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).