The Dreaded Vasectomy: A Patient’s Perspective
A funny thing happened on the way to the four-story medical building where my urologist keeps an office. I say "my urologist" as if we see each other regularly, but I don't. The only other time I had been to the office was earlier in the week when I visited with the doctor's PA about the vasectomy I was about to undergo. The funny thing that happened as I was driving to the surgery? I kept driving instead of turning around and going home. After all, these supposed medical professionals were about to take a scalpel to an area that I've spent a lifetime protecting and covering up any time a stray ball, foot, or rubber mallet came within two feet of said area. Yet there I went, merrily down the road towards the theater of pain where my boys (as they're lovingly referred to in our neighborhood) would be rendered permanently useless.
As mentioned above, I went to the office earlier in the week to get the details and meet the mad scientist, er, doctor who would perform the procedure. Shortly after my arrival the first signs of trouble appeared in the form of forms--lots of forms. Formal forms, informal forms, and forms that were formerly forms that had been recycled and turned into new forms. The office staff was making it very difficult to do something I wasn't that excited about in the first place. As tempted as I was to fake a paper cut and run for the door, I pushed through the pile of paperwork and then resumed my spot in the waiting room.
After a short time I was escorted to one of the holding cells (they called it an "examination room") where I was to meet the doctor. But he didn't show up. Instead, he sent one of his minions to explain the excruciating procedure (my words, not his). The physicians assistant (I believe he was called Igor) went into great detail about what would take place. Because of his gory attention to detail, what was supposed to be a 15 minute meeting somehow turned into a 1 hour session. Thank heaven for smelling salts or it might have gone longer.
I was not looking forward to the vasectomy. My nerves were frazzled. On the drive there Cheryl Crow started singing The First Cut Is The Deepest. I quickly changed the radio to a rock station to counteract Cheryl's taunting. The rock station was playing Bad Medicine by Bon Jovi. I turned the radio off and sang I Will Survive at the top of my lungs. (Word, Gloria Gaynor!)
Finally, I was on the table getting prepped. The surgeon arrived. You could cut the tension in the room with a knife, but the doctor had other plans for his scalpel. He mumbled updates about what he was doing. "Okay, pressure here," and "a slight twist," he said. He reached for a syringe a muttered, "A little prick." Trying to add some levity to the situation, I raised my head and said, "Well yeah, but that's just because it's cold in here." The young nurse blushed. The doctor chuckled. I relaxed and knew everything was going to be alright.
Before long the doctor was done and I was sent on my way. The recovery hasn't been bad at all, but don't tell that to my wife. I intend to milk this one for as long as possible.
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