Life, Death and Penis Surgery

For my son’s first birthday I got him penis surgery. I also got him Luke Skywalker’s Landspeeder action figure vehicle. But I imagine the surgery will have a bigger impact on his life.

My son was born with a condition called hypospadias. Instead of having his urethra at the tip of his penis, it was located on the underside where the head meets the shaft. A quick Google search will tell you that as many as 1 in 125 newborns are born with the condition and many grow up never knowing it’s abnormal.

Popular culture depicts the importance of passing down strength and masculinity to our male heirs. In medieval times a father would pass down a powerful sword. In the old west a father would pass down a trusted rifle. In my parents’ generation a father would pass down a storied baseball bat. But this is 2020 and the rules have changed. I’m not sending my son to fight for our family’s honor. He won’t be protecting the ranch from outlaws. He might even choose a ballet uniform instead of a baseball cap.

The first most common argument to do the penis repair surgery is normalcy.

Doctors would mention without surgery it could make it hard to do normal “man” things like pee standing up. His penis would also be different from his peers which could be tough in the adolescent years. They also assured us that after the surgery he would have a “beautiful penis.” As a practice, I don’t champion normalcy. Isn’t the spice of life that we are all a little different? Would it be worth it to have my infant son endure a surgery just to be normal? Is it my job as a father to ensure my son has a “beautiful penis”?

The second most common argument is fertility.

An unrepaired penis could make sex and conception difficult. This wasn’t a decision between myself and my wife. It was a decision for my son, for his future lovers, for potential grandchildren. Forget a sword, a rifle or a bat, I had something more important to pass down, a functioning penis. We decided to schedule the surgery.

I had recently been ruminating on what my father passed down to me. At Thanksgiving he was telling a story about the head on car accident he was in before my sister and I were born. He told us that his heart stopped and he died at the hospital. He was out of his body, floating above the operating table and he spoke to spiritual beings on the other side. He said he made a “Deal” to come back. Then the doctors brought him back to life.

This was a big concern for me. Doesn’t every deal with a higher power have a first born son as payment? Had I been living my entire life thinking I had free will only to be destined to repay the “Deal” of my father? After two hours of probing my dad about the “Deal”, he wouldn’t tell me the details of his celestial bargain.

Months later, my parents came to my home on Father’s Day. I wrote an essay about our “Deal” conversation and wanted my father to read it to make sure I accurately portrayed our exchange. My mother had printed out a copy of the essay and we sat in the living room as she read it out loud. My parents went in painstaking detail over each sentence, critiquing my writing.

For the record, this is the worst way in history to have your art critiqued:

1. By your parents
2. Out loud
3. On a holiday when you are supposed to be celebrated

I would have gone through a thousand penis surgeries to avoid this.

As we got further into the essay my dad spoke up, “You know that the deal hasn’t predetermined anything for you?”

“I know.” I replied.

“Do you want to know what the deal was?”

I had considered that after sharing the essay with him it might lead to him explaining the deal.

“Yes.” I replied.

“When I was up in the corner of the room looking down at my body, the beings said, ‘It’s not your time. You have to go back. You have to take care of the kids.’” He explained.

At the time of the accident, he didn’t have any kids. He wasn’t even in a relationship with my mom. Yet the higher powers instructed him to take care of the kids. The deal wasn’t predetermining any aspects of my life but simply assuring that I would receive one.

Taking our child to surgery was terrifying. The little ball of unconditional love had been with us for just over a year. A near sleepless year. A year that having a second child wasn’t twice as hard but somehow four times as hard. But there was always those eyes and that smile. It made all of it worth it.

Christina, Mason and I drove to the surgery center bright and early. We were the first surgery at 6:45 A.M. My dad came to our house to watch Grace for the day. It was a somber drive. Our minds raced looking for signs to turn around. Any excuse to not put him through the surgery would suffice. We arrived and checked in. As time passed, a nurse poked her head in and said the surgeon was running late.

Was this a sign? Was it too late to back out?

We waited even more anxiously for the surgeon’s arrival. When he showed up he apologized for being late. He had to drop his kids at daycare. I guess there was something reassuring that the surgeon had a family of his own. He wasn’t just some random weirdo that loved cutting up kid peens. I looked him deep in his eyes to see if he was settled and ready to operate. I surmised he was.

Christina walked with Mason and the anesthesiologist to a back room to administer his anesthesia. With a few puffs of the gas mask and a few tears, Mason was asleep. Christina met me in the waiting room. Our eyes were wet. We hugged. Christina asked me, “Is he going to be OK?”

I checked in to my feelings and knew he would be OK. I responded with certainty and humor. “He’s going to be fine. This surgeon loves baby dicks. He’s the best at baby dicks.”

We laughed.

Two hours later the surgeon met us in the waiting room. The surgery was a success. Mason did great.

When we returned home my dad was waiting with Grace. He could tell how much of a toll the morning took on me. He hugged me and said, “Now you know what the deal means.”

And I did.