My Little Swimmers Are Just a Glimmer

I had the most pleasant conversation the other day about the Minnesota State Fair — with the nurse who was shaving my testicles.

I was about to undergo a vasectomy, but I might as well have been at the park with this woman watching our kids play, or standing behind her in line at the grocery store comparing coupons. It was just another day at the office for her. Thankfully, she didn’t whistle while she  worked — as some “barbers” do — but you’d never know what was going on by the conversation the two of us were having or the casual way we were having it. If you were to listen to an audiotape replay of it today, you’d think it was part of a demo reel on learning the art of small talk. It couldn’t have been more normal, even though what I was about to do was anything but — for me at least.

I’m in a relationship with a woman named Adrianne who, like me, lost her spouse a while back and who, also like me, has two young children. We both realize that we are heading for a Brady Bunch scenario, and neither of us wants an additional child to make that bunch even, well, bunchier. So I decided to essentially guarantee our respective wishes by getting fixed.

The urologist I worked with is a kind-hearted Englishman in his sixties who couldn’t be more friendly or professional. During my mandatory pre-surgery consultation when he asked me why I wanted to get a vasectomy, I told him how my wife died of cancer a year and a half ago, how I had met Adrianne, and how we see a future together with our four kids but only our four kids. His response: a fist bump combined with the words “I’m sorry, mate. But good for you.”

He then went on the explain the procedure — which takes only about half an hour and involves severing and sealing both vasa deferentia (see your sixth-grade health textbook for a refresher) — before offering up a critical cautionary statement: I’d have to continue using birth control for a few more months following the procedure so that my body could flush out the remaining sperm cells already in my system. “It takes a while to get rid of the little BAH-studs,” the doctor stressed.

During the surgery itself, the doctor made sure that classical music — his favorite — was playing instead of the “rubbish” that the much younger nurses prefer. He then broadcast the procedure as he went along, sort of like a baseball game, so that I would know what’s coming:

Side 1 (Vas Deferens 1): “Here comes a little mosquito bite.” Yup, there was a little mosquito bite as he injected me in the, well, you know with a local anesthetic. And when the cutting of the vas deferens was imminent: “Ouchy,” he said. Ouchy indeed; hardly felt a thing. “Done with one,” the doctor said a few moments later. My confidence soared and my anxiety dropped precipitously.

Not so fast.

Side 2 (Vas Deferens 2): “Another little mosquito bite.” Me, in my head, milliseconds later: “That was a big &%$#ing mosquito.” Doc: “Ouchy.” Me: No words, but instead a flinch suggesting the utter inadequacy of the descriptor “ouchy.”

Still, though, all in all it was a nothing procedure with virtually no side effects beyond not being allowed to shower, bathe, or swim for a few days. (And a special note to my 11-year-old son, Isaac: No, the doctor did not cut off my penis and jewels as you initially believed he would.)

So now I’m off the procreation playing field — or soon will be at any rate — for good. I’m out of the game thanks to two very well-placed eighth-inch incisions, some skilled knot tying, and a bit of soldering.

I’m just glad I had the balls to go through with it.

Peter Vogt

I’m a writer. An essayist, to be more exact. I tell stories here—true stories, from my own life, in hopes they will make a positive difference in yours.

I share laughs and tears, insights and observations, frustrations and realizations, relying all the while on the storytelling wisdom of Julia Cameron, author of The Right to Write.

It is a great paradox that the more personal, focused, and specific your writing becomes, the more universally it communicates.