Purloined
“I’m not too good at this, so tell me if I’m being too rough.” Such a comment, coming out of the mouth of a rookie shoe clerk fitting a pair of loafers or a novice tailor tugging on the lapels of a jacket, might pass unnoticed. Their imprecision, while momentarily annoying, would cause no lasting injury, for the things they are jostling with rough hands aren’t attached to you, after all. But put that statement on the lips of a woman holding your genitals and wielding an electric razor, and it takes on quite a bit more significance.
I heard it while I was laying on my back in a procedure room in Northwestern Hospital, naked from the waist down except for my socks, waiting to get a vasectomy. Desiree, the young, attractive, African-American medical assistant who would be helping the urologist that day, was already mowing away at my crotch with a beige set of clippers when she confessed her inexperience. The handout the urologist gave me during my initial appointment suggested that I shave myself the morning of the procedure to save time, but a new job and the two kids who led me to this state of affairs left little time for special grooming that day. So now Desiree was doing things to me that some men would pay good money for a woman like her to do.
Considering what was about to happen after she was finished, it was an odd way to think about it. But up to the point where she admitted that she may well make a few starter incisions for the doctor, the whole experience had the feeling of something kinky: a pretty woman greets you, escorts you back to a private room, then tells you to lay down, relax, and take your pants off. The very fact that such an image even crossed my mind at that moment probably explains why I needed to be there in the first place.
I actually knew long ago that I’d get a vasectomy someday, before my wife and I started trying to have children in the first place. She and I had agreed from the beginning of our marriage that we only wanted two children, a decision affirmed by the chaos following the arrival of our second last fall. But she actually had the first opportunity to opt out of childbearing status permanently, moments after our daughter was born via C-section. The obstetrician, as an afterthought, hollered up over the privacy screen, “Hey, do you want us to tie your tubes while we’re in here?” My wife, exhausted after labor and the trauma of undergoing major surgery while fully conscious, gamely answered, “I don’t think I can answer that right now, thanks.”
Perhaps a little advance planning might have done us some good in that case, but the very fact that her option for permanent birth control required being flayed open like a gutted fish underscored the practicality of me taking one for the team. A vasectomy is a minor procedure compared to a woman getting her tubes tied: just a few snips, a jockstrap stuffed with ice packs, and you’re on your way. And despite the fear and instinctual cupping it might induce among men, it’s also a far less expensive alternative than hassling with condoms or birth control pills in perpetuity, or worse yet, having another child.
Apparently, I’m not alone in factoring in that last argument. Amidst the glut of news articles about what people are doing to save money during the recession, I came across pieces from CNN and the New York Times about how the number of vasectomies has risen since this fall. More men are worried about money and their jobs, more men are deciding that they can’t afford another kid, and more men are deciding to do something about it before they lose their health coverage.
I wasn’t alone in spirit, lying exposed on that table, but the impression I got from those articles was that those other men were forced into the decision by the bad economy. It wasn’t a choice they would have made in better times, whereas I decided to do it as if it were a natural milestone in a man’s life. Get married, procreate, get neutered. I’m not much better off than my dog, though at least I got to keep my testicles to remind me of the good old days.
I felt like I should be more nostalgic about my balls, like I shouldn’t give up the ability to have children so willingly. The pre-op literature emphasized that while vascectomies technically can be reversed it’s not a sure thing, so men should consider this a permanent decision, and when I Googled “vasectomy,” the first related search it suggested was “vasectomy reversal.” Enough men either regret their decision, or worry that they will regret their decision, to make even Google nudge you and say, “You really want to do this, man?”
Perhaps I would have been more torn about it all if it had been my wife’s idea, but I can’t remember ever having a conversation about what we would do once we had our matching set of kids. I just offered up the possibility because it seemed like the obvious thing to do, economically and out of simple fairness to her for bearing two children and suffering two C-sections. Her reaction: “Really? Wow, okay.” If she had been behind it, maybe I would have resisted out of pure male defensiveness about my loins. “Leave my boys alone, woman!” I would have cried. But despite being a sports-watching, former beer-guzzling frat boy, I’ve never been much of a red-meat macho man. My balls had served their purpose well, and now it was time for them to retire.
But maybe on a deeper level I wasn’t attached to them because I’d been able to experience fatherhood more than just providing the right chromosomes at the right time. Of course all good fathers are attached to their children beyond just supplying the DNA, but spending four years at home with my son and the first five months with my daughter made the ability to have more children someday, whether it would be wielded or not, less important. My manhood wasn’t tied to me solely through the instrument of creation. It was tied to my ability to shape those that I’d already created.
The procedure itself, after the awkward prep work, was “unpleasant,” as I later described it to my wife. I didn’t feel any outright pain, but lots of prodding and tugging and pulling accompanied by the stomach-churning, rolling ache that comes with a nice, sharp ground ball to the crotch. On the whole though, I’ve had far worse experiences at the dentist, including a harrowing gum-graft procedure that I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.
As he worked, the doctor kept up a constant patter of icebreaker lines:
“How about that warm weather? Spring in Chicago though, it’ll probably snow next week.”
“Did you see the price of cars lately? Looks like you can get some pretty good deals out there.”
“Is this music okay? We can change it if you like.” (It was classic rock, not my favorite, but I demurred. I’ll never hear “Stairway to Heaven the same way again though).
He didn’t seem to even process my terse, clenched-teeth replies. He was robotic and methodical, the questions coming out unconsciously, surely having practiced them hundreds of times. He assured me nothing was wrong each of the three times his pager went off, or when he cauterized the vas deferens and a burning smell filled the air. “Just a little pinch here,” was his standard warning. Clearly he had decided the best way to get through these things was to be as businesslike as possible. Given the scare Desiree had given me while she and I got acquainted, I was thankful for this nothing-personal approach.
When he was finished, he helped me put on a jockstrap and stuff it full of gauze to support my wounded boys. He asked if anyone was waiting for me outside. I said, yes, my wife was, then I offered a weak joke. “The things I do for her, huh?” For a second, he broke character and said, “Well, you’re being a good husband.”
After that, I waddled out to meet my wife, where she and the doctor had a discussion about my scrotum within earshot of half the waiting room. We went home, I took four Tylenol and stuffed two icepacks down my pants. By sheer coincidence, I had scheduled my vasectomy during the opening round of the NCAA men’s basketball tournament. I sat on the couch the rest of the weekend, eating junk food and watching sports like a manly man, thinking about what a good husband I was.
This essay was also featured at CellStories on December 7, 2009
