The Other Kindest Cut (Or, Ian Visits the Urologist)

by Ian Healy

In the summer of 2004, my wife was placed on medication that required her to stop taking birth control pills. After going through three Caesareans, I thought that there'd been enough people digging around in her abdomen, so when the sergeant asked for volunteers for the most dangerous of missions, I stepped forward and saluted. I told my wife I would go get a vasectomy. Being the father of three beautiful children had strengthened my convictions that I most definitely didn't want to father a fourth, but the months dragged by, and I kept conveniently "forgetting" to schedule the appointment.

Finally I decided I could wait no longer, so I called and scheduled the hour-long appointment. Having cut my journaling eyeteeth elsewhere, it was only natural that I would chronicle my adventure. Show this story to your husbands and their friends, and perhaps they'll see that in the end it's not such a bad deal after all.

Two Balls, No Strikes: The Vasectomy Story
A presentation of Lifetime Television

(You ever notice how formulaic the titles of all movies on Lifetime are? It's always SomethingCOLONThe such-and-such Story. I think that's so dumb.)

Part The First: The Waiting Room
So I checked into the urologist's office just before three. Sitting in the waiting room was a redneck with a jawful of chaw, a guy who could have been Jerry Stiller's older brother, and a cheerful old lady gabbing on her cell phone. The receptionist was perky. You know what I mean. Perky. The kind of perky you'd like to strangle. I filled out my paperwork dutifully then looked through the selection of magazines. My choices: Cure (all about cancer), Oprah, Harper's Bazaar, Coping--featuring Cokie Roberts, and a bunch of Spanglish pamphlets on everything from the evils of smoking to diabetes to bedwetting (Spanglish pamphlets are printed in two columns, one in english and one in Spanish). Faced with these options, I decided to stare vacantly into space instead. I wondered if it was an evil omen when one of the nurses (in her fifties if she was a day) walked out of the back, paused cheerfully by the perky receptionist's desk, and said in her best Schwarzenegger impression, "Ah'll be bock!" Husky voice and everything.

Part The Second: What's Up, Doc?
Finally called to the back, I was directed to a typical exam room. I sat down and waited. And waited. And waited. While I waited I got to listen in on an unfolding drama in the back office involving the doctor, a nurse, and a recalcitrant computer, which ended with the doctor admonishing "just fix it later, I don't have time for this now." Oh, I'm sorry, if you're in a hurry I'd really rather you not be bringing sharp implements anywhere near my testicles, is what I considered saying when he walked in and shook my hand. How many men's balls has this man held was a random thought flitting through my overactive brain. We went through a series of questions which boiled down to "Are you sure this is what you want to do?" and my answers which could be summarized as "yes, duh!"

Part The Third: Under the Knife
Escorted to the "operating room" (called such because it's where operations of this sort took place), I was directed to strip completely (except for my socks - kinky!) and to put on the too-small robe backwards. "Don't touch that table there," warned the doc. "It's sanitized." Oh, good. I was glad they weren't going to be using rusted farm implements on me. He came back in a few minutes later and laid me down, yanking my gown up to my armpits so he could examine me.

He pulled and prodded my balls this way and that, giving them more attention than they've had from anyone, including me (except in the shower). "I'm looking for your vas," he said, using the pet name he preferred. He said it the same way someone might say "I'm looking for the cookbook section." Apparently he found them, and rolled them back and forth between fingers so practiced I was tempted to ask if he smoked lots of spliffs. Finally he decided all was good, and grabbed a safety razor. He was careful to explain what was going on every step of the way, and shaved a neat strip all the way around my two veg. Thankfully that territory was not virgin to razors (I do the manscaping thing) so it's not like he was having to hack away at a tropical rain forest.

Draping me with towels, he placed a slitted cover over my man-tool and pulled the sack through and on into the next room. Not really, but it felt like that. Then he called in his nurse, who came over and stood by my head (the one I talk with, not the one I think with) and put her hands on my arm in a way that was both relaxing and intimately familiar. "You're the Lamaze coach," I said. She laughed. I was washed, scrubbed, swabbed, and for all I know, tattooed.

"Little prick," said the doctor and for a minute I thought I'd have to kick his ass. Then I realized what he meant when HE JABBED A HORSE NEEDLE INTO MY NUTSACK!! "This should numb the pain," he said. Oh, great. And he got to work. The last experience I had with local anesthetic was when I got my wisdom teeth chiseled out in high school, and I have to say they've improved it to no end in fifteen years. I didn't feel a thing as he dug around, cutting out my bits and pieces.

The nurse, to her immense credit, wasn't attractive enough for me to worry about, um, involuntary responses, but pleasant enough to keep me talking during the whole procedure. "Okay, that's done," said the doctor. "Now I'm going to cauterize the ends. You may smell something a little odd."

And I said, "..." because there were little curlicues of smoke rising up from the vicinity of my crotch and a smell reminiscent of pork fat dripping on a burner.

Instead of going around the table to work on the other side like I thought he might, he just leaned over to do the other side. "Another shot," he said which was infinitely better to another "prick" statement. The second one pinched a little and I made a Herculean effort to keep from squirming (not moving when someone is working with razor-sharp blades around your bulbous nether regions is good practice).

Finally he was done. "I don't use stitches," he explained, pinching the edges of the wounds together. "So you won't bleed forever." Then he put on some dressings and wrapped up my boys in a sort of push-up scrotum bra with a strap that went all the way around me. Kind of like an athletic support without the locker room smell.

Part The Fourth: Aftermath
"You're not sterile yet. You need ten to fifteen ejaculations first, so continue to use contraception."

My thought: What's the record on that?

"Then you need to bring in a sample so we can test it. It doesn't have to be fresh...it can be four to six hours old."

My thought: Oh, good. I don't have to whack off in the car on the way over.

"Then a week later, you need to bring in another sample."

My thought: Business or personal?

"Don't lift anything heavy for four or five days."

My thought: That's going to make taking a leak a challenge. Ha ha ha.

"And don't ride a bike or any heavy activity."

My thought: Sure, the first thing I'm going to do after getting my nuts operated on is hop on a bike.

"You can start having intercourse again whenever you're ready."

My thought: What's the record on that?

"If your testicles swell up like a baseball, that's not normal."

My thought: I think you should maybe mention that even if I didn't have recent surgery.

"Take Tylenol or Ibuprofen for the pain, and use some ice or frozen peas or something to help keep the swelling down."

My thought: I wouldn't dream of subjecting vegetables to that kind of abuse.

Part The Fifth: Coming Home (no pun intended)
I got back into the car an hour later, walking a little funny because of the dressings. It was amazing. The Lidocaine wore off in a matter of less than a minute, and by the time I got to the first stoplight I was definitely feeling my beans. It was a combination of blue balls and a feeling reminiscent of razor burn. For any ladies who don't know what blue balls are, I can't think of a good feminine analogy. It's what happens to high school guys whose girlfriends get them worked up and then do nothing about it. It's kind of a sick-to-your-stomach, kicked-in-the-balls, needing-to-jack-off-but-knowing-it-won't-help kind of feeling.

I came home to my wife screaming at the kids and thought that maybe lying on a table bleeding while an old Jewish guy cuts on your balls isn't such a bad thing.

But you'll have to excuse me...my peas are thawing.

The Author

Ian Healy is unemployed by trade and a writer by avocation. He has recently completed his first novel manuscript, an ambitious history of a superhero organization. When not writing, he takes care of his three children, a dog, a cat, and his wife. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.