If anyone ever tells you that a vasectomy is a simple procedure with no complications, throw everything down and run. Why is it always my wife that is taking everything to get snipped? She took our cat Grayden 13 years ago, and our cat Needles went on the journey two days past.
Me? She took me right around the time Grayden went…perhaps it was a two-for-one deal. I don’t know. The reason vets and vasectomies have this relationship in my mind is because soon after I had this horrible, tortuous procedure done to me while I was strapped down, Hayley and Edan came to us and insisted that we provide them with a younger sibling upon which they could dote. I explained to them that just as their mother took Grayden to the vet so he couldn’t be a Daddy, she also took me.
They said okay, and we didn’t have to give the Birds and the Bees speech. But back to the horrifying experience that a “simple” snipping entails.
[BEFORE YOU GO FURTHER, THE REST OF THIS ENTRY IS RATED PG-13]
After Chrissi went through preeclampsia with both of our kids, we decided adding additional people just like me wasn’t worth the risk to the sanity of the world. Since a tubal or hysterectomy would mean a rather invasive procedure, she talked me into getting cut. I still remember her words: “There’s nothing to it for you.”
Cue eerie organ music and Vincent Price laughter in the darkness…maybe a lightning storm in the dark on a mountain. So, I agreed because we didn’t want her to be cut open again—two cesareans were enough.
And the adventure began. We chose a urologist with a good reputation for the procedure. I drove down to Fayetteville for the consultation. Immediately, something just wasn’t clicking right. When the doctor came into the examination room, he asked where my wife was. Answer: At home; she didn’t really want to hold my hand while you’re cutting on my nether regions.
He said he wouldn’t see me until he could talk to both of us. What? Huffing and puffing, I drove all the way back up to Bentonville to drag Chrissi kicking and screaming to the appointment—she was not too happy about being pulled away from her soap operas and bon-bon treats.
Chrissi asked the doctor why she had to be there. His reply nearly turned her into the Hulk: “I just wanted to make certain that you never wanted to have children ever again.” My wife was hot—not just of the physical variation, but we’re talking steam coming out of her ears.
She said with calmness that I knew she didn’t feel, “That’s why we’re here.”
The doctor explained. Most vasectomies are snip and tie, resulting in the ability for some men to grow them back and the possibility of a reversal. He told us, “There is no reversal from the way I do it. I cut out a foot of it.” And he held up his hands like he was telling a fish story. “And burn both ends. You are not fathering any more children.”
Wow. Okay. So I came back the next day for the actual procedure—what better way to spend your Friday lunch hour? I was laying on the table with my dignity hanging out for all the world to see. Talk about vulnerability…
After the doctor injects the local anesthesia, he tells me, “You’ll feel some tugging. Don’t pull back. I’ll win.” That made me feel…concerned. Was this guy a masochist?
Was there tugging? Holy smokes…it felt like my intestines were spilling out of my anus onto the table. I tensed. The doctor shouted at me. I remained very still because this man had a scalpel near my baby-makers, and I had my pants down.
Nevertheless, he finished and stitched my marble bag back up so they wouldn’t fall out. And he told me to take the rest of the day off and to get a bag of frozen peas. This helps healing? Nope. It prevents swelling. So I was to spend the rest of the weekend sitting around with a bag of vegetables between my legs. I followed his advice.
Monday morning came around, and I went back to work. And the hits just kept on coming. I walked out of my office and was asking a CSR a question concerning some product shipments. But she kept staring at the ceiling and wouldn’t look me in the eye. Finally, she lowered her gaze to meet mine.
“JC,” she said in those tones that you understand mean you are in a lot of trouble. “Some people may consider that vulgar.”
What? I had no idea what she was talking about. I hadn’t said anything. I was wearing khaki pants and golf shirt. For some reason, I knew I should look down. When I did, I nearly fainted. My knees threatened to buckle, and I started trembling.
Two softballs had decided to take up residence in the pockets of my khakis. The horror! I remembered a line from the X-Files when Agent Mulder says, “How do I get this off without betraying my cool exterior?”
Yet again, Chrissi took me down to Fayetteville to see the doctor—the man she wasn’t too happy with three days before. We get into the examination room, and I again dropped my pants in front of this man.
He looked and frowned, his brow scrunching up and forehead wrinkling. “Hmm. That’s not normal.”
What? No. I have heard about hordes of men willingly getting snipped and coming out with mutated genitals. If word of this got out, all urologists would go out of business.
My response was muted. “I’m glad I’m not normal.”
The doctor glanced up at me. I figured he was trying to determine if my words were genuine or sarcasm. To this day, I cannot answer that with any certainty.
He asked, “You don’t happen to be allergic to cats, do you?”
I sucked in a deep breath through my nostrils and let it out slowly through clenched lips. “Yes, doctor. If it has hair, fur, skin, or leaves, I am allergic to it. Why?”
His eyebrows shot up like he had discovered the cure for male pattern baldness. “Because I used cat gut sutures on you.”
So he took out the sutures, and I was put on bed rest for ten days while my marble bag with two huge holes in it stitched itself back together. With more frozen peas.
Learn from this. Vasectomies are never the simple procedure they tell you about in commercials and on movies. The nightmares plague me to this day. And Chrissi’s words always echo through them, “There’s nothing to it for you.”