So it is done. I have been vasectomised. And it was not as
bad as you might think.
Friday night’s
alright for shaving
By Friday evening, I was getting a bit anxious about it all.
I had not managed to put it out of my mind all day (as my previous
post, written that day, possibly indicates) and I was in a bad temper by
the time I got home.
Fortunately, that evening, I had the distraction of working
out how to shave myself (scrotumnally) to take my mind off the impending
operation.
I should really say “the aftermath of the operation”. I’ve
had enough local anaesthetics in my time to know that the operation itself was
not going to hurt (see below...). What I was worried about was what kind of a
state I would be in when the drugs wore off and how I was going to survive the
recovery period with two groin-height and fast-moving children careering around
the vicinity of my delicacy.
Anyway, back to shaving. I had, as previously mentioned,
bought some Veet – and been repeatedly warned of its perils, not least by the
estimable Bernard C in a comment on the last post – for which I am very
grateful.
To be perfectly honest, I found it no problem. Apart from
the peculiar smell – which could have been from the “finishing cream” that came
in the pack – it didn’t hurt or even feel uncomfortable at all. Perhaps I have
a particularly leathery and unfeeling scrotum, but having prepared for the
worst, I was pleasantly surprised.
Some men – I am told – voluntarily shave themselves in this
region, ostensibly for aesthetic reasons. I must admit to finding it a very
strange interpretation of what is aesthetically pleasing to make any of THAT more rather than less visible.
Palmerston |
For those who take an interest in such things, I opted for a
style of my own design, which I am calling “The Palmerston”.
Sitting in the
waiting room
My appointment was at 10.50am. Elvira drove me down to the
surgery and in I went. A receptionist sat behind the desk of the deserted
waiting room.
“I have – an appointment – for 10.50,” I said.
I didn’t have to say what for.
“Take a seat please,” she said. I took one.
I tried to lose myself in my book (“The Story of the Malakand Field
Force” by Winston Churchill), but Radio 2’s Jon Holmes standing in for
Graham Norton kept dragging me back to the moment.
There was a crash from down the corridor.
“I hope he has steadier hands than that,” I said to the
receptionist, who smiled wanly. Inside I cringed at the rushed and lazy wording
of the joke and tried to return to the Afghan frontier.
“Mr Of Sicily? Will you come through please?”
The nurse didn’t say that. She used my real name. It was the
last time I would hear it with intact plums.
What it was like
What do you think it was like? I was lying there, discussing
summer holidays and other trivia with the surgeon while my genitalia was
operated on through a hole in a sheet. It’s hard to find the positive in the experience
itself.
By the way, the surgeon did
take the time to congratulate me on the quality of the shaving job I had done.
I said I was pretty pleased with my handiwork, for a first attempt.
Look away now if you are squeamish.
What I will say is that the local anaesthetic does the job
just fine. You don’t feel a thing when it comes to the cutting and sewing.
There was a degree of “rough handling” prior to the numbing,
in order to bring the vas deferens to the surface. This was a forestaste of
what was to come.
I was not expecting the extreme discomfort of said tube
being pulled out. It was a kind of pain that only a man can understand (sorry
ladies – indeed, women seem to have been far more interested in my story so far
than men. I cannot understand why...) and it shot all the way up to the pit of
my stomach. It felt...welll...like
someone had got hold of the strings my balls are held on with and given them a
long, steady tug.
But it was over quickly. I walked out of the operating
theatre 15 or so after going in. I was the 8th bloke the surgeon had
seen to that day, and it still wasn’t even lunchtime.
The aftermath
Only once was I unable to walk, and that was a couple of
hours after the operation – presumably after the first flush of cocodamol was
out of my system (it has been ever-present every since up to the time of
writing). Since then, I have recovered much quicker than I thought I would.
The boys have been very good at staying off me. Only once
did Tancred hit me in the nuts, when I was drying his hair last night. And I
think he knew he had erred.
Lord Palmerston appears to have been the victim of a serious
mugging. Gentlemen, if you have never seen your huevos go black and double in size, I suggest you prepare yourself.
Tight pants are a must. Unexpected rapid movement is not
pleasant. Lie flat on your back in bed. It took me about ten minutes to walk
from the station to my office this morning – that’s usually more like four. Riding
the scooter was ok, but I definitely do not want to make any emergency stops.
So what now? Well, apparently the vehicle continues to run
on fumes – and that can last for three months. I have to supply “samples” in
October and November to see if this has worked, or if my Wolverine-like powers
of healing have restored my testicular functioning in the meantime. So I don’t
know if it worked or not.
My face, Saturday afternoon |
However, I do not regret it. People may ask me, “why on
earth did you do it if you can’t even be sure it will work?”
To which my answer is and will remain, “I’d rather go
through that than have any more children!”
I love my kids, of course, but sometimes you can have too
much of a good thing.
And that, dear friends, concludes July’s gonad-centric entries.
I hope it has made you laugh and made you cry. It has certainly brought tears
to my eyes on occasion.