Want to see a man cross his legs in a hurry? Just use the “v” word.
Not long ago, the topic of vasectomies came up in conversation at a family dinner. I mentioned the dreaded “v” word just to watch my brother’s response—the grimace and the sudden shift in the chair as he drew one leg over the other. My brother and I are, in some ways, vastly different people. And application of the “v” word acts as a kind of litmus test that quickly determines which sort each of us is.
Remember All In The Family? There was an episode from 1976 called “Gloria’s False Alarm” when Gloria decided it was time to get Mike to follow through with his promise. For the social activist hippie couple, getting a vasectomy was the politically correct thing to do. But to redneck Archie, a “vasexomy” was unnatural—an abomination. On my litmus test, I fall on the Mikey end of things, while my brother is more of an Archie.
My wife is a type I diabetic, has been since the age of 13. When we got married, the best information at the time was that a diabetic woman should finish having a family by the age of 30. (Care has improved and the upper limit has risen since then.) So, with the birth of our daughter just months shy of my wife’s 30th birthday, the question came up—what to do about contraception. Whatever our choice, it had to be effective; another pregnancy could seriously jeopardize the health of both mother and child. A vasectomy seemed the best choice. But the decision, however rational it might seem, nevertheless left me feeling a bit uneasy. I was burning my bridges, putting all my eggs in one—(maybe that’s a bad metaphor). Even more than saying “I do,” the decision to have a vasectomy felt like a sacramental act. You can tell I’m not a Roman Catholic, can’t you?
I overcame my reservations and made the appointment for day surgery at the local hospital. They told me the procedure would take only a few minutes, and I would have a full anaesthetic—a very minor procedure, indeed. I lay on a gurney in the hallway, in a long line of gurneys, like airplanes on a runway waiting for word from the tower. The anaesthetist stopped by my side, took up my chart and asked me a few questions. Then I mentioned that I was taking a medication and wondered if it was something he needed to know about. He wasn’t sure; he would have to consult with someone else. I lay there in my flimsy gown staring at the ceiling and feeling awkward. Finally, he returned and advised that, while he didn’t think it would be a problem, just to be on the safe side, they would do the procedure with a local anaesthetic.That meant I’d be awake through it all. “Fine,” I said. And they wheeled me in.
First, they pulled up the sheet and two nurses prepped me. All kinds of things went through my head. “What if they’re radical feminists?” I wondered. “What if they’re feeling vindictive?” There was a clock on the wall behind them, and as I considered the possibilities, I noticed that the second hand was slowing down. Behind my head was another pair of nurses with coffees and newspapers. They were looking up the lottery numbers and talking about their pool. I wondered if it was absolutely necessary to have them present as witnesses to the loss of my reproductive powers. I thought their voices sounded just a little too enthusiastic. They administered a needle and stood around chatting about one thing or another while they waited for the freezing to take. Then the surgeon stepped to the table and set to work.
“Hey, Doc,” I said. I couldn’t believe I was calling the doctor, Doc. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to feel anything.”
“Oh, you’ll feel something all right.”
Oh, I felt something all right. Something a lot like a mule kicking me in the groin. When I made the appointment, they had advised me that I should bring someone along to drive me home, since I wouldn’t be able to drive. And so, as I hobbled from the recovery room, I was greeted by the smiling face of my father–in–law. It seemed to me that his smile was just a little too … uh … smiley. Maybe the smile was heartfelt—acknowledgment that his son–in–law was a responsible young father and husband who was truly proving his commitment, but in between my grimaces, I was more inclined to view his smile as a show of sly satisfaction. “You’re not going to be doing that ever again to my daughter, now are you?”
I didn’t go out for a run as soon as I got home. And it was at least a week before I rode a bicycle, and even then, not with much comfort. Once I was able to walk upright again, we went out to dinner with several couple friends of ours. During the meal, I accidentally let slip the “v” word when they asked what I had been up to lately. “Oh, so you had a vasectomy? I had that done last year.” “Me too. Hurt like hell for a couple days.” All the others at the table had already done the deed, even the Roman Catholic, who reasoned that one big contraceptive sin was far preferable to a long string of little ones. So I found myself in good company. And they accused me—me of all people—of being lax for not having it done sooner. It’s amazing how the tables turn in the game of political correctness.
Now if only we could preach the gospel of vasectomy to all the sorry kids who keep appearing on the Maury Povitch show with all their trash talk and DNA paternity tests. Now here’s an idea for a socially useful episode: “Father of five children by five different mothers gets vasectomy in front of studio audience!”