surgery

October 25, 2013

Advantage: Children

The wife and I have two kids, putting us on the precarious cusp of being outnumbered. And since we’re already scrambling as it is, I had the vasectomy to nip that bud in the buds.

Over the past few years, I’ve learned that my kids hold an unfair advantage. They come from a place of pure helplessness and innocent ignorance. And therefore, as a relatively reasonable, rutting earthling breeder, I’m obligated to expect absolutely nothing from them. To make matters worse, I feel overwhelmingly compelled to love them and feed them and ultimately keep them from chewing on rusty nails and dying. Even rats and roaches feel this.

Oh, how I wish I still had somebody to unequivocally fawn and dote all over me. My parents, of course, used to do this. But then I had kids, giving them grandkids. And FOOM! Suddenly all those cuddles and kisses and Little Debbie Snack Cakes got instantly diverted. My wife used to mother me, too.

Kyle has the flu. Before kids.
“Aw, honey-poo. Here’s some soupy soup and a cool towel for your forehead. You just relax and watch the Bob Barker girls.”

Kyle has the flu. Since kids.
“How long are you gonna milk this? I’ll leave the dishes in the sink for when you have enough strength to stop being such a pussy.”

appendectomy0Don’t worry about me, babe. I got this.

Meanwhile, my daughter gets a cookie for flushing the toilet.

The sickest part is that since kids function primarily on instinct, they are actually pretty intuitive. More so than us pea-brained grownups. My kids have developed this basic, simple approach and now use it to slap me around.

Me:  What’re you doing?
Girl:  Hopping on one foot.
Me:  Why?
Girl:  Practicing.
Me:  Practicing for what?
Girl:  Hopping on one foot.
Me:  …
Girl:  (giggles)

It’s like she’s just toying with me. See how masterfully she can lead me to befuddled silence? I never see it coming.

“Children are smarter than any of us. Know how I know that?
I don’t know one child with a full time job and children.”
– Bill Hicks

Now, it’s not that I want to be a kid again. Far from it. I like driving my truck and being able to appreciate things like beer and broccoli and boobies.

Michael+Jackson+amor+de+Peter+PanHow do you do, fellow kids?

To be honest, I’m just jealous. I’m jealous of all those things I once enjoyed but was forced to bequeath the moment my kids were born. I miss the free time. I miss the gold stars. I miss falling on my face and having someone pick me back up. I know my wife misses that stuff, too. But now it’s our job to hand out the gold stars and peel clumsy people off the concrete.

You know, I guess if I have anything to learn from this, it’s that I need to remember to treat my wife as a child.

I need to pick her up when she’s down. I need to give her cuddles and kisses when she’s feeling alone. I need give her love and soupy soup and Little Debbie Snack Cakes. And I need to make sure that my kids see it all happen, too. They may be the center of our universe, but they must understand that they’re not the only things in the universe. Their Mommy just so happens to be a big big part of my universe – and she has been since before they were even accidentally born.

And besides, she’s got boobies. So, chalk one up for Mommy.

October 11, 2013

Childhood Sterility Advocates

As I wallow in the lag between vasectomy surgery and the big test to see if everything went according to plan, my mind has been want to wander. And of course, those meandering thoughts have drifted into doubt – second guessing whether or not this whole kick in the manhood is all worthwhile.

sad_keanuDude, like – did I take the bogus pill?

Lucky for me, I have the unwavering support of not only my smokin’ hot wife, but my two precious kiddos are looking out for me as well. It’s as if they can sense their daddy is conflicted and deeply troubled, so they swoop in to offer their adorably poignant, yet delicately subtle, nudges of reinforcement.

Like yesterday. The wife and I were in the kitchen. I was supposed to be helping her stir up some dinner, but I was lost in a spiral of sad virile uncertainty – gazing off into space. Suddenly, the 9-year-old boy pipes up.

“I don’t know what you’re cooking, but I hate it. It stinks, and it’s making me gag. I’m not eating it.”
– Turd Jones

Ah thanks, buddy. You know how to put daddy at ease. Here’s a butter knife – be a champ and go tighten up the electrical outlets.

And then there was this delightful little conversation about an hour later:

The Wife:                 Where did you put your dress?
The 6-Year-Old:     I don’t know.
The Wife:                 Then I don’t know if it’ll get washed.
The 6-Year-Old:     What if I don’t want my clothes where you want my clothes?
The Wife:                 Y’know, I’m just trying to do your laundry.
The 6-Year-Old:     I don’t care.

Masterfully done, sweet-pea. Daddy won’t forget this. Could you take this flashlight and go check the dog for worms?

They really have it down to a science. Their timing is in perfect step. Their delivery, Shakespearean. And their creative little minds produce truly surprising and remarkably varied methods of treatment. Notice how the two examples above managed to deftly co-mingle insulting obstinance with a household chore that neither the wife nor I wanted to do in the first place. It’s like telling the janitor he’s an idiot for not scrubbing the toilet with the right brush.

syringe-needle-jabbed-into-a-mandarin-sami-sarkisSo I chose this. And I feel good about it.

And then, just before bedtime, I’m assaulted with one last little perfect act of diabolical cruelty. The six-year-old crawls up onto my lap and curls herself into a warm, gushy ball of fragile affection.

“I love you, Daddy.”
– I love you too, sweetie.
“I made up a song for you, Daddy.”
– Really? That’s wonderful.
“It’s called, ‘I Love Daddy.'”

That’s when I bury my nose into the top of her head and breathe in as deeply as I can. And honest to God, there is nothing else in the world that smells anything like this. My olfactory nerves somehow delve beyond the stench of sweat and dirt and selfishness and insensitivity, and it locks-on to a faint, distant essence of unconditional love and undeniable comfort. It’s like a tractor beam of tenderness that pulls me in and washes away any sour memories lingering from the day. Eventually, we start to breathe in unison.

Her soft, raspy voice lets out a small hum as she begins to sing.

Turns out it’s a song about daddy’s farts.

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.

brazilian_testicle_mascot_1I 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.

tumblr_mu7dirlkkB1qzg45so1_1280Try 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.

October 3, 2013

The Nutty Professor

Getting a vasectomy has not necessarily been a simple decision. It’s not one of those impulse buys you grab at the checkout line. Chocolate, bubble gum, Kim Kardashian, sterility. A person should probably think about some of the repercussions before just jumping into the nad-nipping chair and letting some stranger cleave off the ability to make babies.

I certainly did. I thought and thought and talked it out with the wife. I did a lot of research. I chatted with several testicularly-disconnected gentlemen. I considered the pain, the prickly procedure and plenty of potential paternal drawbacks. I did all this, so that I would be able to ask myself some truly important and informed questions like:

What if he cuts off my prick?
What if it hurts worse than they say?
What if it hurts longer than they say?
What if the anaesthesia wears off?
What if before the surgery I nick myself shaving and bleed out in the bathtub, where one of my kids finds my dead body with a pink razor in one hand and my shiny smooth gumdrops in the other?

Luckily, in the moment of mulling my manhood, while I was teetering twixt scrotal surgery and a lifetime of latex, my wonderful, angelic squishable darlings offered a bit of eloquent insight to kindly assist me with my dilemma. The 9-year-old boy skipped in holding a disembodied Barbie-head in his mouth. He was shaking it back and forth like a dog with a ‘possum. The 6-year-old girl screams at the top of her lungs that she hates him, me, my wife and everyone in the whole stupid stinky world. Then she kicks the dog and runs out the door.

Bingo. Decision made.

And there’s a bonus – there’s an extra juicy nugget of information that really makes it an easy choice for me. Let’s say I change my mind. Let’s say that I have already been chopped to bits, and my spermatozoa pipeline has been bisected and clamped for ovarian protection – but I have a change of heart. Let’s say that one day I look down at the Flamin’ Hot Cheeto vomit on the floor and decide it’s not quite sticky enough. Let’s say I look at my poor, tattered couch and realize that it simply has not been used as a napkin enough times. And then, I take a gander at my bank statement and notice that those red numbers could maybe be just a teensy bit redderer.

Bottom line: I can change my mind. I can click ‘undo’. I can makes things just like they was.

“What was sundered and undone, behold, the two became one!”

Basically, you will always have the chance to heal the crystal and unleash another wave of your spawn upon the universe – if you really feel like it. In fact, it would appear any monkey with a sharp stick and some duct tape can make it happen.

752039346_ab0f6ee3f3It ain’t rocket surgery.

There’s only one stipulation to the unsnipulation. It’s the 7-year catch. For up to 7 years, a good fellow can run up to the corner store, grab a Slurpee, get his vas deferens glued back together and then get back to gettin’ busy makin’ humans. No problem. But, after seven years or so, production at the fertilizer factory will have drastically slowed down. And since the actual sperm content of your fertilizer jelly is but a mere 5 percent of the entire show, the odds of hitting placental pay-dirt are next to none.

So, if you’re still feeling the urge to purge your seed after 7 years, the sperm must be extracted directly from the testes. That’s right. Extracted. Directly. With a needle. From your nut.

Please, feel free to take a moment to squirm around in your chair and clinch your prostate.

But hey, you will get paid in full with this method. Since this now changes the mode of reproduction to that of artificial insemination, you may very well wind up with twins. Or triplets. Or John and Kate Plus 8.

Nonetheless, I’ve done the deed and now I’m in the homestretch. Just 7 weeks until the big test to see if I’m officially shooting blanks.

Until then: porn.

Doctor’s orders.

October 1, 2013

My bag baggage

Vasectomy surgery has most certainly had its ups and downs. Literally, figuratively and suggestively.

Some good ups:
A Day Off
Unbridled Laziness
Minimal Pain
Free Food
Beer
Football
Sympathy
Medical Porn

Some bad downs:
Hand to the Balls
Blade to the Balls
Shot to the Balls
Cut to the Balls
Band-aid to the Balls
Gravity to the Balls
Chair to the Balls

Sure, there have been the obvious physical scars – mostly internal. But there have also been some mental and emotional side effects as well – also internal. Now, I’m not talking about the apprehension and fear of having pointy implements poke around in my change purse. I knew that was coming. I’m referring more to the pesky ponderances produced by the part of the brain that likes to worry – and then proceeds to worry about worrying too much.

Gonad Guilt

The wife and I are potent folks. Our magical mixture of zygote-stewing baby bisque has already spawned twice. And we’ve made the attempt to reproduce exactly zero times. I’ve always considered this to be just our dumb luck. But, here’s the rubber-gloved irony. I have dear friends and family members who have tried and tried to have kids, but for one reason or another, they have been unsuccessful. In other words, they just keep making sweet sweet love over and over and over again without getting pregnant.

Wait. That’s what we’re trying to do.

I wish we could just switch places, but that’s not really in the cards. And that makes both me and my testicles sad.

sad-sink-faceAw dude, man. Man, dude aw, man.

I honestly feel bad. I don’t like to see the people I love being disappointed or frustrated or feeling helpless or listening to Creed. Granted, there are many aspects of having kids that are absolutely amazing. Poop. Snot. Fights. Farts. Screaming for hours that they’re hungry for cheesy mac, but they don’t want to eat the cheesy mac you made for dinner, so you make them their own damn cheesy mac on the side, while your cheesy mac gets cold, and then the little turd takes one tiny bite and complains about how the cheesy mac doesn’t taste just right, and so you yell, “Fine! Maybe your cheesy mac will taste better like this!” and you throw it on the floor, and the dog runs over and eats it and gets cheesy mac diarrhea and craps all over the rug and makes the entire house smell like cheesy rancid festering burrito mayonnaise death.

Then nobody eats.

Don’t get me wrong, kids do have a down side, too. They can be expensive, obnoxious, self-important little filthy monkeys. But for some reason, you can’t stop hugging them. And squeezing them. And sniffing them. And wanting to throw them in the trash.

So, to my friends and family who are trying – I’m sorry. You may be hurting. You may be frustrated. You may be angry. You may think I’m a selfish, repugnant jerk and taking this whole thing for granted. This, I cannot help. All I can tell you is that I love you. And that you’re more than welcome to come over and babysit whenever you like.

Just don’t make cheesy mac.

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.

IMG_2825-LLest 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!

hwkb17_014_01How 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 25, 2013

Undercarriage Update

It’s been almost two weeks since my vasectomy. I’ve had a man tape my manhood to my stomach and stick a needle into my scared, shorn scrotum and cut it open. I’ve had another two injections inside my testicular tote-bag, and then my vas deferens tubes pulled out and cut to bits. And then, after receiving stitches on my already sensitive cinch sack, I waddled around bruised and sore, terrified by the mere thought of gravity itself. But now, I must endure the most severe pain yet.

Nut stubble.

The beginning of the process involved me shaving my nethers. This was my first time to ever attempt such a sheering, and I miraculously came out unscathed. But nobody warned me about this part.

4659080239_de147e65de_zPicture these in your pants.

I am constantly being poked and pricked on the inside of my legs and the under-side of my tender tallywacker. It doesn’t matter the underwear. It doesn’t matter the position. I think it’s just their angry little way of exacting revenge on me for relieving them of their fertilizing purposes.

Other than that, here’s the two-week checklist.

– The dull pain moved around a bit. It kinda travelled from way down deep in the scrotal south, up through the spermidial ship channel to belly-button harbor, and then back down to just under the belt buckle – slowly dissipating along the way. Now it’s gone.

– The bruising went for a walkabout as well. It changed colors as it moved around the globes and even managed to invade the base of my business. It’s not completely back to normal, but it no longer looks like Wes Craven shot a movie in my shorts.

– The stitch is looking better. At about the end of the first week, I was able to take the Dora-The-Explorer band-aid off my balls. Now, the scab has been falling away, and the stitch is starting to dissolve. That’s good and all, but it itches. Itches big time. I got itches in my britches.

902797_1324042691509_fullSometimes I make the sound, too.

Now that the pain has subsided, I can move on to the next phase of my medical instructions. I have a follow-up appointment in 8 weeks. And I have lots to do before then. Lots and lots to do. You see, I’m supposed to bring a sample to that appointment.

Yes. That kind of sample.

You know what time it is. It’s time to do some stretching exercises and take the SafeSearch off my internet browser. It’s go time. Because the doctor isn’t interested in the very first sample I produce.

He wants to see the eighty-first.

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.

Ministry_of_Silly_Walks_by_chaplin007Anti-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.

funny-science-fair-131My 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.

pumpkin-carve-24That’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.

injured-man-1-942x530You 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.

toilet signBaseball 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.