October 8, 2013

Such tender support

As if my wife wasn’t already uncomfortable enough with this vasectomy blog.

Last Friday, the good folks of WordPress were kind enough to share the chronicling of my family cockles. So, over the past few days I’ve been introduced to many, many new friends who share a flattering interest with what’s fluttering around in my pantaloons. Come on in, everybody – join the fun.

I should probably get those dimples checked out.

At this point, I guess it would be prudent to offer a quick summary of my sensitive, saggy little story so far. Sure, you could always go back and read all the previous entries, but who wants to do all that clicking? That’s a finger cramp waiting to happen. I’ll piddle through some key points and include a few links to the more crucial moments.

I have sired offspring twice.
I have attempted to do this zero times.
I love what happened.
But I don’t want it to happen again.

[time, money, messy, fussy, unbridled and unfettered stress-free, guilt-free and spermicidally stink-free, etc.]

I did some research. I made some phone calls. And then made the decision.

Ballogy 101
If you clicked the above link, you should now be an ejaculation expert. Perhaps even obnoxiously so. If not, in a nutshell we learned that men are packing ridiculous amounts of sperm. Among other things.

What to Expect When You’re Vasecting
This is the day before surgery. The primer. It should serve as a nice, generous coating of warming gel for anyone slathering on the shaving cream and preparing themselves for the procedure.

Friday, The Snipteenth
The big day. Get yourself puckered up for a frank, juicy play-by-play of what goes down when your pants go down. The shots, the cuts, the snips, the clips and the crazy dude in the waiting room.

Ow, My Balls
The aftermath. This is what a good fella can expect during the days immediately following getting jabbed in the junk with a big needle and a pair of scissors. It’s not as bad as you might think.

Try to avoid strenuous activities.

So now what? I’ve had bruising and scabbing and healing and feelings of guilt and freedom and frustration. There have been stitches and itches and whispers and whiskers – and I’ve had to explain it all to my darling, wonderful, precious accidental children.

Now it’s time to finish the job. Ultimately, I have a couple of months until my appointment to produce a spermless sample for the lab. And then do it again two weeks later. The doctor says it’s no easy task to overcome the healing process, to intellectually accept what has just happened, and to clear out hundreds of billions of potential ovarian suitors. It’s going to require a lot of time and effort and emotional fortitude.

And tissues.

September 27, 2013

So what’s with all the masturbating?

The vasectomy was two weeks ago. I’m healing up nicely and the fertilization delivery tubes are no longer connected to the loading and launching apparatus. But it’s not business time yet. In fact, the office is closed until the next billing cycle. Well, maybe not closed exactly, but headquarters will need to remain quarantined during heavy trading.

I have an appointment scheduled 10 weeks from last Friday, the Snip-teenth. (Now 8 weeks.) I have been instructed to bring a sample of my reproductive catalytic liquid projectile – which should be only 95% of what it once was.

CRUCIAL EJACULATION INFORMATION>>> Ballology101.

That other 5% is the important stuff. It makes babies. And we don’t want babies. That’s why I allowed needles and scissors and fingers and stitches and scabs and bruises and whiskers on my sensitivity sack.

Lest we forget.

We are looking for a zero. Zero sperm. Not three. Not seventeen. Not even an amazingly impotent two million sperms. In other words, I’ll hand my sample off to some lucky sucker who gets to sit around all day sifting through jelly jars counting sperm. I hope the air conditioner is working.

And if that test turns up zero, I will be instructed to bring back a second sample two weeks later. This will be sent to another lab, so that a different lucky sucker who gets to sit around all day sifting through jelly jars counting sperm can make sure that the first lucky sucker counted to zero correctly.

But why does it take 10 -12 weeks? Let’s go to the map!

How long did the artist spend on that faint tuft of hair?

Basically, what this hilarious drawing is depicting is a pretty basic loading and firing mechanism. But the important thing to notice here is the length of that tube. No, the vas deferens tube. It runs from the marbles all the way up to the belly button and back down underneath the pee pee pouch. That’s a long and winding road. And there’s two of them. Finally, they end up at the spongy seminal mixing chamber. And when it’s party time, a couple of drops of spermy men are added to the mix, the sexy little sponge gets squeezed, and the weapon is gleefully discharged. Cue fireworks.

Now consider this: an average man is packing 25,000,000,000 ova-piercing rounds in those tubes at any given time. That’s a lot of drops. So, it kinda takes a while to clear out the snorkel.

More fireworks.

September 23, 2013

Talking to your kids about your balls.

As I recover from my vasectomy, an interesting dilemma has unzipped and presented itself. The kids want to know why Daddy can’t wrastle. The kids want to know why they can’t sit on Daddy’s lap. The kids want to know why Daddy is walking so funny.

Anti-Baby Steps

My daughter is six and my son is nine. The younger one has been easy. As soon as I said the word, ‘testicles’ she started giggling and quickly moved on. Although, now she feels she has license to say, ‘testicles’ whenever she wants. So, she does. And then giggles.

“You want a hug, Daddy? Don’t worry, I won’t hurt your testicles.”
“Be nice to Daddy. He’s got sore testicles.”
“Good morning, Daddy. How are the testicles?”
“Hey, Daddy. Testicles. I just said, ‘testicles.'”

The nine year old boy is a little different. You see, he has testicles. And questions.

“Was there something wrong with your testicles?”
– No.
“Then what was the testicle surgery for?”
– Don’t end your sentence with a preposition, son.

So, how do I tell the kids that I love them more than anything in the world, but there’s no way in hell I would ever want another one of those loud, obnoxious, expensive, dirty, stupid little angels?

“Daddy, why don’t you and Mommy want another baby?”

A. You kids are relentless. You wear me out. You’re lucky I haven’t gotten rid of you already.
B. I love you so, so very much that I don’t want to share that love with anyone else. Except the dogs.
C. Do you really want to share the t.v. with another person? Gimme the remote.
D. Well, if we did have another one, then either you or your sister would have to go.

“But Daddy, only mommies have babies. What do your testicles have to do with it?

A. It’s called sex, boy. Duh.
B. You see, it takes two to Tango. And when you Tango naked, you make babies.
C. Well there’s this thing called puberty – that’s when you get hairy armpits. And when you get hairy armpits, you make babies.
D. Really, son? I don’t think you’ve been using the internet correctly.

“So you would rather have somebody cut into your testicles than have another one of me?”

A. Y’see. It’s not so hard to understand.
B. Well you don’t have to put it that way. They really only cut the scrotum and the vas deferens. Not the actual testicles.
C. It’s not like that. The third one wouldn’t be another you. That would be even worse.
D. No, no – of course not. There’s just no way the next one could be as amazing as you are. You’ve got a booger in your hair.

So, the conversation wasn’t that bad. And I think my kids will be better off for it. And now, I can focus my energy on helping them be the best they can be. And that makes me feel good.

My kids are gonna be geniuses.

In the end, I gave him a quick run-down of some puberty basics. It’s the part of life when you get smelly and covered in zits. And then you want girls to like you. We talked about how there’s a difference between being a kid and being a grownup. And that it’s more than just a driver’s license and a beard. But, when it came to the actual procreating and consummating and gettin’ it on with a little bump ‘n grind-ating, I told him that nine years old was simply too young and innocent for that sorta conversation. He sighed, nodded and said that he understood.

Then we played the new Grand Theft Auto.

…

[If you’re interested, the entire snipping story starts here.]

September 20, 2013

Ow, My Balls

The vasectomy appears to have gone well. My ovarian fertilization launching mechanism has been successfully disarmed. The first few hours have been a wonderful world of luxurious medicated laziness. But, all good things must come to an end. Let’s talk about some of the sweet post-op side effects of having fun-bag surgery.

That’s gonna leave a mark.

Please note: I was given some vicodin to use if the pain gets too bad. I will attempt to power through without taking any. Why? Because I’m a man. I’m 40. And my wife managed to pull off natural child birth. Twice. — Also, the pain will help me remember to be careful. Every time I go to the dentist and get a shot of novocaine, I end up chewing a giant hole in the side of my cheek. And I don’t need another hole in my scrotum.

Soreness.

The most noticeable side effect is the hitch in my giddy-up. My boys are tender. It’s a dull ache deep in my innards. Sure, ice can keep the swelling down, but it doesn’t really help the core problem of dense discomfort. Plus, ice is freezing. It’s frozen water, you see. And it’s touching the balls, so – not cool.

Important: Gravity is not your friend.

Sitting down is absolutely the best medicine. But not too fast. Use your arms to hover for a second and then slowly ease into position. They actually recommend that you wear a jock strap for the first day. I don’t own one. And I’m not going to buy one for a single day. Instead, I just found the smallest pair of nut-hugger undies I own and went with that. Maybe I’ll try my son’s Spiderman skivvies if I get desperate.

Bruising.

Common decency prohibits me from posting a photo of my technicolor rainbow of testicular contusions. But trust me, it’s impressive. And it changes like the sunset – a constant ebbing and swirling of purples and blues and greens and pinks and yellows and reds and wrinkles. Kinda like an old man who just got the crap beat out of him.

You should see the other ball.

Urinating.

Just go ahead and have a seat, buddy. This is no time to let pride get in the way and make a mess of yourself. Especially for that initial tinkle. This will be the first time you get the chance to see your little victim after the mugging. The image of your twig and berries all mangled and beat to hell can be quite a jolt to the system. Personally, I got a little woozy. And secondly, your parts are pulled up tighter than a bull at the rodeo. Not only does this make things awkward, but it also sorta points your pee-shooter in a less-than-natural direction. Just hunker down and pretend you’re on vacation.

Baseball cap not necessary.

Beyond that, most other things seem pretty normal. I still have an appetite. I still like beer. I haven’t been noticeably angry or irritable. And I still can’t play the harpsichord. Which is rather remarkable considering the circumstances.

Oh. One more thing.

Don’t get a boner.

September 18, 2013

Friday, The Snip-teenth.

This is it. Vasectomy Day. I’m done with all the waiting and stewing and anticipating and second-guessing and scientific renderings of my junk bag. Let’s do this! The wife and I step out of the elevator and into the waiting room.

This place is full of nuts.

Upon checking in, we are told that Dr. Aloe Fingers was called out for an emergency removal of some lady’s golfball-sized gall stone. Which may or may not have been used for a round of golf afterward. Either way, it gives us time to listen to some lunatic in the lobby try to carry on a conversation with a woman who was hard of hearing. He felt very strongly that tennis-playing “cousins,” “Sabrina” and “Vanessa” Williams should retire. The deaf woman thought he was ordering a sandwich.

Two hours later, I find myself peeing in a cup. Little did I know it would be the last time I’d be standing for such a purpose for the next several days. I zip up and move to the party room.

After scoring 48 points for CLINCHED on Words With Friends, there’s a quick knock and the door opens. Enter the assailant. We exchange a few pleasantries and chat gall stones and testicles and then get down to business.

Let’s break it down.

A FLOPPY OBSTRUCTION:
Since the entry point for this procedure is at the center of my freshly shaved sperm satchel, gravity puts the penis in a precarious position. It is unceremoniously taped to my tummy.

POKING THE PACKAGE:
Before there can be an incision into my frightened, shriveled scrotum, there must be an injection of local anaesthetic. This feels pretty much like any normal shot. Only, it’s in a rather sensitive area. But don’t worry, the skin is pinched and lifted up. So, it’s not like you just get jabbed in the sack with a needle. Anyway, not so bad.

SLITTING THE SACK:
I was expecting a scalpel. Instead, scissors are used. Very sharp scissors. Although I cannot feel it, I am able to hear it. And yes, it sounds exactly how you’d expect it to sound. Disturbingly easy.

NUMB NUTS:
Because the scrote is so delightfully flaccid, the same hole can be moved around to reveal both the left and right vas deferens tubes. We start with the left. And again, before cutting anything, another local anaesthetic must be injected.

“You might feel a little pressure.”

Okay, so maybe it isn’t that bad – but it is by far the most painful part of the process. It feels like somebody grabs a hold of one of your boys and gives it a big squeeze. And not in the good way. Guys, the pain most closely resembles that feeling you get when your tenders get just barely grazed – there’s a delay, you count to three and then experience that dull ache throbbing throughout your lower belly. Yeah, it sucks – but it dissipates quickly.

THE SNIP
By now, I’m feeling no pain. There’s just a sensory black hole between my legs. A great area of never-ending nether-nothing. I can’t be sure, but I think I saw Atreyu and Falkor flying away. Nontheless, this part is a little weird. First, the doc nabs the tube and pulls it through my new handy scrotal glory-hole. It makes a nifty little hoop. He clamps off two parts of the seminal super highway and simply snips off about a centimeter section in between the two clamps. Tada!

LOAD CLOSED
Now the tubes need to be permanently closed off. To do this, two little baby paperclips are popped onto each end. This does two things. A – It keeps the two loose ends from trying to find each other and get the band back together. And B – It prevents any little Evel Knievel sperm from attempting to make the jump from one to the next. Wheehaw!

RINSE AND REPEAT
The tubes are poked back in, the package gets a quick wipe-down and the hole gets slid over to the other side. This verse is the same as the first:

Shot to the nad
Hoopty-loop
Clamp
Clip
Snip
Stuff the stuff back in.

STITCHES IN MY BRITCHES
I was kinda hoping for my name to be embroidered onto my business, but I think that would require a special appointment. And different insurance. Instead, this turns out to be pretty normal. The strangest part is that I can kinda feel the afore-mentioned black hole bouncing around on my legs as it gets tugged and pulled throughout the sewing process.

MOVING ON
After another quick cleansing, I’m good to go. I pull up my pants, get a good look at my nubs in a jar and head back out to face the world. The first face I see is that of my lovely, patient wife. She looks a little concerned. But perhaps she looks even a little more relieved to finally get away from the crazy, confused tennis fan in the waiting room.

Now, time for recovery.

The couch and drugs await.

September 16, 2013

What to expect when you’re vasecting.

As the big day for my bloomers looms, I’d say it’s good practice to know what the future holds for one’s cajones. After all, when it comes to my berries, I’m not really a big fan of the word, “Surprise!” Nor “oops,” nor “uh-oh” nor “say, what’s that bumpy thing?” for that matter.

So, the plan is to have a plan. Luckily for me, I have a wonderful wife who is eager to help.

Pink? Really?

There are a number of things that I know are going to happen to me on V-Day. Some of these things I can control, and some of these things will be in the hands of my doctor. Literally. And I mean literally in the literal sense – not in that figuratively literal way.

1. I will get an injection in my ball bag.
2. I will get an incision in my ball bag.
3. I will get an injection in the vicinity of my left gonad.
4. I will get an injection in the vicinity of my right gonad.
5. There will be scissors.
6. There will be clamps.
7. There will be stitches.
8. There will be soreness.
9. There will be swelling.
10. There will be peas for dinner.

Let’s start with steps 1-2. Injection and Incision. These are things I would prefer go well, so I want to make it as easy on the wielder of the cutlery as possible. Hence, I shall arrive shorn.

What could possible go wrong?

“Thank you for calling 98.7 WBALLS – who do I have on the line?” – “Kyle Colby Jones here. Long-time admirer, first-time shaver.” Okay, so I’ve never taken a razor to my poor, gentle genitalia before. And I’ve always used an electric razor for my face. Now, I’ve been told that would be an awful choice for a rather wrinkly and highly snaggable surface. So, a blade it is.

After my barber refused and told me to never come back again, I was forced to seek out the advice of my friends. And I got lots. I honestly had no idea how much of the world was walking around all smooth and shiny. Some basics: Start with a beard trimmer. (Turns out that kinda tickles, by the way.) Do it in the shower. Employ downward strokes.

I was also delightfully shocked to discover that some folks had even created names for their own personal man-sculpting methods. The Butterfly Technique. The Spread N’ Shed. The Bat-Wing. Nonetheless, I got it done. Accident free.

Steps 3-7. Snipping & Stitching. The only thing I can really do at this point is be absolutely still. No sudden movements. For this, I am hoping to be frozen with fear.

Steps 8-9. Pain & Swelling. Frozen peas, a soft chair and prescription pain killers will be at the ready. And the kids will be at the ready to fetch dear old dad any other provisions he may need. (Psst. It rhymes with beer.)

Step 10. Dinner. I might also try mashing some potatoes.

Alright. I’m set. Everything should be okay. As long as the good doctor remembers to trim his nails.

And if he doesn’t, then he’s invited to dinner.

September 13, 2013

Ballology 101

After the little warm-up appointment with the good Dr. Richard Cushion Hands, I am now much more learned in the ways of my built-in ovarian fertilization unit. Seems simple enough, really. There’s a couple of fertilizer factories. A distribution channel from each factory to a central export facility. From there, the cargo is jettisoned into the mysteries of the universe.

That’s you! And me! And about a Jizzillion other potential chances to catch a spark of life and do something awesome and meet a gal and fall in love and eat pizza and skin a knee and take a crap and watch the Longhorns take a crap and throw a beer on the floor and go to bed.

Anyway. I’m trying to say we’re all special. And that we’re all little miracles. Just maybe not because of this part.

WARNING: I’ll be using the word, “ejaculate” a bunch of times. And in many forms.

Each ejaculation contains, on average, 200-500 million sperm. That’s hundreds of millions of chances to eat pizza. Anything below 40 million sperm-per-ejaculation and the word, “impotence” starts getting thrown around. Flip it over, rub it down, and then a few rare master ejaculators can produce over ONE BILLION SPERM in a single ejaculation.

So you’re one-in-a-million. Whoop-tee-doo.

WARNING: There will be a pronunciation change in the word, “ejaculate.” Unlike the verb – ‘ee-JAK-yoo-layt‘, you will sometimes see the noun – ‘ee-JAK-yoo-lit.’

One single sperm fertilizes an egg. Each release of ejaculate contains hundreds of millions of sperm. But, get this – only 5% of each release of ejaculate is actually sperm. That’s right, you’re a drop in the buck of a drop in the bucket. (Note: never use this analogy in front of your lady.)

So you may be asking yourself – what’s the other 95%? Here’s the magic recipe:

70% fructose, amino acids, enzymes, etc. [sperm food]
25% Acid phosphatase, fibrinolysin, citric acid, etc. [lube]
5% Sperm [sperm]
>1% Galactos, mucus [more lube]

So, what the good doctor is going to do is cut the tubes supplying the 5%. Let’s go to the map:

“F” indeed.

That part takes about five minutes. And I’m told I’ll be sore for a couple of days. Then, I’ll be back in action after about a week. But, I won’t be completely sperm-free for another two months. Why so long you ask? I’ll have to save that for another blog.

WARNING: I’ll be using the word “masturbate” a bunch of times.

September 10, 2013

Who am I kidding?

While we’re waiting for my appointment with Dr. Featherhands, let’s dive a bit deeper into some of my reasoning for getting a vasectomy in the first place. I mean, it’s not like I just have a hankerin’ for pain in my patriarchal pouch.

First of all – I’ve got two kids already – one boy, one girl. The wife and I have successfully reproduced ourselves to carry on our genes and namesakes. And ultimately, we’ve created a couple of slaves to take care of us, once we’re breaking our hips and peeing ourselves.

$$ Financials $$
Yep, kids are expensive. Hey look, a chart!

And then they go to college.

It takes a village to rob a bank and raise a child. You see, on top of that spooky graphic, there are a few more teensy weensy costs we would need to endure. A new house. Our rooms are already filled with love and people and toilets. A new car. The truck has maximized its load. And all that ridiculously priced baby equipment like car seats and strollers and cribs and Tickle-Me-Elmos and crap – we already gave all that away. We’d have to completely start over.

Health – Our Bodies Ourselves
At my wife’s current undisclosed beautifully sexy age, her body will not think pregnancy is very awesome anymore. It adds weight and strain. It steals nutrients and rearranges all the hormones. Here are some stats:

PRESENT PREGNANCY PITFALLS
1/3 chance of miscarriage
1/66 chance of chromosomal abnormality
1/106 chance of Down Syndrome
1/10 chance of birth weight lower than 5.5 lbs.
1/3 chance of kid growing up to be a neglected, pansy crybaby

Sanity – It’s Crucial
Oh yeah. And I’m not interested in anything like this:

The vagina is not a clown car.

I do not want my life to be incessantly surrounded by loud, banging, clanging chaos. I don’t want there to always be a mess to clean up. I don’t want there to always be an argument to break up. Or a booboo to kiss. Or a snotty nose to wipe. Or a turdy ass to scrub. I want to get old with some peace and quiet and serenity. If I spent 20 more years yelling and griping it would become some sort of ingrained habit. Then I’d end up a grumpy old fart. And nobody likes that guy.

Now, as if health and sanity and money weren’t reason enough to make the snip – there’s another reason. There’s a much more yummy and sweaty and gropey reason. But that deserves its own post.

Hump Day should work.

September 9, 2013

My boys deserve a Dr. with references.

Now, it’s not too often that I deal with the phrase, ‘scrotal incision’ – but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to entrust just anybody with the task.

Free heartworm medication with every vasectomy.

The good news here is that I’m not blazing any new trails. I have quite a few friends who have already undergone this procedure . So, I just take out my handy rolodex, spin it back to the ‘sterile’ section – and start making some phone calls. Everyone was eager to help – perhaps a little too eager. As one might expect, some had good experiences, and some had bad experiences. And, as I heard more and more of their stories, I learned that when it comes to a man’s nethers, simple words can take on new meanings:

VASECTOMY DICTIONARY
Good experience = uneventful
Bad experience = balls on fire

Doug said his anaesthesia didn’t take. Balls-on-fire. George said his recovery time was months rather than days. Balls-on-fire. Jason said his urologist’s name was Dr. Richard Chopp. Well that’s potentially even worse than balls-on-fire. So these options were quickly eliminated. Mike, Greg, Chris, John, Jin and Clint all had much more delightfully uneventful snips. And in the end, good or bad, every single one of my interviewees told me they were ultimately glad they had it done. And then they limped away.

A couple of docs were dropped due to distance. Apparently you don’t want a long bumpy car ride after all the fun.

And then there’s insurance. Check this out – it’s rather important. If you have the procedure done in a surgical center, boom – you get punched right in the deductible. That would be about $2,000 for me. Wallet-on-fire. BUT, if you have the procedure done in the urologist’s office, you are only responsible for the copay. That’s right. Twenty bucks. Ten per tube.

Enter, Dr. Kim. Referred by a friend, insurance compatible, a cozy 1.7 miles from my house, and bargain basement, value-menu pricing. Bingo.

I call. I shakily mumble the word, ‘vasectomy’ a few times, and then they set me up with a preliminary appointment. They called it a ‘consult’. I guess a person can’t just walk in and order the Cut’n Go Special. Dr. Kim wants to get to know me first. And get introduced to the fellas.

Oh, what to wear?

September 6, 2013

My health teacher warned me.

I’m not going to lie to you – both of my kids were accidents.

Wonderful, happy little accidents.

Technically speaking, the wife and I have always been extremely careful when it comes to business time. In our fifteen years of marital entanglement, we have literally only tested the fates once. Yep, one single unprotected roll in the hey-hay in fifteen years. That turned out to be my son, Sam.

Just look at that handsome little lack of judgement.

Three years later – still very much aware of our previous amazing, perfect and glorious mistake – the wife and I were in the midst of another intense business meeting. We chose to be careful. Again. And to be honest, we didn’t even really do much of anything. I mean, if we were on Cinemax, you probably would have changed the channel. But, as it happens, one tiny incredibly determined Navy SEAL sperm managed to survive. It crawled and dragged and battled its way into the motherland and conquered its ovarian prize.

Lilly. Strong like bull.

Yes. Yes. I love my kids, I’m glad they’re around and all – blah blah blah. But the real issue here is the fact that my wife and I seem to have an incredibly potent combination of baby-making equipment. I’m packing some serious heat – I mean, every time I sneeze, somebody gets pregnant. And Sierra, she is the fertile crescent – teeming with placental nourishment. Plus, I think she’s pretty smokin’ and I have a hard time keeping my hands off her. Throw all that together and we could potentially have already produced (let me do some math here) a brood of over 20 kids to this point. Note: includes Irish twins.

20 freakin’ kids. That sounds exhausting. And expensive. And kinda noisy.

Time to find me a doctor. One with soft hands. And good aim.

	Snippity Snip \| Sans… on Closing the baby factory.
	pieterk515 on Air Balls
	Susannah Ailene Mart… on Air Balls
	Air Balls \| Sans Def… on Closing the baby factory.
	Talking to your kids… on Closing the baby factory.

Sans Deferens

it's vasectomy time. follow every little snippet as I gingerly hobble through the process.

balls