Snip, Snip

The thought of a vasectomy sends chills down my spine. From the time I first heard of the procedure I developed a deep fear of it. I convinced myself it was a modified version of prohibited capital punishment that somehow slipped through the cracks of the legal system. I always thought women were the worst when they referenced the procedure. I would see women wear an evil smile as they would make scissor motions with their hands; the words “Snip, snip” would roll off their tongues as if they somehow won a nonexistent war. In my eyes, there was nothing glorious, triumphant, or logical about a man succumbing to a vasectomy.

Women do not understand nor do I expect them to understand. A pair of testicles is more sensitive than any woman could ever imagine. I’d venture to say most men reading this cringe at the very thought of accidental testicular violence; let alone to schedule a vasectomy, willingly.

It’s my opinion some men, with deep patriarchal ties, feel they somehow lose a portion of their manhood with the inability to reproduce. I’m not one of those men; I’ve reproduced and can check that block off of my “to-do list.” My fear is the thought of so many medical instruments “doing work” on my area. I’m uncomfortably maneuvering in my chair at this very moment at the sheer thought of “snip-snip.”

Celia and I began discussing permanent birth control options as soon as Hailey was born. We were both about 90% certain we were done with the baby making business, with nothing more to prove. We were the proud parents of two babies, both who were healthy, and possessed more beauty than Greek Gods. Something very important to note is just because Celia and I began discussing a permanent fix did not mean we were anywhere close to a solution.

There would be times one of us would casually bring up the idea of having one more baby. Obviously there were pros and cons to both sides of the argument. Both of us were proven parents; capable of loving a child in the way every child deserves. The biggest setback Celia and I faced involved me missing the birth of both Jadon and Hailey. It saddened me deeply I was unable to be present for their emergence into the world. I really wanted to there with Celia to welcome a baby into the world more than anything; we constantly went back and forth on that issue. However, in the end, for reasons that do not need to be discussed, we decided not to add to our family.

I assumed the next step involved Celia to schedule an appointment to get her tubes tied. There were two things that stood in the way. The first was baby fever, and Celia had it, hard-core. A few people we know learned they were pregnant, and like that, the negotiation door opened again for baby talk. I quickly put a stop to the talk, “Honey. We made our decision for a reason and you know it was the right decision. (Hugging her now) I’m more than willing to keep practicing though.”

Little did I know the second thing that stood in our way involved me, not Celia. Celia felt it made more sense for me to have the surgery than her.

“How do you figure,” I asked.

“Andrew! My recovery time will be six weeks,” Celia pleaded back.

“Ok.”

“If you get a vasectomy it will hurt you far less than me.”

“And you know this from experience?”

“UGGGHH! I love my husband,” she whispered.

“I don’t know how you can talk about my balls getting cut off like it is such a trivial matter.”

“Andrew! They’re not going to cut your balls off.”

That conversation went on for a while, and on more than one occasion. In the end, guess what happened? Celia won. I’d like to tell everybody I fought the good fight; but in the end, I did not have the staying power, Celia did. I was about to embark on a chain of events that would forever change my life.

“Urology. How may I help you?”

“Hi! I’d like to schedule a vasectomy,” attempting to sound as casual as possible.

I met with my physician for a routine visit. We sat together in the examination room and I somehow felt small in comparison.

“So you’re wanting to get a vas, huh,” my doctor asked, breaking the ice.

“That’s right Doc. It’s time I start shooting blanks.”

“Well don’t be nervous. It won’t be done today and you don’t even need to drop trou either.”

Something told me in medical school, when vasectomies were covered, my doctor was taught to be light-hearted because that is exactly how the beginning of the conversation went. Our meeting was a formality; I still needed to go to the hospital the following week to meet with the surgeon and schedule a surgery date.

One week later I was seated in a waiting room of the Urology wing eyeballing a room full of men who thought the same thing I felt, “What in the hell am I doing here?” I was under the impression there would be some type of privacy, and by that I believed I would meet with the surgeon by myself. That was not the case. A nurse entered the waiting room and requested we all follow her down the corridor to the surgery room. Upon entering the room a janitor finished mopping the floor and exited. As the janitor exited a guy snickered, “Were you mopping up the last guy that was in here?” We shared an uncomfortable laugh.

I wish I had a video camera inside the surgery room. There was approximately a five-minute wait for the surgeon and while we waited there was not a single word spoken. I had my hands inserted into my pockets, with my head down, as I sized up the room. Why did I do this? I don’t know, but there were a lot of other guys who behaved much the same way I did. Finally the surgeon entered the room and I immediately thought, “I hope he knows what he’s doing.”

The thing I learned from meeting with various individuals in the vasectomy world was most have a good sense of humor. Perhaps they realized they chose a very gloomy profession and the best way to counteract misery was with laughter.

My surgeon then said, “I’m sure you’re all wondering how this is going to happen. You’ll actually all be lined up in the hallway with your pants around your ankles and I’ll go right down the line.”

What’s funny is for a brief moment I forgot why I was there. The humorous approach worked on me. I made my way down the reception office to schedule a surgery date with the receptionist, who did not have a sense of humor.

My surgery date will be on February 1^st, which happens to be Hailey’s first birthday. How funny is that? I know there is a profound meaning to my surgery date landing on my daughters first birthday but I’m not quite smart enough to know what it means.

The word eventually got out to our friends and family that I would be going in for the dreaded be-all-end-all man surgery. Jokes would be told and laughs would be shared, all at my expense. I said the only thing that could possibly be funnier than getting the “snip, snip” would be to discover Celia was pregnant after the surgery.

Well. . .

It is most definitely meant to be. Keep reading for updates.