My Vasectomy – Part 4

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 8^th 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.