Back from the nuthouse.

So, the vasectomy procedure is complete. I’ve returned home from the chop shop and am now sitting comfortably numb in my rocking chair. As far as I can tell, everything has gone according to plan. I mean, I can’t really feel anything, but I can see that I have all the important stuff still intact.

I have been prescribed about 5 days worth of antibiotics and a little Vicodin for good measure.

And for the next 48 hours, the doctor has very specific instructions.

Slob on CouchTake six football games and call me in the morning.

Well now, this ain’t so bad. I have license to be a complete lazy slob. The wife is being extra nice. The kids are bringing me beers and drawing me pictures. I even have a few friends coming over later to help me watch t.v. Plus, they’re bringing food – including some testicularly themed Deviled Juevos.

I don’t have to cook anything.
I don’t have to fix anything.
I don’t have to put anything away.
I don’t have to wash or clean anything. Not even myself.
I don’t have to let the stupid dogs out.
I don’t have to let the stupid dogs back in 30 seconds later.
I don’t have to watch Dragonball Z.
I don’t have to watch The Suite Life of Zack & Cody.
I don’t have to watch Jessie or Barbie or any other singing and dancing bullcrap.

I just have to sit here, kick my feet up and concentrate on creating a dank, aromatic cloud of sedentary bliss.

Well, at least until the anaesthesia wears off.

Or the wife’s patience.

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.

6563607191_206173dc0f_zThis 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.

ball-of-fire-cover“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.

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.

IMG_4644Pink? 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.

britney-spears-shaved-headWhat 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.

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.

Shower-Drain-in-the-BathroomSo 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:

vasectomy_picture

“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.

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!

Screen Shot 2013-09-09 at 1.49.09 PMAnd 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:

family-largeThe 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.

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.

1ce1e6_2390540Free 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?

My health teacher warned me.

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

IMG_6043-LWonderful, 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.

22165_305609576584_7317110_nJust 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.

Halloween - Angry Wonder Woman-LLilly. 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.

Closing the baby factory.

I am about to embark upon two things I have never done before. First, a blog. And second, a vasectomy. Wish me luck.

My name is Kyle. I’m 40 years old. I’m married. I have two kids. And I have decided to pay someone to grab me by the jumblies and sever my ability to reproduce. Now, this decision wasn’t necessarily an easy one, but it was something I quickly came to terms with several years ago. About six years ago, to be exact. My precious, lovely daughter will celebrate her seventh birthday next year.

No. It’s not her fault. Nor the fault of my son or wife. I blame science. And magic.

Over the next several weeks, I will be sharing my journey through the decision, the procedure and the ultimate outcome of tinkerin’ with my fuzzy tenders.

Photos to come.