WARNING: This story contains content that some may find distasteful, and will probably give you more information than you ever wanted to know about me.
Viewer discretion is advised.
Basically, I talk about my balls the entire time. You’ve been warned.
When I was a kid, I always thought it was odd that a neutered or spayed animal was labeled ‘fixed.’ The child of two hippies (of some kind or another), I felt this was outrageous and thought the label should be changed to ‘broken.’ Yeah, because animals aren’t driven by a biological need to reproduce, they’re just having babies because they’re in love, 10 year-old Me.
My wife was pregnant with our third, and her sixth child, a baby girl, and we knew if I didn’t get something disconnected downstairs we’d eventually have our own baseball team. If I recall correctly, her words were something along the lines of “You’re getting a vasectomy or you’re not touching me after she’s born, I’ll get pregnant again.”
We found out insurance would cover it, and I scheduled an appointment to be examined by the doctor who would be performing the procedure. He first asked me why I wanted to get a vasectomy and my answer was simply “Well, I want to be able to have sex with my wife without getting her pregnant anymore.”
He laughed at my straightforwardness and asked me to pull my pants down so he could inspect me. After I did, I stood there with my hands on my hips. Not proudly, like I thought I was gracing him with the sight of my manhood, but in a matter-of-fact sort of way, and stared at the wall while another man examined my scrotum-totem and dad-nads with his gloved hand. I asked him, trying to keep the mood light, “So is this still awkward for you or have you gotten pretty used to this part?” He laughed again and said it didn’t phase him anymore.
My wife and I asked prior to the appointment for the examination if the doctor doing the procedure specialized in vasectomies, or if this was one of several operations he performed and were told he had done somewhere in the thousands, and some times performed as many as eight a day. No matter what part of you is getting worked on, you don’t want a doctor who says “Eh, it could go either way, we’ll see what happens.”
The night before the appointment my wife helped shave me, smooth as a pre-pubescent dolphin. She used clippers first and then an actual razor with shaving cream, which as it turns out, is very cooling but simultaneously like FIRE on your beanbag. My reaction to the shaving cream feeling like Elsa sicced fire ants on my family jewels, and the fact that it tickles horribly when someone lightly runs a razor across your taint, caused me to make outlandish Jim Carrey-esq expressions, making my wife laugh uncontrollably, which made the razor shake in her hand and added further danger of slicing my sack and neutering me the night before.
The next day my wife, who was about 6 months pregnant, accompanied me to the clinic and left our 4 year-old daughter and our 17 month-old daughter with her oldest daughter, who was about 5 months pregnant (yeah, you read that right. I think there’s something in the water in our area). I think she mostly came for emotional support, because we were both concerned that things may not function properly once the procedure was done (that can happen, but it’s rare), but I think she also wanted to make sure I actually went through with it.
When we arrived, I laid down on the table with my wife next to me holding my hand encouragingly while they soaped and washed my treasure chest before numbing it with a needle. After it was numb, they took a pair of pointed scissors and opened me up on both sides, though after doing the right side the doctor asked if I had ever been diagnosed with a bleeding disorder, and I replied, “No… why?” and his response was simply, “Oh, nothing to worry about, just a little oozier than normal.” Oh, is that all. Thanks so much.
After the doctor opened up the boys on both sides I began to feel a tugging sensation in my lower abdomen, like someone had grabbed a couple strings attached to the inside of my abdominals and began pulling. My wife told me later it was my vas deferens, which she said looked like two fettuccine noodles. The doctor had pulled about an inch of them out before putting titanium clamps on them, clipping them, and finally cauterizing the ends, before being returned to my tea bag. Yeah, nothing like lying on a table, smelling something burning and thinking, “Oh, it’s my balls.”
When I got home from the brief (Get it? Brief?) procedure I was instructed to keep my marbles level with my heart, which meant I could play video games as much as I wanted for the first day. I was instructed to keep frozen peas on it for 10 minutes, then take it off for another 10, and repeat, but unfortunately we didn’t have any frozen peas, so I had to settle for a ziplock back of frozen fruit. Eventually I discovered the berries had thawed and the bag was leaking, and I couldn’t tell if my coin purse was purple from bruising or from fruit juice. However it did make my 4 year-old quite curious, who asked with wide eyes, “What are you doing, daddy?” and I replied, “Oh, daddy’s just stuffing blueberries in his pants, honey!”
We’ve made it almost 11 months since our last daughter was born (we didn’t make it this far last time) and managed to be in the same room together longer than 20 minutes without her getting pregnant, so I think it’s safe to say the one-eyed Sergeant’s firing blanks now. The worst part of the experience was having my pubes grow back, and as the weather started warming up it felt like I had a cactus stuck to my legs.