Snip snip here. . .snip snip there . . . and a bloody whole lot of pain!
The other day, a good friend of mine told me he was getting a vasectomy. He knows I had one years ago, and he wanted my advice.
“Take a hammer right now and slam it into your balls, so you get a sense of what you are in for,” I told him. “I am not going to lie to you, the whole experience was a nightmare.”
And it was. The whole process was brutal, from the pre-surgery consultation to the operation itself to the “testing” you have to go through afterward.
Here is what I told him. I retell it here on The Bald Truth in case any of my readers are about to go through the same thing. Be prepared. And be scared. Be very, very scared.
First, you have to have the pre-surgery consultation. Cindy and I went to “Dr. Mike,” who is a very nice guy. I mean, as nice as a guy can be who inflicts horrific pain on other men for a living.
Now, you would think that a guy like Dr. Mike would be fairly nonchalant about his work. I mean, you have to think he has seen it all. That’s why I was shocked when, after I dropped my pants for the initial inspection, he blurted out:
“My GOD, you have a tremendous penis!”
Okay, I made that up. But he might have been thinking it. I certainly was.
Then, for the next ten minutes, I was basically Dr. Mike’s prison bitch, as he had his way with me.
The inspection overall went well as something like that can go, with just one small, rather ugly incident. Right before we left, Cindy slammed Dr. Mike up against the wall, and screamed in his face:
“Listen to me, Mike. You need to understand that you’re monkeying with perfection on this one. Taking a scalpel to his genitals is like taking a chisel to Michaelangelo’s David. You better be real, real careful.”
Okay, I made that up, too. But she might have been thinking something along those lines. I certainly was.
But the whole appointment was awkward and embarrassing. And that was the easy part. Because then came the operation itself.
First, I told my friend, you can ignore all those fucking macho liars who say it’s no big deal, and you can even play golf the next day. It hurts. It hurts while you’re having it done, and it hurts for days afterwards.
Before I got cut, I had someone tell me that, “You won’t even notice it.”
You won’t even notice it?! Oh, I noticed it.
How do you not notice a searing hot, buzzing little rod being jammed repeatedly into your nut sack? How do you not notice that? And not only did it hurt at the time, but it hurt for a long time afterwards.
For two weeks, I walked like the Penguin on the old Batman series.
And then came the final humiliation: The “testing.”
See, after you get a vasectomy, you have to get tested, to make sure you’re shooting blanks.
Now, it’s important to note: When you do this, you don’t get to “create” the specimen at home. You have to go in there and create it at the lab.
Which is kind of naughty and exciting, isn’t it? And I was sure they would make it very easy for me to provide a specimen, too.
I had visions of this wonderful, dimly lit room, loaded with sexy magazines and videos, various lotions and oils, a comfortable couch to lay on, soft music playing . . . in my head, I thought the whole thing would be rather, I don’t know, romantic.
Except that I would be by myself.
So Cindy and I go to the clinic, get signed in, and a battle-scarred nurse says to me:
“Oh, you’re here for the fun test!”
Yes! I remember thinking. I AM here for a fun test!! The rest of these sorry sons of bitches are going to be getting tubes or fingers rammed up their asses, or needles stuck in their arms, or blazing hot rods poked into their man bags . . . but not me!!
No siree!! I am heading to the Pleasure Palace for a delightful little rendezvous with myself!
I couldn’t wait to get into my Fun Hut!!
Then, the nurse shattered my dreams. She handed me a plastic cup, and said:
“Go in the bathroom. When you’re done, there’s a trap door in the wall. Put the specimen in the door and let me know when you’re finished.”
What’s this? The bathroom? Oh, I thought. That must be what they call the special little cozy love room. Cute.
But no . . . it was a bathroom. A public bathroom. No oils, no music, no porn, no buzzy toys . . . just a sink and a toilet and a trap door. And fluorescent lights!!! Have you ever tried to be romantic with yourself in a room with fluorescent lights???
And the toilet didn’t even have a lid on it! It was a glorified fucking porta potty, is what it was.
And the worst part of it? I could hear the people in the lab on the other side of the trap door. I could hear them clearly!
Which meant, of course, that they could hear me! Not that I would be moaning loudly or anything. But could they hear me . . . I don’t know . . . rubbing? Could they hear and chuckle over a sort of whoosh whoosh whoosh noise?
Would they secretly be timing me? Was there a hidden peephole? Did the battle-scarred nurse go into the lab and say: “We’ve got a fat man going live in Bathroom Number One people,” so everyone could set their stopwatches?
One minute into my session, I convinced myself that people were, in fact, timing me. So I made it a macho thing, manhandled the son of a bitch, and got er done in about two and a half minutes. A minute of which was spent checking the trap door to make sure it was really shut tight.
It was the hardest I’ve worked since the time I did three shifts in a row at a factory, working on an assembly line.
So I finished, stuck my specimen in the wall, and went out to face the nurse.
“I’m done,” I said.
“Okay, thank you,” she said.
“Was I the fastest one ever?” I said.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Was I close?” I said.
“I don’t keep track,” she said.
“But you probably have an idea,” I said.
“No, I don’t,” she said.
“It was like, not even three minutes,” I said.
“I wasn’t paying attention,” she said.
“I bet I was the fastest,” I said.
“Okay,” she said.
“You don’t have a chart?”
“No,” she said.
“Can you ask the lab people?” I said.
“No,” she said.
At that point, Cindy took me by the arm and led me quietly from the building, before I could make an even bigger fool out of myself.
So yeah . . . if you’re like my friend and thinking about getting snipped, here’s what you can expect:
- More pain.
- A different kind of pain.
- Serious disappointment in the specimen room.
- A humiliating walk of shame out of the testing place.
Good luck.
9 Responses to “Snip snip here. . .snip snip there . . . and a bloody whole lot of pain!”
Wow. I just . . . I’m like . . . I don’t even . . . Wow.
I don’t know what to say. maybe Canadian health care really IS better. Unfortunately, that Canadian/British reserve (which clearly does not plague you) prevents me from elaborating further.
Thank you Steve, you have scarred me for life. I am now queasy about the V word.
Oh My God, I had the worst day & then I read this & was laughing so hard it sent me into coughing fits from the ruthless cold I’m trying to kick …However, I wish there was a way I could delete Molly’s ability to read your blog but I’m afraid it’s too late.
I suppose we ought to get used to Uncle Steve expanding her knowledge base .
This fondly reminded me of Dad telling me the story of his colonoscopy, you definitely got this gift you have from him.
Dan: I am sorry. Most people have a better experience, from what I’ve heard!! I think Gerry is more the norm.
Beth: I am fairly sure that Molly will be expanding OUR knowledge bases, not the other way around.
Steve — Your pain is our guilty pleasure. Your torture and humiliation our enjoyment. Thank you for the laughs. And thank you for one of your best columns yet. And as the old vasectomy joke goes, you now know what you have in common with a Christmas tree right? You both have ornamental balls. Ho Ho Ho.
You are one goofy bastard…and I’m quite certain you believe”The Bald Eagle” is the ultimate specimen!
I enjoy reading your writings. Your experiences, fiction and fact, make me laugh ! Thanks !!
Hilarious. Hope my husband never sees this. Trying to convince him it’s no biggie.
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