After ten years of bearing the burden of birth control my wife decided that I should take on the responsibility for preventing another bundle
of joy from entering our lives and activating the murder-suicide pact we agreed to after our third child was born.
After serious consideration and feigning illness for two weeks I made an appointment with a local urologist for an initial consultation. I chose this provider based on personal references and after learning that he sterilized half my town. It helped that his office was close to the police and fire stations and very near a hospital. I wasn’t taking any chances.
I arrived to an office packed with men, all at least thirty years my senior. I felt empathy for these men and wondered what ailments awaited me in the future. Then a nurse emerged from
behind the door and began handing out Viagra like she was running for Mayor. The men skipped out the door and the nurse asked if I needed a sample as well. Emphatically, I declared I was there for quite another reason. I had been deemed far too fertile in my house and something needed to be done.
I filled out the necessary forms and the nurse led me to the examination room. She instructed me to “remove my pants and climb up in the stirrups.” I reminded her that my appointment was for a consultation not a decapitation. She explained that in order to give me a clear understanding of what would take place the doctor would demonstrate the procedure. He would show me where the incision would be made and apply the same amount of pressure that would be felt during the actual procedure. I should have taken the Viagra and run.
I sat pantless with my feet in the stirrups and began to understand my wife’s hesitancy to go to the OB/GYN. This was no picnic. I scanned the room for an emergency exit, but instead caught a glimpse of a large, empty container marked “CLAMPS.”
There was never a mention of clamping. Before I could think of a positive use for such a gadget a man appeared between my stirrups. He was younger than I expected and I silently wondered why he would choose this line of work and if his mother knew what he was doing. My nerves were getting the better of me and I got a small dose of the chills. Between teeth chatters I mustered up the courage to ask, “So is this going to hurt much?” He came in a little closer and said “I don’t know I’m the DHL man,” surely delivering the much needed clamps.
When I regained consciousness the actual doctor was there. He apologized for the incident but assured me that Vito the DHL man has been delivering there so long he could probably perform the procedure better than him.
The doctor then explained the vasectomy, the recovery and the after treatment. He informed me that I would need to use my new and improved self thirty times before it was proclaimed sterile. I mentioned that I have three children at home and thirty times could take four years. He said nothing and handed me a permission slip that needed to be signed by my wife. I thanked him for a lovely time and left.
I got home and left the permission slip on the counter. The next day I noticed that Laura had signed it. While there was no column marked “comments,” she added one anyway indicating that she supports the idea: “Neuter the bastard.”
That was one year ago this week. To date, I have not been back to the doctor — although I did receive flowers from Vito at Christmas.