Tuesdays with Rummy.
I love kids, I really do . . . I just don’t want any of my own. Maybe it’s my lousy childhood, or maybe it’s a lifetime of working with kids and adolescents that capped my desire to extend my swarthy lineage. In any case, after years of birth control pill malaise from my wife and my general overall distaste for using condoms (in a committed relationship), I decided to take the next step. I was getting fixed.
I have to admit, I had no real reference point for how the surgery would be done. I just basically called the doctor’s office a month prior and talked to a receptionist about scheduling a vasectomy. She sent me pre-surgical info forms and waivers, in case they lopped off my junk by mistake. Now all I needed to do now was wait, and as Tom Petty would say, it’s the hardest part.
The day prior to the surgery you’re supposed to shave your surrounding areas and wash with antibacterial soup like Dial™. I honestly haven’t used a bar soap since high school, so the combo of a freshly shorn turtle with the sting of anti-bacterial soap? Let’s just say it was a slow burn. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the task of shaving itself. I’m Portuguese and “all-natch” down there, which basically means my package looks like a young Jerry Garcia. Suffice to say, I don’t envy you single folk that have to “man-scape” on the reg, at least with a razor. One slip, and you’re Lord Varys from “Game of Thrones.”
The day of the surgery I was pretty nervous. I had to be there at 8:30 a.m. and there was little time for preparation. Shorts, tee, sandals, good to go. Keep in mind, this was done in a urologist’s office, no fancy state of the art operating room. Just me, my bangers and mash, and a doctor. The doctor (I’ll call him Abbruzzi) performing the surgery was an interesting cat. A Vietnam field surgeon (twice decorated), his office looked like it straight out of an episode of “M*A*S*H.” Framed pictures of fellow soldiers, army medals, even the obligatory pic of him with a Vietnamese madam. I have to admit, I was somehow put at ease by the doc’s overall badassery. Equal parts Trapper John McIntyre and Hawkeye Pierce, I just hoped quietly that conditions would be a tad more sanitary than an army tent.
“This way, Mr. Sarmento,” Dr. Abbruzzi advised, which I thought was pretty formal considering he’d soon be viewing my freshly shorn man bits up close and personal.
“Remove your close from the waste down, and lay down on the table. You can cover up with the sheet if you like.”
If I like? No thanks, doc. I was just gonna let my stuff air out like a baby waiting for a fresh diaper.
“I’m going to isolate the area with a local sedative, this will be the hardest part, I assure you,” Dr. Abbruzzi assured.
The big doc, who resembled a mustachioed and be-speckled Brian Dennehy, then drew out a needle that can be best described as a BBQ competition-level marinade injector.
“Is that a garlic-lemon marinade?”
Doc didn’t get the joke. I decided lightening the mood wouldn’t fly, so I self-muted during the mutilation, er, operation.
Once he inserted the needle into one side of my scrotum, I just grit my teeth and stared at the ceiling like the “American Standard” logo in a crowded public bathroom. The pain was quick, but holy shit did it hurt. We protect our balls for a reason, they’re sensitive parts of the anatomy. It felt like getting your finger caught in the hinge of a door . . . only it lasts 30 seconds. Trust me, 30 seconds, I counted. The local anesthesia worked almost immediately, like I had a 25 kettle bell between my legs. The doc could have dropped Randy “Macho Man” Savage elbows on my baby-maker, and I wouldn’t have felt a damn thing. Numb.
Next came the incision. The “vas deferens” on each testicle needed to be tied off to keep sperm and semen from mingling and resulting in a trip to CVS for a pregnancy test. Before that happens, the doc had to find the “vas” much like a vein when blood is being drawn. Note: If you don’t want your balls fondled by a Vietnam vet, don’t have a vasectomy. Basically the doctor needs to find the vas before he can make an incision, so he commences squeezing your nuts like an Italian grandmother preparing tomatoes for marinara. Needless to say, my balls post-op looked they had dated Chris Brown.
Where was I? Right, the incision. The doc made an incision in my left testicle, and I made the mistake of taking my eyes off of the drop ceiling panel, aka “my happy place.” I looked down and watched as my ball bag became a money shot in a Coen Brothers film, blood pooling around the victim slowly. OK. Eyes back up.
Forty minutes later, he had sutured both sides and swabbed me up with enough iodine to look like I had a Lindsay Lohan spray tan on my business. The doc dabbed me with what was basically a heavy duty version of “Nu-Skin” plastic bandage on the sutured area, and I was told to wait for 10 minutes (waiting for the bandage to heal). The Doc walked out of the door and left it ajar. Keep in mind, I had no sheet or covering on my scrotum, just my Frankenweiner sutures and a gob of goo. Not a good look to be exposed at that point, like the Elephant Man movie reveal. I expected his fat nurse to walk by and shriek in horror. Thankfully my privacy was respected, and I packed up and went home with an envelope of pain pills and and antibiotics.
The discomfort wasn’t immediate. The next day I felt like I could play golf or badminton, or whatever random sport they feature on the vasectomy pamphlet. Forty-eight hours later? Different story. I felt like Floyd Mayweather had used my kumquats as a speed bag. I iced up, for a good 24 hours, and took warm tub soaks (per the doc’s advice) for the next few days. It helped quite a bit.
I’m also on a “sperm drop” calendar for the next few months. They need to check future samples for potency, and when I get the green light, I can go unsheathed with the Mrs. from that point. The doc also cited that I needed to “empty the chamber” for at least a dozen times before the first sample, which means I got unexpected fellatio from my wife, and an E-Z pass to pull my taffy without Catholic shame.
All in all, I’d say it wasn’t a bad deal. I’m so old at this point, if I had a child, he’d be kicking my ass by the time he was 15–who the fuck wants that? The procedure isn’t for everyone, but neither is parenting.
