  One day she calls me at work and asks me to call the urologist to see what we would need to do to get that vasectomy.  So I call them up, and they say to come in and a nurse will go over the procedure, and emphasize that this should  be considered "permanent."  So we go, and nothing we see or hear sways us or changes our thought in the slightest.  I’m good with “permanent.”  We check with insurance to see if it is covered, and it was (it was $1,100.00 in case you were wondering).  The nurse books our appointment on a Friday after lunch, and we depart.  They say they always do the procedure on Fridays so the patients can more easily rest at home on the weekends.  I am on board for this.

The day of the procedure arrives and I am ready.  I took the day off from work, took the kids to daycare, and then went and had a nice 6-mile run on the treadmill.  I showered, met the wife for a quick lunch, and then we headed to the urologist.  I had no qualms about what was going to happen.

Once we got to the urologist, we checked in at the front desk and then sat in the waiting room.  As we sat there waiting, it comes to mind that EVERYONE here is waiting to discuss some issue with their man/lady parts. It is mildly humorous to me since I have the maturity of a 10-year old.

Finally, my name is called.  A nurse takes me back into this little office-like room, and has me sign  a variety of forms and medical releases. When I’m done, I laugh to myself because I just signed a paper that essentially gave them explicit permission to cut my junk open. 

Then the nurse gave me a Valium tablet, and says this should help keep me calm and relaxed.  She says I can go back to the waiting room and let that get into my system, and then they’ll call me back when the doctor is ready.  I walk back out to the waiting room, and Megan is like “what did you do?” I tell her about the paperwork I signed and how they gave me Valium. Ten to fifteen minutes go by, and this Valium has done nothing but make my face flushed.  That. Is. It.  I feel no less anxious or relaxed than I did when I rolled into the office. If anything, it INCREASED my anxiety.  Megan had previously asked me if I wanted one of her Xanax prior to coming into the office.  I turned her down based the idea that I thought I would be "OK" and I just didn't feel responsible self-medicating.  Needless to say I was beginning to regret this decision.

Eventually the nurse comes out and says they are ready for me. I stood up, kissed my wife, and walked towards the nurse. We walked down a hallway, and she leads me into a room that has a double-door entry. She says for me to strip from the waist down, and then go and sit on the operating table until “Dr. R” (*) is ready. She then handed me this oversize sheet of butcher paper and says I can “cover myself” with it when I’m on the table. Classy.  Then she left the room.

I'm left alone in this big uninviting procedure room, contemplating the fact that Valium was useless, and I was minutes away from getting my junk cut open.  Honest to God - My first instinct is to BOLT. “Dude you need to get the F out of here now.” The fact I had that thought surprised me to an extent because I've never had the urge to seriously run away from anything.  Up until now I had no fear or hesitation about any of this procedure. I had researched the entire thing and I knew what I was in for. In hindsight, I honestly think it came down to a "modesty thing."  I've never been one to stroll the house naked or flaunt my "business" in front of anyone, and in about 2 minutes some doctor dude and nurse lady are going to have a front row seat for my junk.  OH! And as an added bonus - they are going to cut holes in it and cut things out of it. Wow.

I removed my clothing from the waist down like the nurse said, set them in the chair, and walked over to the end of the operating table.  A minute later “Dr. R” and the nurse come in and start preparing for the procedure. “Dr. R is a pleasant guy with a good sense of humor, and begins to explain exactly what he is going to do.  Based on my previous research, what he tells me sounds about right, and I have no questions for him.  “All right."  He says.  "Let’s do this.”

I lay back and he proceeds to manhandle my junk like no one has ever before – In case you are wondering, it was not in a good way.  No one should EVER do whatever the hell it was he was doing.  He said he was trying to locate the “vas deferens” (aka: sperm hose) so that he could minimize the cut he would need to make to retrieve it.  I swear to God he was acting like he was hired by an ex-girlfriend to injure my junk.  Then they said I would feel a “small pinch.”  As everyone knows, in “doctor talk” this means they are going to stick me with a needle.  They did.  They injected some sort of numbing substance into my scrotum.  Uncomfortable is not even close to the term for what that felt like. 

THEN.  He went to work.  Lying on my back like I was, I could not see what “Dr. R” and the nurse were doing.  In hindsight I wish I could have though.  During the procedure itself I was mainly preoccupied with how much discomfort I was in.  I tried to keep the mood light, especially since their job was probably that much more difficult thanks to my pre-procedure nerves pulling my junk up into my abdomen.  It was probably like operating on an infant.  I joked that I wanted him to cut a significant piece out of the vas deferens so there was no way that bad boy was going to reconnect itself.  So he pulled on it. Sweet Jesus IT HURT.  I felt the tension of what he was pulling on up through my pelvis into my abdomen.  I asked how much that was he pulled.  He said “a quarter of an inch.”  I grunted back at him in obvious discomfort: “Not much slack there huh?”  He laughed and said no.  I think he then cauterized the ends of the vas deferens to close them off, stuffed it all back in, and then stitched me up.

Oh wait!  We’re not done. No no!  There are TWO vas deferens.  We have to do the other side!

So “Dr. R” repeated the same procedure all over again, only on the other side of my junk.  The result was equally as uncomfortable as the first part.  After finishing that up, he stitched up that side and advised me on how to take care of the wounds, and what to expect in the coming days and weeks.  He said that since the incisions were minimal, the stitches should help leave minimal to no scarring.  I laughed and jokingly said “Yeah thanks.  That was a big worry.”  He came back with “Well, I don’t know what you do for a living.  In the event you are testicle model, your career shouldn’t be hindered.”  It hurt to laugh at that one.

As he is getting ready to leave, he tells me again what to expect in the coming hours and days, and explicitly tells me to take it easy. He said that everything during the procedure went “fine,” so there shouldn’t be any complications. I say that is good.  THEN he replies “Yeah, it looked just like it did on the internet when I researched it last night.  Take care.” I laughed, and he smiled as he left the room.

The nurse helped me up off the table, and asked if I was OK. I said yeah.  She gave me handfuls of gauze to pack my junk in, and she left me to get dressed. I looked at my nether-regions, and they looked like they had been through the wringer - An unsettling sight to say the least.  I got all my clothes back on (over my gauze packed crotch), and walked out into the hallway where the nurse was waiting for me. She walked with me back out to the waiting room to where my wife was waiting.  I tried to walk as normally as possible, but I’m sure it looked like I was in some discomfort.

I pretty much took it easy the rest of that day.  The pain wasn’t too bad, and was easily treated with ibuprofen.  When I woke up Saturday, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when I looked at “Dr. R’s” handy work.  My junk was BRUISED.  I’ve had bruises a million times, but nothing like this.  I was in shock at how black and blue my junk was.  I should have taken a picture.  The rest of the weekend was pretty low-keyed too, although I did resort to shoveling a bit of snow Sunday night with little discomfort.

In the days that followed, the stitches came out, the wounds healed, and any discomfort subsided.  Life and regular activities returned to normal in short order, and I was even brave enough to resume running a few weeks later too.  The procedure proved successful, and I am now unable to impregnate my wife.  But as I said before, I have kids.  I can’t get near my wife most days anyway, even when she's dressed.  However the peace of mind of not being able to father future children is reassuring.  I'm sure society is glad too.

One last thing: I should TOTALLY sue “Dr. R.”  One of the incisions left a very visible scar.  It totally ruined my testicle modeling career aspirations.  You want to see it??

(*) – Names changed to protect the guilty/innocent.

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