One man documents his journey through a vasectomy, the Heart of Darkness for anyone who has ever held close their balls.
Part 1 – Prelude to a Snip
I count myself as incredibly lucky to have a healthy, beautiful daughter. And I don’t just mean beautiful through the lens of my doting fatherly eyes. She’s easily hotter than 97% of your little fuglings. I’m not usually this open with my feelings, but understanding my unconditional love for her is important when I further proclaim that I absolutely never ever want to curse my family with another one of her.
My wife and I have decided to let the idiots outbreed us and cap it at one kid. Though it was a decision intended to help our little clan prosper, it simultaneously crystallized for me just how little unprotected sex I’ve had in this life. I’ve always had to be very diligent about birth control because my superhuman virility does not share my fear of supporting unplanned children. That’s not bravado, by the way. My spermatozoa were the subject of a fertility study a few years back when a scanning electron microscope revealed their unique method of contending with condoms:
Saying farewell to theoretical offspring was easy enough, but imagining a world without unfettered intercourse was just too dreary to consider. Indulging in that oft-forbidden fruit meant something had to change.
I started dropping hints that my wife should just have her baby factory plucked out of her, but it’s difficult to work “hysterectomy” into casual conversation. It became clear that if I wanted infertility I was going to have to make it happen myself.
I made an appointment with my friendly neighborhood Emasculationologist for a consultation. While waiting to be called in, I picked up a comic book to do some light reading:
This Cliffs Notes on male sterilization (masquerading as a MILF porn comic for some reason) spelled out everything I needed to know about vasectomies. Each subtopic was structured the same: clinical data about the procedure somehow softened by intimate, nannycam views into total stranger’s homes:
For brevity’s sake, I’ll paraphrase the “FACTS” section the above picture was plucked from.
FACT: A vasectomy does not reduce your sex drive. However if you’re particularly bashful about scars on your testes, you may wish to keep them behind a veil during intercourse.
FACT: A vasectomy will not solve relationship problems. You’ll need to dump the bitch for that.
It went on to demystify the post-op mechanics of your junk. Unfortunately the fine print was lost in the scanning process, so I’ve summarized the bullet points:
About halfway through my reading I was lead to an examination room to be greeted by the doctor. He quietly assured “It’s like a dental procedure. You’ll even be able to drive home afterward. There’s really nothing to worry about.”
His tone should have soothed me, but in my semi-petrified state this is all I heard:
“It’s like a dental procedure, with the notable exception that I won’t be able to see the unbridled terror in your eyes from my vantage point. You’ll even be able to drive home afterward, provided you can do so without actually sitting on anything. There’s really nothing to worry about, except for the laser-sharp surgical blade I’ll be using to whittle down the seat of your manhood.”
I considered seeking the council of a new physician that would better comprehend how crap-your-pants-worthy this surgery was to me, but something extraordinary kept me there: his hands were freakishly tiny. Hands that diminutive would almost certainly perform detail work with ease. That was precisely the kind of advantage my balls deserved. It didn’t hurt that they made my package look massive when he began his examination as well.
He was mostly silent during the inspection, probably thinking something like “Sturdy build…graceful slope into the taint…I’d give them a B+” (or maybe “What am I doing with my life?”). After nearly a minute of silence, he finally remarked “Oh, you don’t shave? That’s not a problem. I’ll take care of that before the procedure.”
The hint of surprise in his observation intrigued me. Perhaps I give off a “This guy totally shaves his balls” vibe? More likely, everyone shaves them these days so my crotch looks like I’ve got Einstein in a triangle leg choke. In either case, he didn’t judge. It was then I knew I was going to ask him to do the honor of robbing this world of further iterations of me.
I made the appointment for my vasectomy and headed home contemplating how exactly one makes quality time with their balls. They deserved that much before we said adieu.
Yes, my testes speak French. Yours don’t?
Part 2 – The First Cut is the Deepest
After a long couple of weeks the much anticipated/reviled appointment was upon me. D-day (for Deez Nuts) had arrived.
Though I was never particularly close with my vas deferens, I felt they deserved some manner of sendoff. My wife and I decided that a delicious breakfast with tall stacks of pancakes and bacon was a fitting enough last meal. Unless of course my vas deferens were vegetarians. In that case it was a serious dick move on my part.
Somewhere between the arrival of the coffee and flapjacks doubts started to nag at me, but probably not for the reasons you’d expect. I certainly didn’t want any more kids and I wasn’t wary of surgery. If the only method to render me sterile involved inserting my sack into box holding an agitated honey badger, I’d still happily submit.
The source of my hesitation was a bit more oblique. Truth be told I’m primarily concerned about a healthy sex life. As many a dime-store comedian has remarked before, marital relations can run the risk of becoming stale over time. The failure to make romance a priority (and the fact that women seldom have additional vaginas to uncover) renders it inevitable. Worse, I am cursed with a partner who has no interest in BDSM, converting our kitchen into a sex dungeon or bringing her sisters into the mix. Prude. In a climate like this, about the only thing left that makes sex exciting is the risk of possibly knocking her up. If we eliminate that…heaven help us.
By the time the check arrived I had a moment of clarity – I am a selfish, barely adequate lover. No amount of manufactured allure was going to address that. In summary, my dog would soon be the only intact male in the house.
Mere hours later I entered the site of my demise. It was a multipurpose room of sorts. I didn’t truly expect the hospital to have a dedicated Vasectarium, but an operating theater without overflow storage for ballpoint pens would be nice. It even had a wall-mounted otoscope, just in case I noticed hearing loss during the operation on my testicles.
The other equipment in the room was a bit more disconcerting. I was pretty sure most of it wasn’t to be used on me, but just knowing it existed didn’t warm me to the medical profession. I don’t care how well-intentioned the “Scope Buddy” is, I can’t welcome any probing instrument with tubes that diameter.
I also noted the location of the surgical lubricant, mostly because there would be no cause for using it during my procedure. Anyone reaching for it was bound to be taking certain liberties under my gown.
At the doctor’s instruction I laid down on the table. Staring at the ceiling I contemplated just how many other men had this view before the days of their proliferation came to a close. That’s when it sank in that this room was to be my balls’ ground zero.
I could feel my anxiety beginning to percolate, so I tried to shift my focus to anything but the increasing commotion south of the border. It was then that I noticed the cool breeze from the fan humming behind my head. It was a pleasant touch, making it feel more like a casual vasectomy on a cruise ship’s lido deck.
It all felt pretty surreal until the doctor taped my penis against my pubis like a MacGuyvered chastity belt. About then shit got pretty real. “You’re going to feel a little sting as I deliver the anesthesia,” he said with a matter-of-fact tone that in no way telegraphed the terrifying notion of a needle plunging into my junk.
His assessment was accurate – it hurt. It’s hard to describe the pain, but I’d probably compare it to someone sticking a needle into my testicles.
Describing what happened next is difficult. I was too numbed up to interpret the stabbing and sawing motions in my peripheral vision. I could feel the twins getting nudged around, but that was about it. Having little recourse to observe how things were going I focused my attention on the nurse’s face for any sudden looks of surprise or terror.
One detail was sickeningly vivid. As each tube was bisected he seared it shut with electrosurgical cautery. That’s a fancy way of saying I got to hear my plumbing sizzle like bacon on a skillet.
Overall it went pretty well, at least as much as scheduled testicular trauma can have an upside. The doctor was poised and efficient, so any discomfort almost certainly stemmed from nervousness on my part. I was mostly relieved that my dry streak with the missus prior to the surgery didn’t complicate things. I was sure that cutting into a system with that much back-pressure would manifest in a disaster akin to an explosion at the glue factory.
I walked out of there feeling accomplished. All that ugliness was finally behind me. And then I remembered that I was still numb and the real fun might just be moments away…
What will become of our intrepid hero?
Will there be swelling? Blood loss? Whining? (Probably lots of the last one).
Part 3 – What Hath My Urologist Wrought?
As I ambled out of the procedure room (ambling really is the least testicle-intensive form of locomotion), I had a sinking feeling. Had I endured the worst part of this process or was I cruising headlong into it? In either case I was pretty sure I didn’t have to worry. After all, I just had surgery on the most tender and vulnerable portion of the male anatomy. Any doctor with even the slightest inkling of humanity would have to send me home with a caravan of prescription pain pills appropriate for equine dentistry.
By the time I reached the car I started to realize that the odds of even getting a Vicodin prescription were becoming steadily less favorable. Yeah, I was a little slow on the uptake, but remember that I was probably still in shock. Apparently the buzzkills of the medical establishment intended to leave me with the cold comfort of over-the-counter drugs. Needless to say, I was upset.
My family did not disappoint with their warm homecoming. My kid hit me with a battery of questions on the procedure, probably because she was granted temporary license to say “penis” as much as she wanted. My dogs pounced and jumped on me playfully, though I can’t be sure they didn’t sniff out my condition and attempt to assert pack dominance by alpha-rolling me.
“Hey Eunuch, we don’t take kindly to your type ‘round here”
I knew it was important to not do anything testicle-intensive, so I sat down to watch some TV. This proved to be more difficult than expected.
Since channel surfing was off the table, I reviewed the doc’s take-home paperwork. It was a pretty run-of-the-mill list of common sense warnings (“Please do not let household cats swat at your testes for at least 7 days”). It didn’t get particularly interesting until the section on possible complications, provided you substitute “interesting” for “horrifying beyond all sense and reason.”
Granted, there are zero medical conditions I’m okay being unleashed on my balls, but these sounded particularly nasty. The actual diagnoses were almost immaterial, since each was just another cocktail variation made with swelling and/or leakage. Luckily in my feeble state the computer was too far away for me to run a Google image search on “sperm granuloma”, which would have only cemented my terror.
The remaining paperwork had considerably less nightmarish news to deliver:
POST VASECTOMY SEMEN SAMPLE COLLECTION
It takes between 10 – 20 ejaculations, 6 – 8 weeks on average, for you to become sterile. After that, ejaculate once in the cup provided. The sample must be 4 hours fresh when you submit it to the lab.
This was hilarious to me on multiple levels. I especially loved the reminder to not get creative with the delivery of semen to their lab. I imagine all it took was one guy sauntering up to the reception desk with his sample in a zip-tied condom before they had to tighten up regulations. Further, whoever established those guidelines didn’t have much of a grasp on the male libido. Allotting 6 to 8 weeks just to accomplish ten or more ejaculations? Even in my fragile state I managed to knock out a round during my ride in the parking structure elevator.
I was surprised to find they didn’t provide anything for me to track my “progress” to sterility in all that paperwork, but where some see a gross oversight I visualized an opportunity. Let me introduce you to the Intertilometer. Think of it as a masturbation Advent calendar, except at the end you get NO baby Jesus:
With the snipping finally behind me and days of bed rest ahead, there was little else to do but capture the details of my recovery. I decided to start a diary to note every gruesome detail and occasionally speculate if my doctor liked me “like, more than than a friend”. It was the best way to keep memories fresh…and it if happened to assist in future lawsuits for “Emotional Distress” all the better. Here’s how it broke down:
My balls were punctured today. How are you?
I spent most every waking moment today sitting on a block of ice. I don’t know if the goal here is to prevent swelling or encourage my balls to take up permanent residence in my abdomen. But at least it doesn’t hurt much.
I woke up to realize that I had bled through my gauze into my underwear. As a precaution I am applying direct pressure to the incision site and trying to keep my balls elevated. The latter is easier said than done without some form of pulley system.
I’m a little sore, but its not remotely approaching the worst case scenarios I had envisioned. It’s kind of like the persistent sensation of being kicked in the groin an hour prior – not particularly painful, but you can still feel their resentment.
Dirty Diana (NAH!),
Bled into my underwear again. Let me say that you simply never EVER get used to seeing blood down there. I’m beginning to suspect they operated with a pizza cutter. I may have to set up a nannycam in my bed to make sure no one is taking opportunistic crotch stabs on me.
It looks like pain I’ve been waiting for is just not coming. It appears I’m going to walk away from this largely unscathed, apart from my vas deferens of course. Maybe I’ll go celebrate with some mountain biking or perhaps some step aerobics since I’m invincible.
Looking back I have to admit that nothing hurt nearly as much as I figured it would. As a patient and a total sissy, I am relieved. As a comedy writer, I’m a little disappointed because my pain would probably be more hilarious to you. I wasn’t even sure if I should share this story, but given the way my wife has been laughing at me through this whole process I thought others might enjoy it.
To close this out I should really thank my vas deferens, the little unsung heroes of my balls. Without them I wouldn’t have the family I cherish or the 4 others scattered around the continental U.S. that I never speak of. Despite years of scrotal trauma courtesy of karate sparring sessions, they validated my potency when it mattered most. I’m gonna miss you guys.
Enough chit-chat. I’ve got some medically-mandated masturbating to do!