The Vasectomy

A Tragicomedy in Three Acts

Act One: Medieval Weaponry, Witches, and Genital Empathy

I scheduled the vasectomy just a few months after my son was born. Don’t misinterpret this. I love my kids dearly, and my decision to go under the knife was in no way a reflection of how I felt about them. It was more a reflection of the fact that I have a caffeine-free version of OCD. I like straight edges, clean lines, and even numbers. Two parents; two kids. Two boys; two girls. Nice and even.

Okay, back to the subject at hand, i.e., my testicles. Because I felt comfortable with the symmetry our family had achieved, I felt confident (probably not the right word, but it’ll have to do) that it was time to drop the axe. Friends of mine—I should specify that these were male friends—demanded to know why I was getting neutered as opposed to my wife getting spayed. That the procedure for men is much less invasive than it is for women, and therefore less expensive, did not factor into my decision. I chose the vasectomy because I am a man of action. I make deals. I change the world. I write stories. Some men sit on the sidelines. But me? I disconnect the vas deferens (or at least make a co-payment to an HMO so that they can perform the disconnection).

Snip-snap! Snip-snap! The sound of a responsible man who’s taking care of business.

Before the vasectomy, I had to attend an orientation. In retrospect, I can admit that this was a good thing. The news is always reporting stories of surgeries run amok—surgeons mixing up paperwork and performing a leg amputation on a patient who needed his tonsils out, surgical assistants leaving a sponge in the chest cavity of a quadruple bypass, the entire medical staff telling dead baby jokes before the patient is fully anesthetized.

So this seemed like another failsafe to ensure that some poor schmuck wouldn’t wander in off the street and get an unsolicited nip-tuck of the old Charlie Browns. But when I went through the orientation, I didn’t feel assured. I felt I was being subjected to a needless prolonging of an already-uncomfortable situation—a heinous, wretched, immoral, unnatural, depraved, sacrilegious, gnashing-of-teeth type of situation.

This anxious feeling was not alleviated by the nurses running this perverse meet 'n greet. Yes, they were all female nurses. And, no, I would not be surprised to learn that they were running the orientation pro bono, since the lot of them seemed to relish the act of instilling in men an apocalyptic level of horror.

When I was waiting to drop off my paperwork before the orientation began, I noticed I had forgotten to fill out a box on one of the forms. I stepped out of line and approached the registration table to hunt down a pen. The nurse at the table shouted at me, “Hey, buddy, no cutting. Not yet anyway!” And then she cackled loudly, throwing her head back, standing akimbo, her chest and shoulders heaving violently. The other nurses in the room cackled too, and I swear, at that moment, a gust of sulfur filled the air and somewhere outside the building a hummingbird dropped dead. This all made perfect sense: the HMO had hired a coven of witches to initiate the vasectomy process.

Vasectomy educators are recruited from Salem, Massachusetts.

Moments later, a few dozen other men and I were herded into a classroom where the nurses proceeded to school us on scalpels, lasers, and other medieval and technologically advanced forms of weaponry pertinent to vasectomies. Next, they explained in bloody detail the ins and outs of the forthcoming carnage. It goes down like this: a urologist makes an incision with a katana blade, fishes out the vas deferens with a meat hook, severs the vas deferens with hedge clippers, and then ties it in a knot to achieve a kinked hose sort of effect.

At this point, a middle-aged sales manager raised his hand: “Will sperm continue being produced?” he asked. A good question given the kinked hose analogy.

“Yes,” the nurse said. “But it will be absorbed into the body.”

The sales manager considered this claim and then raised his hand to ask a follow-up. The nurse nodded at him. “Will that lead to any complications for those of us who are...um...especially sexually active?”

The rest of us vasectomy candidates puffed out our chests and nodded as if to confirm that this was a thoughtful, relevant, morally reasonable question.

Men voluntarily choosing to sever their vas deferens know a good question when they hear one.

The nurse rolled her eyes. “Are there any other good questions?” she asked, obviously insensitive to the vulnerable nature of men electing to sacrifice their virility, their identity, and a large majority of their sense of self-worth.

It suddenly struck me as ironic that women were the educational touchstone when it came to a testicle-specific procedure. I imagine my female readership is a little perturbed by this last comment given that they have endured pap smears and mammograms at the hands of a male-dominated medical profession for as long as doctors have been saying, “This might hurt a little.” Well, ladies, you have my sympathy, and please know that I’m writing to my congresswoman to propose a bill that henceforth requires genital empathy in all medical procedures and education.

Having completed the orientation, we were released with instructions to schedule our appointments after a 90-day stretch. This was a cooling-off period, we were told, the same idea employed to deter jealous spouses who had recently purchased a snub-nosed revolver from gunning down their promiscuous better halves. But instead of waiting to be armed, we were waiting to be disarmed. And even though the coven of witches had done little to soothe my nerves, I signed up for the snip—and once you’ve made a deal with a coven of witches, there’s no going back.

Act Two: The Dangling Modifier

Before the procedure, I had to prepare—not only emotionally but physically and practically. There was a whole laundry list of things that needed to be done. I’m a boxer-shorts kind of man, so I had to purchase some plum smugglers, which act as a brassiere for the clackers. The nurse who gave me the checklist assured me that after the procedure I wouldn’t want to be “dangling” (her word, not mine).

The word ‘dangle’ used to sound innocuous, even charming. My basset hound’s jowls dangle. Old men’s earlobes dangle. But for the love of all that is holy, post-vasectomy testicles best not dangle.

I enjoy running and pickup basketball and routinely pop ibuprofen to soothe back and knee pain, but I had to arrange for alternative therapies, in this case a bag of frozen peas, which I knew would come in handy after the vasectomy. And, finally, I’m not exactly metrosexual, so I had to invest in a few extra razors and a bottle of Nair. Apparently, the urologist—being something of a testicular artisan—would require a clean canvas.

I didn’t use both razors and Nair, but I wanted both on hand just in case. In case of what? I don’t know. But when you’re dealing with certain sensitive parts of your anatomy, all you can think is that you want to be prepared. I ended up going with the razor. The Nair was foreign and the term “chemical burn” was not all that palatable, especially given that there would be a significant recovery time and the area was going to be sensitive as it was. No need to make the region resemble Joan Rivers’ face. Besides, I was well-versed with the razor and if I had slipped, I might have managed to perform my own vasectomy, which would pretty much make me the manliest man on the planet. Win, win.

Having crossed each item from my checklist, I piled into the passenger seat, and my wife drove me to the urologist. I prepared a playlist for the ride that included the following songs: The Long and Winding Road by The Beatles; I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston; and They Can’t Take That Away From Me by Ella Fitzgerald. My wife thought I was being melodramatic, which only disproves the stereotype that women are the more sensitive half of our species.

I said goodbye to my wife in the waiting room—I’d be lying if I told you that she was not looking crotchward when she returned her goodbye—and then I was ushered into the O.R. by Dusty, a male nurse with a shaggy beard and a mullet. I’m from Lake Elsinore—a small southern California town with a reputation for seediness and questionable decisions—and, ironically, Dusty made me feel right at home. That is, until he told me to get undressed, put on a robe, and lie face up on the table.

My nurse looked like this. My brother-in-law’s nurse looked like a Victoria’s Secret supermodel. We still argue over who had a worse experience. There are compelling points on both sides of the argument.

Shit got real.

And quick.

Ladies, if your man isn’t as vulnerable as you like, force him to lay on a cold metal table and have his nether regions painted with iodine by a bearded, mulleted male nurse named Dusty. The emotions will come.

Not long after I had been violated with iodine, Dr. Min, the urologist walked in. He was Korean and looked about 13 years old. He introduced himself and then asked me three times the same question: “Are you sure you don’t want to have any more kids?”

I answered that I was sure each time but couldn’t help thinking that he was trying to manipulate me into saying that I wasn’t sure. Maybe so he wouldn’t have to perform the operation? But why? Was he unprepared? Was he feeling a little shaky after having the coleslaw in the hospital cafeteria? Had he not paid attention during the vasectomy seminar of his online urology vocational college? Of course, this was just the fear talking, and really he was trying to limit his own liability. Malpractice insurance is a son of a bitch.

Once we established that I was ready to pull the trigger, Dr. Min snapped on the rubber gloves and got to work. First things first, anesthesia. It’s local. They don’t put you out. This seemed like the kind of activity that should take place at Guantanamo Bay, not at the urologist’s office. I steeled myself and endured the numbing process. A small pinch. No big deal. The problem was that I couldn’t see anything that was happening. Big lights illuminated the operating area, not to mention the fact that Dr. Min was hovering over me, so my visibility was impaired.

Normally, when I’m being impaled with foreign objects—which only happens during medical situations, mind you—I like to watch in the event that something goes wrong so I can react appropriately. But here I was, effectively blinded while the Korean version of Doogie Howser was brandishing murder weapons within inches of my favorite appendage.

This is how every urologist looks when he’s under your hood, so to speak.

In an attempt to establish some sort of control, I began talking to Dr. Min, trying to get the play-by-play, and he was gracious enough to accommodate. Although, I soon felt that the conversation was a little misguided. When you hear the words, “I’m now making an incision into the scrotum...” and that scrotum belongs to you, it can be a little unsettling. Also, you begin to have horrible visions. Maybe you ask a question that, for whatever reason, offends the doctor. Or maybe you’re funny, and the doctor laughs. Or maybe your questions and comments are just generally distracting—all scenarios which could lead to a disaster of John Wayne Bobbitt proportions.

For instance, the doctor tenses up and slips, the incision becomes a laceration, and your contents suddenly spill out onto the floor and roll into the waiting room where an old blind man sits with his seeing eye dog who hasn’t eaten in a while, and...

Anyhow, yeah, better to keep your mouth shut. You wouldn’t distract the bomb squad while they were deciding which color of wire to cut, would you? The bomb defusing metaphor was pretty apt, I thought, so I shut up and let Dr. Min do his thing.

The surgery didn’t last much longer, but there was one moment that was especially noteworthy. I couldn’t really feel anything but pressure. There’s definitely a sensation of things being reorganized down there. And when that sensation was the most intense, well, that’s when I saw it...

Act Three: Addition by Subtraction

There are a handful of things that will change a man: seeing his brother-in-arms blown to pieces in the hell that is war; getting a second glance from a beautiful woman on a Sunday afternoon stroll; dropping a tab of acid on a Wednesday night and coming face to face with Lebanese dwarves who use their nipples to speak in a southern accent; and, finally, observing your vas deferens being yanked on by a focused urologist, his arm slowly raising like a seamstress pulling a stitch taut.

I looked up and essentially saw this happening near my undercarriage. Nightmare fuel.

The image reminded me of John Updike. In his essay “A Disposable Rocket,” he compares men to women and concludes that the space that concerns men is outer—a baseball flying over the home run fence, a football spiraling into the end zone, a worm on a hook cast out into the middle of a lake, and, of course, a man’s own penis. Women, with their vaginas and their wombs, tend to be more inner-focused (again, Updike’s ideas, not mine). In that moment, I couldn’t help but think that I wanted to be more woman than man, more inner than outer—that is to say, I wanted my junk to be back inside its yard.

These thoughts dissipated when I heard a snip (yes, that particular use of onomatopoeia is deadly accurate), and though the sound is faint and brief, the emotional repercussions are resounding. With that sound, a man transforms from a shotgun-wielding madman into a shotgun-wielding madman with no shells. Actually, that is only partially true. Dr. Min kinked the hose, as it were, sewed me up, and then with a cancer-serious sort of tone explained that there indeed were still rounds in the clip.

If you want a less violent metaphor, the kinked hose is a good one. You know how you can turn off the hose and then pull the trigger of the nozzle to squirt just enough water to soak somebody? Same idea. I still had a full hose, or rather—returning to my violent motif—a full clip. And it takes a little longer than you might think to empty a full clip. When it comes to ammo, penises are less like six-shooters and more like gatling guns.

Bittersweet.

After Dr. Min finished reminding me not to ride any mechanical bulls or perform any splits, I shook his hand and thanked him. Only in retrospect did it seem ridiculous to thank a man for breaking my huevos. But thank him I did. And I thanked the bearded nurse with the mullet, too. This also felt awkward in retrospect. People should be thanked for holding doors open or buying a round of beers. They should not be thanked for painting the testicles of another man with iodine.

It’s not that I wasn’t grateful. I was. I mean, the operation could have gone much worse. But this was one of those times when it would have been more polite to say nothing at all. Ironically, those are my favorite kind of polite times, and I botched this one. Live and learn.

I pulled on my plum smugglers, limped out into the waiting room, and was greeted by my grinning wife who quickly opened the mini ice chest we brought and produced a large bag of frozen peas. You want frozen peas to be form fitting, malleable, so I suggest vasectomy candidates go with the smaller variety—tiny tender, I believe they’re called. Normally, I don’t like to associate that part of my anatomy with the word tiny, but when the local anesthesia begins to run its course, you’ll care little for semantics. Even less for masculine pride.

This is how I expected it to feel. My imagination often gets the best of me.

I spent the next day or two in the spare bedroom of my in-laws. My daughter was about crotch-high at this time, as was my son when his filthy little mitts were fully extended, and to be around them was to be in danger of popping a stitch, and while I’m up for living dangerously from time to time, this was not one of those times. Instead, I laid in bed and watched movies. My wife would call from time to time and tell me what the kids were up to. Apparently, my daughter had begun taking interest in a Barbie doll, which, of course, struck me as ironic since I had become something of a Ken doll.

I talked to my wife every couple of hours on the phone, and the kids were always audibly playing in the background. Suddenly, the vasectomy didn’t seem all that bad. And as I convalesced, with several bags of tiny tender peas on my tenderloins, I felt a profound sense of accomplishment—not just physically, but emotionally. I had an incredible family: one wife, one daughter, one son. And this was good. It felt complete, even if my testicles did not.

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If you enjoyed this story, consider reading some of my previous work:

• Send in the Clowns: another story about testicles, ya know, if that’s your thing.

• The Dubious Act of Hugging: an exploration on the great embrace, the etiquette, and the expectations thereof.

• The Mobility Guru: another story of forced vulnerability.

• And if you haven’t picked up my dark crime comedy Dig, you can pick it up on Amazon. It would make a great recovery gift for the man in your life heading in to get his own little testicular nip-tuck.