I had a vasectomy a few years ago. The only interesting part of the process was that an attractive intern assisted. Her roll paralleling the person that helps to tie a bow by holding a ribbon down with their finger. She had little to do, so we chatted while they were tying me off. Then I went home and promptly told my wife that another woman touched my balls.
Whenever the subject comes up, which it does a surprising amount once all your friends turn 30, I brag about how simple and easy it was. It says something that my idea of being tough is staring down a needle and thread without blinking. It says something about men in general that most seem suitably impressed that I let anyone mess with my junk.
All is well for a year or so and then a problem emerges. Upon reaching that moment in life when all things, um, climax, I start to get a shooting pain as well. Even for the hospital adverse this indicates a trip to see the doctor. I need surgery to correct the problem. I would suggest you learn from my experience and read my medical advise.
The surgery is a procedure to cut out the site of the old vasectomy and do a new one. This, by comparison to the first, is not a minor procedure. They must put me out, which I had never experienced before.
As the anesthesiologist injects something into my IV he says, “This first one will just make you relaxed”. He is right because I feel reeeeealy soooooooo chilled out. Unfortunately, I do not get to enjoy it because he then tells me I am about to go to sleep as he injects something else into my IV. By the time I can wonder how long it is going to take I wake up in the recovery room. The first thing I tell my wife is that another woman touched my balls.
I quizzed the doctor about why they have to put me out for this procedure but not the original vasectomy. He said there is more work to do and that I probably do not want to be awake for it. I’ll spare you the details. Lots of swelling and bruising sums up the aftermath.
When Michelle sees me naked she puts a hand to her mouth and says, “Oh Baby!”. Normally this kind of awed reaction would be a positive thing. Under these circumstances, however, it accurately depicts the state I am in.
Things do not get better, in fact, they get much worse. I do not recognize the mild fever I have as a sign of the developing infection. The really sore orange I come to carry between my legs is a sure give away though. The scrotum is definitely not an attractive part of the human anatomy. I can assure you that size and shape are not its only aesthetic challenges. I know this because I have altered both aspects of mine and I am noticing no improvement in its appearance. It looks like a nerf ball trying to swallow a hot dog.
I contact my specialist at 2:30 a.m. and he has me meet him at emergency the following morning. During check in the nurse asks me some questions about the problem. When we get to drugs I tell her I am taking the antibiotic pills the doc gave me after surgery.
“What kind of antibiotic?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anapoxyl, Nanabyl, Ka-flex?”
“I really don’t know.”
“You are taking pills and you don’t even know what they are called.”
“The Specialist with over a decade of higher education gave me a bottle and told me to take it. So I did. He didn’t mention anything about an upcoming quiz, so fuck you and your attitude lady.”
That’s what I wanted to say, instead I said, “I guess so.” It seemed the wrong time to pick a fight with a bitchy union worker.
The doctor diagnoses me with a “raging infection”. An ultrasound and blood tests are done. I am fitted with an IV line I wear for a week, and receive my first dose of high grade antibiotics. When my wife picks me up I consider making the “she touched my balls” joke, but so many doctors and nurses have observed, probed, tested, and scanned my testicles that the joke has really lost its luster.
So here I am, icing my swollen balls, restricted to bed rest, and taking daily trips to emergency to get my dose of IV antibiotics. Good times. A full recovery is expected. In retrospect, it may have been easier to just have a kid.
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