The day finally arrived for the perceived loss of my manhood. I was ready, or should I say, as ready as I was ever going to be. My 3 children under 5 confirmed this inevitable meeting with my urologist and my testicles. I made the appointment, I had raised my hand, volunteered with a smile. Every shriek and howl from my toddler daughters mouths pushed me on with courage to make this a reality.
The weeks leading up brought widening smiles across every female face I shared my impending snip day with. I noticed not only a smile but a glint and sparkle in their eyes. Really who can blame them. After all it is us males that set the stage to their looming day of labor and the dreaded delivery. Witnessing childbirth is like watching (Ripley’s Believe It Or Not) or like one friend shared: childbirth is like watching your favorite pub burn to the ground. I’m not going to lie — my son’s head was potentially wrecking the one thing that got me into this mess.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my children, they are the brightest lights in my life; but holy fuck, I don’t want anymore. It would ruin us, the marriage, the sex, wait did I just say sex? Yeah okay… I know that one thing that we all love but at the same time becomes so elusive. We all want good sex with our sweethearts but the paradox: marriage, children and more children abdicates the one fucking thing that started it all.
Which brings me back to today: the vasectomy. I am not here to courageously express that I maned up and did it for my wife. Okay yes I did do it for her, kinda… But someone once said “once your firing blanks there will be less wanks.” Okay that made me laugh. My point: vasectomy equals more sex, less worried sex.
We arrive together, my wife carrying our 2 month old son, yes I need a sober driver. This is the happiest my wife has ever looked in being my designated driver. In fact I have not seen her this happy in years. She almost looks like she is dancing and skipping across the tiled floor. I remember why I fell in love with her all those years ago; that beautiful smile. Then reality kicks in she is smiling because my testicles are about to be on the operating table.
2 Valium’s down the hatch and I am sitting in the waiting room sipping a scotch feeling like Peter Pan in Neverland. My former nerves floating in the ether somewhere and my smile is matching my beloveds. Twenty minutes later I am lying supine on the medical table with my board shorts on the floor and my newly shaved ball sack in the hands of a skilled physician. Here’s to hoping, I thought… Truth is: that valium convinced my mind that anyone could have been holding my testicles and I would have been okay with that. A local anaesthetic, then pressure, light tugging, then a wisp of smoke, thankfully pain free, while my giddy wife watches eagerly still smiling like a lottery winner. Only 15 minutes and I am stagerring to my feet pulling up my shorts thankful that it was over.
Other than feeling like my testicles had just finished a life saving medical experiment, I felt pretty damn good. I had survived the experience, the sullen, scary chop, it was over. No big deal. Right!!! I had done it for my wife, a true altruistic vasectomy. I wish I could leave it at altruism, my one self-less act for my wife. But we all know that is bullshit. I did it for a number of reasons. But the biggest of all might have been for a reconnection to the days before we had children. Remember those days, when we shagged because it was fun and exciting, and that fun and excitement ended with children. So here’s to hoping that our altruistic vasectomy or my individualistic vasectomy wins back what we started with. Screwing, drugs and alcohol… Shit. Did I say that out loud?