Originally posted Tuesday, November 27, 2007
So I had no ride from the hospital in Walnut Creek after my scheduled vasectomy, faced my fate alone, distracted myself from a very noticeable throbbing pain coming at me from down below by reading some comparative mythology about what it means to be a man which boiled down to: don’t squander your talents and take care of those you are responsible for so that they may thrive and someday kill you so that they can carry the chain on and pay the Oedipal cycle forward.
Cool. Sorted. In to the room I go.
After signing in at the first-floor urology department I’m ushered into a little bathroom, given a little robey thing and a razor. “Shave yourself,” says the male nurse. He then points to a coat hook on the back of the door that just happens to be shaped like an inverted “Y”, points to the center, “you know, flip it up, this is the shaft up here, just get like a couple inch are in each direction.” Oh. Ohhh kay, then. How handy to have the robe-hanger shaped like an inverted “shaft” for telling patients what to do. I shave.
I am shorn.
I go in, lay down, the nurse puts those operating drop cloths down all around my lower area, slathers some iodine all over the surrounding area of me and leaves.
And those fucking bright operating room lights, and a tray of sterile, shiny, SHARP instruments. (mommy?)
(the boys are getting uncomfortable just writing this, gang…I may have to take a break.)
And underneath those lights lays yours truly, my area of personal privacy scrubbed, shorn, sanitized and OUT THERE, feeling the chilly air of the operating room. I was feeling, you might say, a little frikken exposed, vulnerable even.
Minutes pass. Many. Enter the good doctor.
Then, after some small talk and jibber jabber, not nearly enough if you ask me cause I wasn’t feelin’ it, and by “it” I mean distracted. Cuz (from a primal perspective, from the point of view of your balls!) just what you don’t want to happen HAPPENS: someone enters, sticks you DOWN THERE with a sharp thing, sticks you again and then says “you’re gonna feel some pressure”.
Right then sucked. A lot.
The nurse comes in and pauses as he looks at me, the Dr. asks, “you alright?”
“yeah” I squeak out. The nurse says “man, you’re already getting really red” referring to my face, on which he then tossed a nice cold cloth. Which I promptly grabbed and bit really hard as the Doc injected me with more local anaesthetic. Then I said, not able to speak easily, “I felt some pain”.
And he said again, “Really? Sorry, guess I’ll give you more.”
damn straight, buddy!!!!!! JAYZUS!
as he injected me again, I used that precious little cold rag to squeeze with all my might and but I flinched when he injected me and my cold, vaguely soothing precious went flying to the ground.
suck it up, son, you’re a man, now!
So while the good Dr. cut to the chase, or rather, cut into the Chase, I took it upon myself to talk to HIM so that I’d stop myself from hyperventilating and running out of the operating room (that’s what the family jewels were telling me to do, anyway).
Well it worked, cuz to talk requires steadier breathing than I had been practicing, all full as I was, of Fear and Trembling.
And I’m here to tell you that even though it was SO WRONG to have blades and shit IN my scrotum — nature say: NO WAY JOSE — my mind won the day, cuz it say:
AOK, cowboy. Now,go get ’em, Tiger!
I am free. Free of the gnawing fear…what if…free of guilt, stress, worry, slipping into the ultimate irresponsibility because sex rules.
the pain went away and is but a memory, for tis a far better thing I do…
CODA: I had to tell My Soon-To-Be-Ex, but didn’t want to be direct. So I called and left a voicemail: “OK, so talk to you later. I’m about to go and make our two children even more special.”
THOSE two sperm were sacred, the rest…not so much.