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Tuesday, Nov 10, 2009
The big V
I found the gumption recently to drop my drawers and do what I believe every domesticated suburban dad feels he must -- get a vasectomy. It's been a year now, and I'm still grappling with the decision.
Actually getting to that operating table was a story in itself. My wife, a therapist, and I never really discussed the decision, not like they tell you to do. So one day several years ago, we ended up in the doctor's office for our scheduled vasectomy appointment.
The nurse offered me a bright yellow Valium for my nerves. But nerves weren't my problem. My wife and I looked at each other in a shared moment of instant terror and came to the realization that we had never adequately -- indeed, never at all -- discussed the ramifications of the decision. I was 41, she 38. Were we ready not to have more children? Were two enough? Both our boys had been surprises, which wasn't surprising considering our lax attitude toward birth control. But we liked surprises. Move to Spain for a year? Go for it. Ditch jobs and go freelance, why not?
Have more children? After the operation, the answer would basically be: Sorry, pal, you're finito.
When our first son came into the world, I sold our only prized possession, a 1964-1/2 Ford Mustang, and plunked down the fresh cash for a far more practical Nissan Sentra station wagon. I did it under the illusion that I could always buy a Mustang again. But have I ever? Will I ever? Nope. Once that shiny classic left the premises, it was over.
And the same holds true for the vasectomy. Once I lay back on the crunchy paper of the urologist's table and he taped my penis down, or rather up, so he could gain unobstructed access to my shaved testicles, I knew there was no reversing this decision. The Mustang would be gone.
All my suburban friends had vasectomies, but they also had car payments and jobs in sales. I'm an author, freelance writer and screenwriter -- however I choose to define myself that day. My beat-up Mazda, paid in full, is one of the last vestiges of a bohemian lifestyle I struggle to maintain, despite a mortgage and a garage full of suburban paraphernalia. Was a vasectomy the equivalent of a lower-brain lobotomy that would condemn me to a life of domestication? Was I one little snip away from becoming a Stepford husband?
Who knows, I speculated, maybe my wife would die in a terrible car accident tomorrow, and I would find a lovely 29-year-old who wanted nothing more than to have children with me. Maybe at age 55 I would find myself with plenty of money and a tank full of daddy energy ready to explode. Maybe by the time I reached 73 the good people of science will have us living to age 193 and feeling like 23. Improbable as these things are, no one can call them impossible.
So, on that day of our first V appointment, my wife and I walked out of the urologist's office. We simply turned around and left. We drove around the neighborhood for 20 minutes, hurriedly reviewing the pros and cons of the procedure, and hastily came to the conclusion that we were ready. This was the right decision after all.
When we returned to the unit, the nurse brightened. The doctor saw us but refused to perform any life-altering operations, not after the arrive-and-dash spectacle my wife and I had just staged. Instead, he took us into his office and to his credit actually spoke with us, banishing us for a year and instructing us to return only when it would be without hesitation or regrets. No regrets? I live on regrets like my kids live on sugared cereal.
Two years passed. More V's in the 'hood. Other husbands around me were dropping like flies.
My reticence became the object of good-natured ribbing at backyard barbecues and cocktail parties attended, of course, by a pack of vasectomized males and their wives struggling to keep their figures.
Maybe it was a slow day, or a pregnancy scare, or a trying evening with our two preadolescent sons, but for some reason, I made another appointment. The date was so far off in the future, I was sure it would never arrive. But of course it did.
When we returned to the hospital, the same nurse was stationed vigilantly at her post. She pulled up my record on her computer screen. "Are you really going to do it this time?" she asked.
"Yes," I said softly. The nurse did all she could to conceal her pleasure, but she couldn't fool me. She was pleased as pie to see me capitulate. I'm used to a 45-minute wait to see the doctor, but I swear within two minutes my name was called and I was hustled into an examining room as if this were some sort of cult operation and they could sense my ambivalence. I've seen car salesmen dance to the same tune with pen in hand.
The entire moment had a surreal quality about it, a pathetic imitation of an out-of-body experience. The only panic came when I was asked to sign a little yellow form that stated in all caps: "I UNDERSTAND THAT AS A RESULT OF THIS PROCEDURE I WILL NEVER FATHER CHILDREN AGAIN."
Gulp. I felt a tremendous urge to bolt, but it was too late. I was in the doctor's office, in a ridiculous robe, and I wasn't going to fuel the nurse's cynicism or subject myself to the ridicule of my friends for chickening out a second time. The doctor remembered us well and asked if we were really sure this time. Of course we were sure, we were grown adults, weren't we?
The good doctor allowed my wife to stay for the procedure. He seemed genuinely happy to have someone to talk to other than a somber patient with his penis taped to his abdomen. He began his litany of vasectomy jokes as he administered the anesthesia via two very long needles inserted into my scrotum. "It's the only thing that'll hurt, I promise you."
