All That and a Bag of Frozen Peas

So there I was, sitting in Vasectomy 101, taking notes as Dr. Cutsack explained the horrifying experience I was about to go through.  The doctor emphasized the fact that although vasectomies are reversible, due to possible complications the operation should be considered permanent.  He put a slide on the overhead that illustrated the science involved.  And then he said two words that really got my attention.

Local anesthesia.

What?  I'm going to be awake for the nut-cutting?  Couldn't we discuss this?

The operation was scheduled for the following Friday, which meant that I had homework to do on Thursday night.  The first assignment was to collect a sample of my swimming buddies to be stored and frozen just in case I wanted another kid someday.  I took some reading material into the restroom, shook hands with President Lincoln, and the mission went off without a hitch.  The second part of the homework was to shave the relevant area; however, the instruction pamphlet was not real specific in regard to "area".  Was I supposed to just shave ground zero, or did it mean the outlying suburbs as well?  To be on the safe side, I took care of the whole region.

I went in on Friday afternoon, more than a little apprehensive.  This is Southern California, after all, so you never know when an earthquake might strike.  It would be just my luck to be under the knife at the time.  I can imagine the doctor: "Um, sorry about that.  It was 6.3, but now it's 3.5."  I checked in, and noticed that the waiting room was completely empty.  Apparently, I was the first appointment of the day so I didn't even have to wait.  They took me right in.
 
I changed into the ass-less hospital gown, and sat down on the chilly metal table.  After just a few minutes, the prep nurse entered.

If the hospital administration had any compassion whatsoever, they would only assign ugly nurses to vasectomy prep duty.  But no.  My prep nurse was a dead ringer for Angelina Jolie.  Great body, sultry lips, long flowing hair, an absolute knockout.

"Okay, I'll need you to lift the gown," she cooed.  I complied, and she started applying, well, something.

This was not good.  Sporting wood during a vasectomy would have to be a story that doctors tell at medical conventions or chuckle about on the golf course.  Having no desire to be the butt of such jokes, I immediately disengaged my brain from Nurse Angelina's administrations.

I thought about the 1978 World Series.  I thought about that creepy "Pat" character from Saturday Night Live.  I thought about Rosie O'Donnell with head lice.

Thank God, it worked.  Embarrassment averted.

Dr. Cutsack came in and briefly described what he'd be doing over the course of the twenty minute procedure.  "First, we'll make a small incision in your scrotum.  Then, we cut the vas deferens and tie off the ends.  It's really quite simple."

"What if there's an earthquake?"

"Well, let's hope there isn't one."

Not exactly the comforting words I was hoping for.

He set up a sheet around my waist, so I wouldn't be able to watch what he was doing.  Not that I'd want to.  "First thing we're going to do," he said, "is give you a local anesthetic."

At that point, Dr. Cutsack stabbed my sack with a needle, and injected a quart of sulfuric acid into my testicles.  I am not ashamed to admit that I screamed like a little girl.

"Okay, that's the worst of it," he said.

"I SHOULD FUCKING HOPE SO!"  Polite conversation goes right out the window when your balls are sizzling.

The doctor waited for the anesthesia to kick in, and then he got out the scalpel.  I didn't feel a thing.  Then he pulled out the pinking shears.  I heard a "snip" and then felt something spritz the inside of my thigh.  Blood, probably, but who knows?  Drawing on his Boy Scout experience, Dr. Cutsack tied my junk in a couple half-hitches, sewed things up and the nightmare was over.

I got dressed, said goodbye to Nurse Angelina, and left.  When I walked back out into the waiting room, it was now full.  Guys with their wives, waiting to take their turn.  Since I had obviously just survived the procedure all the men were looking at me, trying to determine just how bad an experience they were in for.

I couldn't resist.

I looked at the group, gave a "thumbs-up", and in my best Mickey Mouse voice I said, "Nothing to worry about, guys, it's a piece of cake."

Two of the men fainted, one got up and left.

The recovery was not pleasant.  Once the anesthesia wore off, the pain set in.  The swelling, while ego-boosting, was really uncomfortable so I spent most of the weekend with a bag of Del Monte frozen peas in my crotch.  It took about five days for the pain to fully subside.

Just in time for the itchy stubble to take over.

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