Back in the late 70's, when the world was a simpler place and the Cubs sucked, (and still do), I was a married pre-Pope of the All John All The Time World Church guy dealing with the typical issues that most married folks deal with: earning a living, saving for the future, concerned about birth-control, keeping up with the our peers and how many leisure suits I owned. (Okay, I will readily admit that I owned several leisure suits at the time, and wore them regularly, as did many of my contemporaries. Despite being a little cheesy looking in some cases, I don't think it was a bad look, and, to my mind, what there is of it, the idea of dressing-up a little to go forth into the world, rather than the grotesqueries you see these days, wasn't such a bad thing. And yes, it pains me to think how much I sound like an old guy here.)
At that time, for my ex- and I, the subject of birth control was one of some import. My daughter, the lovely and totally stupendous Horace, (not her real name, which is Ulysses), had joined us in early 1977, after an incredibly difficult pregnancy for my ex-, and despite not really wanting to stop at one, we decided that that was the right course of action for us. Horace was pretty cool, (she was a great baby, and, not surprisingly has turned out to be an awesome adult, despite her parentage and upbringing), but even though we had done quite well with our first one, I feared that the next one might be a combination of my looks and my ex-'s intellect, which would have made him/her an dopey-looking doofus, (just kidding, Robin) to say nothing of the physical and emotional wear and tear my ex- would have suffered as the result of another pregnancy.
So for the abovementioned and other various and sundry reasons, we decided that I should have a vasectomy. (For those of you who are considering becoming "groupies" of mine, given my lofty position as head of the AJATTWC, and are entertaining thoughts of bringing little Popeettes into the world, for sentimental reasons or for potential legal action, it ain't gonna' happen. To use the vernacular, I'm shooting blanks. At least when I can still shoot.) I suppose, in retrospect, it was a strange decision for a guy who hadn't yet reached his 30th birthday, but it was never a matter of great concern to me. (Hey, it would still function, I just wouldn't be leaving progeny all over the place indiscriminately.)
So we discussed the issue with our family doctor, and after some more careful consideration, I made the appointment to have the procedure done.
I was scheduled to go "under the knife" (not a happy euphemism when you consider the physical part being "knifed") on a Tuesday afternoon (which is also the name of a good song by the Moody Blues from a million years ago: "Tuesday afternoon, the trees are drawing me near, I've got to find out why..."), so I went to work in the morning, where my ex- picked me up later and drove me to the doctor's office. The procedure was being done in his office since it was considered "outpatient" surgery, with no general anesthetic and no great fears of "losing" the patient.
I was ushered into the room where they were going to do the surgery, was given one of those awful hospital gowns and told to remove my clothing. Now the night before, at my doctor's direction, I had shaved the area in question. Being a careful person, I shaved the ENTIRE area, if you get my drift, which apparently wasn't necessary, judging from the laughter of the male nurse who came into the "operating room" to prepare me. He took a wicked looking straight razor and cleaned up some places I had missed, although given the thoroughness I had approached the task with, about the only thing that remained unshaven was my head, and then left me alone on the table with my thoughts, and my EXTREMELY naked private area, which now resembled a turkey neck.
He returned moments later to tell me that the clinic had a visiting group of student nurses touring the facility that day and would I mind if they viewed the procedure? (I had seen these students walking around as we sat in the waiting room, waiting; all 18-20 year old females.) No, dude, I am not lying here on this table, where I had already soaked the paper "sheet" beneath me with nervous sweat, with the doctor cutting open my totally naked genitalia, while twenty or so giggling female nursing students observe the whole sordid affair. Sorry, that's taking exhibitionism to a whole new level with which I am not comfortable. Pardon me.
The male nurse nodded, left, and then returned again momentarily to give me my anesthetic shots, one in each side of my scrotum (Did you know that "scrotum" backwards is "mutorcs"? Just curious.) Needless to say, this was less than a day at the beach. A few minutes later, my doctor bustles in, dons a pair of rubber gloves and grabs my privates in a brisk and rather unfriendly manner to inspect my general preparedness, I would assume, picked up a scalpel off the tray of implements and got down to business.
He started on the left side, which is my better side, and with the first touch of the blade, I felt some pain. Not a lot, but I flinched enough for him to notice. (Flinched, hell, I jumped.) Since the idea of anesthetic, as far as I know, is to keep the patient from feeling anything, let alone pain, I had to believe this was an ominous beginning.
"Did you feel that?" my doctor asked. (I hate trying to have a conversation with someone when I'm lying flat on my back and they're standing over me, especially with my genitalia exposed. My VERY naked genitalia; it's a ludicrous situation at best.)
"No, you asshole, I'm thinking of trying out for the Bulls next season and I wanted to work on my vertical leap. Yeah, I felt that", I responded in an unpleasant tone of voice, to show my displeasure with how things had gone thus far.
The doctor and the nurse exchanged this look above me, across the table, the doctor's face showing some irritation and the nurse looking like, who me? Another series of shots was administered, and all proceeded smoothly from there on, sans the student nurses.
I mowed the lawn the following morning, my day off; I was a little stiff, (pardon the unintentional pun) but none the worse for all that, and returned to work the next day.
After a few weeks had passed, I was required to take a semen sample to my doctor so a sperm count could be done, and I could officially be declared "harmless", in an area other than from the neck up. Okay, now to my knowledge, there are only two ways to collect a "sample" of that nature; it's either with a partner, or solo. (If there's a third option, I'm pretty sure I don't want to know about it.) Since this was only six weeks or so after my daughter was born, the ex- and I hadn't resumed normal "relations" yet, which for us involved a trombone, a cattle prod and a 55-gallon drum of lime Jello, so I was on my own. I dutifully collected said sample, with the help of some amazing fantasies about the entire cast of the TV show "Charlie's Angels", including Tom Bosley's character, and proceeded to the doctor's office, which was about a 15 minute drive from our home.
The nurses at the office had admonished me previously to keep the sample at body temperature, to prevent the little squiggley guys, if any, from dying of the cold; apparently, if there are any little dead squiggley guys in the sample, its important to know whether they were dead prior to being "shot from the cannon" (I'm flattering myself with the "cannon" allusion) or subsequent. When I inquired as to how I could accomplish this, they suggested keeping the little bottle they had provided for the task under my armpit, which I did.
And all the time I'm driving to the doctor's office, I'm praying I don't have an accident, because if that little bottle of "sample" breaks under my armpit, I'm going to have a hell of a time explaining to the investigating cop how I came (pardon the pun again) to have "sample" all over that particular area of my body. I couldn't imagine trying to convince a cop I was stroking the lizard as I was driving, and that, being hung like a stud horse (which isn't the case, I'm hung more like a stud chipmunk), at the moment of intense pleasure, I drove into a tree and made a mess under my arm, all simultaneously, which I suspect would be a tough story for any right-minded police officer to buy into.
Unfortunately, my little squiggley guys were a tough bunch, and didn't die easily; I had to return to the clinic THREE times with "samples" before they would declare me sterile. And I had to collect each "sample" solo; my ex- couldn't bring herself to assist, she was laughing so hard. Ungrateful wench.
Many years have passed, and much water has flowed under the bridge since my experience with the minor surgery of a vasectomy, but despite the passing of time, to this day, I cannot drive by a doctor's clinic without getting an erection.
Chipmunk-sized.
Love and scalpels,
PJTT
copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.
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