Seedless grapes

It’s been almost fourteen years since I got a vasectomy.  I’m probably okay to talk about it now.  I think I’m over the trauma.

Yup.  Vasectomy.  I can just about hear the groans and see the crossing of the legs of all the guys out there. Just the thought of it induces winces and grimaces.

And I can see the grins on all the women…Getting all high and mighty with the standard line.  Any father knows this one.  “You try pushing a watermelon through a damn straw and then maybe you’ll get some sympathy from me.”  Not bloody likely.

Anyway, this was a predetermined thing. The Wife and I wanted two kids, and we got them. While they are the most beautiful kids on the planet, they are enough. I don’t think the world is ready for a third. I know I’m not.

And we made a deal on the second one.  It looked like he was going to be a C-section, and if that came to pass, she would have had the tubes tied.  If he came out the normal way, it came down to me.

That little shit showed who he favoured right from the get-go.  Even with all the odds against it, he came out without the C-section.

Still, it was with great trepidation that I made the appointment. I mean, this was my… my… you know! It ain’t much, but it is my manhood.  My boys! There is nothing down there in the nether regions that should be messed around with. At least with a sharp medical instrument.

So there I was at the Oshawa Clinic, waiting to see my doctor. I notice none of the guys in the waiting room make eye contact. Everyone simply sits in awkward silence. Yeah, buddy, I know what you’re here for…

Of course, any of the women there are all chatty with each other.  They’re digging this far too much.

Now I have to say, the doc was great. Really put me at ease – as much as you can be put at ease with this particular topic – and the meeting was mercifully brief. After a token stab at talking me out of it (“You’re still young, you might change your mind,” he said and I was furiously shaking my head no, scared if I didn’t fully resist immediately, I’d crack). He suggested I go on a waiting list. Even though I have a set date for the operation, apparently a lot of guys back out and positions come up sooner. Imagine that.

Eventually, the day approached. The Wife took the day off. I like to think it was for emotional support, but I know it was to make damn sure I went. The operation was to be done at Whitby General. Never been there before. Nice place. Never ever wanted to go there again.

So I find myself sitting there, cracking what I’m sure are the same old standard jokes that every scared bastard says, trying to be a man about the whole thing. Meanwhile, there are two other guys sitting there, cracking the same old standard jokes, trying to be a man about the whole thing.

We weren’t fooling anyone. We were scared as hell.

And, off to the left in the main waiting room sat the Wife.  Ear to ear grin on her face.

We were lined up like torpedoes.  The guy on the end would get called and leave, the other two would shift one seat to the right and some other poor bastard would come in and take that far left seat.

Three guys, sitting in a row like the the “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” monkeys, shaking, mind white with fear, testicles nestled just slightly under their lungs, quivering in fear.  Stories of farmers talking about just slamming two bricks together and crushing them kept crawling around my brain.

Even when the guys came out from the procedure walking under their own power and smiling, saying, “Don’t worry man. It’s nothing.” We knew. Oh yes.  The real guys were being wheeled to an infirmary, useless from the navel down.  These bastards were just hired to keep us at ease and stop us from bolting for the door, eyes rolling madly, spit streaming from slack jaws.

We knew, all right.  We were doomed.

Then it was my turn. To my credit, my legs didn’t turn to jelly, my hands shook very little, and I doubt the nurse even noticed the quivering in my voice. I was led in.

One amusing thing happened on the way in.  The guy before me was just heading out, having finished.  He was, like all of us, wearing his surgical gown.  As we passed each other, he said, “Don’t worry about it.  It’s just like all the other guys said.  It’s nothing.”

I happened to glance back at him.  I said, “If it was nothing, why’d you shit yourself?”

He spun around and the nurse beside him glanced to his butt, covered by the gown, but completely soaked in a brownish liquid.  The nurse pursed her lips at me, then smirked.  “That’s the iodine,” she said, leaving the last word–smartass–off.  It was my last chuckle before I entered the room.

I’m not going to gross you out with the details. I’ll just mention three things.

The first was after I got positioned on the table and they exposed the boys.  Now, they ask you to shave the area, which is all fine and dandy.  Manscaping wasn’t quite the rage in 98 that it is now, but that was okay.  The panic set in when the doc inspected the area, said something like, “Just need to clean this up a bit,” and, without warning, picked up a razor and calmly and (in my opinion) far too forcefully scraped away at an area I had previously been quite careful with, approaching it with sharp objects most gingerly.  But him?  Nope, swish, swipe, slide, zippity doo-dah.  I looked around for crash paddles, fully  expecting to need them shortly.

The second was when the nurse came up.  Now, I’m sorry, some may not be bothered by this, but laying there with all my inadequacies out for the world to see, and then comes along a member of the other gender?  Hell yeah, I know this woman’s judging.  I couldn’t read her mind, but I’m sure it went something like, I’ve seen bigger things on a shrimp plate.

Or something like that.  Anyway, that’s not the point.  The point is, when she walked up, she said, “Wow, you’re really nervous, aren’t you?”

Well, duh.  Even still, then the mental images kicked into overdrive.  I had a full visual of everything having turtled deep inside my body cavities and there was absolutely nothing left external anymore.  How embarrassing.

Instead, trying to keep my voice in a somewhat male octave, I said, “Yeah, I am, but how did you guess?”

“I can see every single muscle in your legs from thighs all the way to your toes.”

Oh, okay.  I forcibly tried to relax the taut muscles.  Not so much.

The last thing was when the doctor finally came up to do the deed.  He said, “You want a mirror so you can see what I’m doing?”

What? So I can see something sharp and pointing threatening my pills and then I flinch in just the wrong direction and something else–something near and dear to me–inadvertantly gets lopped off like goddam Bobbit?  Hell NO!

“No, it’s okay,” I said.

They splashed some iodine on me, and went to work. The whole thing took about 30 minutes. To my credit, I didn’t shit myself. Then it was done. Just like that. Absolutely no pain whatsoever. None.

It was almost disappointing, in a weird way.

I was told to take it easy for two or three days. No stairs, no heavy lifting. No problem! I could do that. They prescribed Tylenol 3 for any pain I might experience. I probably still have the full prescription kicking around the house.

In fact, the only thing that set me off once I got home was the Boy, at that time almost two. Not sure if you remember those stupid Tamagotchi’s that were all the rage back then,

but he had one that was on a keyring affair that he used to walk around with, swinging the thing on his finger.  I’d been home maybe twenty minutes and, as soon as I sat down, for some reason, I grabbed one of the pillows on the couch and placed it strategically over my boys.  No sooner had I got the pillow in place then along came the Boy, Tamagotchi spinning, then it slipped off his finger and rocketed straight toward me.

Straight toward the boys.

Thank God for the pillow.

I looked up at the Wife and, teeth clenched, said, “Get. Him. Away. From. Me.”

She took both the kids to the in-laws for the afternoon and let me rest.

In the end, I have to say it was a whole lot of nothing. No discomfort, no pain, no need to worry. The best thing I can say about the ordeal was that I actually got a little (and I do mean little) bit of sympathy from my wife.

It’s been just shy of fourteen years. I’m happy to say my seedless grapes and I are doing fine.


14 thoughts on “Seedless grapes

  1. Tobin, you really should submit this to a men’s magazine…or just about anywhere. This is truly funny. The way you described it is hilarious. Bravo for you! A lot of men refuse and I think that is just corny. Oh, and I love the title.

  2. This post actually reminded me that I missed my first anniversary of having the plumbing shut off. There’s about 13 years difference, yet the procedure is almost exactly the same, which scares me just a little bit.

  3. I’m reading this, wondering why I’m sweating! I remember mine, which was almost pointless, considering the marriage was just about done by that point anyway, if you get my drift. And I, being a thirty-ish self-employeed young guy who didnt want to admit I’d just had minor surgery, drove myself home from Ajax Pickerering hospital** and was up a ladder that same afternoon painting or renovating something.

    (PS – ** Unless you have a hangnail, and are ok with having your finger lopped off as treatment, avoid AP Hospital like the plague.)

    • Yeah, my brother didn’t want to admit he’d had minor surgery either. So he ended up doing some heavy lifting over the next couple of days.

      Have you ever seen that scene from the movie Johnny Dangerously where they show the fill on Extended Testicle Syndrome? Guys walking around with basketball-sized balls in their hands?

      Yeah, that was my brother.

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