The post-vasectomy update - three hours after the snip
Three hours ago I was sat in the waiting room of a small surgery in Chelmsford, waiting to be called into a room where a guy would be manhandling my testicles.
It’s a strange feeling, knowing you’re mere minutes away from having an operation on such a sensitive part of your anatomy. As I said over the weekend, though, there were no nerves. The overriding feeling was just of wanting to get it over with.
My best friend, Tasha, came along. Primarily because I was told I’d need to have someone else take me home. The doctor was running fifteen minutes late, which was frustrating, but Tasha was working on a puzzle which took my mind off of things.
Eventually, I was called into a consultancy room and asked to change into some comfortable clothes. A quick change into loose fitting jogging bottoms and an old t-shirt, and the doctor was back with me telling me exactly what could go wrong. Hearing that there is a small chance that your scrotum may get infected and begin leaking blood and puss is not the ideal way to set yourself up for the operation. I was pleased to learn that the chances of the tubes reconnecting were slim, though. A statistic of something like a 1 in 2000 chance of it failing puts it in a much better category than condoms and the pill, which reinforced the doctor’s ongoing message of how permanent the procedure was.
After signing a piece of paper indicating that I knew the risks and that the operation was effectively irreversible, I was ushered into a small room and told to strip from the waist down and lay on the couch.
I’m not a proud man by any means when it comes to showing off what is generally kept hidden, but I swear DannyUK Jnr suffers from stage fright. It was as though I had walked stark naked into the Arctic, and my poor cock had retracted so far there was a good chance I looked female from a distance. Still, I wasn’t trying to impress anyone, and so I laid down where indicated in the couch-come-chair.
It was like a dentist chair though the light and tools were all at crotch level rather than up by my head. I laid back and studied the poster on the ceiling. It was a photo of Paris in the Autumn, with fog in the background and an array of colours on the leaves on the trees. Given that I was staring at the poster for so long - at times quite intensely due to the situation I was in - I predict that the imagery will stay with me for some time.
My British stiff upper lip took hold as the nurse grabbed my manhood and taped it out of the way. I like to think that she was taping it pointing upwards so that it wouldn’t see the damage about to happen to it’s two friends.
A sheet with a window was placed over my groin, and antiseptic gel was liberally applied by the nurse to the area. They must get through gallons of the stuff as they were slopping it on with gay abandon. If I thought I wouldn’t be able to get more uncomfortable, the feeling of tepid gel dripping past my scrotum and into my bum crack certainly proved me wrong.
The doctor began proceedings and said that I would feel a sharp stabbing sensation. He was only halfway through the sentence when he plunged a needle into my scrotum. He wasn’t kidding about the stabbing sensation though it was instant and over rather than ongoing. A numbing agent was then inserted and work began.
If ever a stranger sensation exists than having a numb groin, yet feeling a man who you only met thirty minutes before tugging away at the area, I’ve yet to experience it. As the doctor pulled at my scrotum I found that I had to resist the temptation to ask if he could at least buy me dinner first.
There was a certain amount of digging around as he found the tube, then a period of cauterizing the tube and a strange vacuum which would be used intermittently. I remarked at one stage how I was glad that I wasn’t able to smell the burning of my scrotum - something that is apparently fairly common - and was told that the vacuum is used to prevent that.
“Did you feel something then?” the doctor asked in a very relaxed manner.
“Yes, I did! I’m glad you noticed!”
I’ve no idea what had happened, but, fortunately, that was the last pain I felt. A lot more numbing agent was employed and the operation was finished fairly quickly. I was led into a waiting room to recover for thirty minutes and was given a cup of tea too, as was Tasha, which I joked that I felt was unfair as she hadn’t suffered any pain!
Music was playing, and though I had been given the option of taking in a cd, I opted to listen to whatever was being played whilst my surgery was being done. I mentioned this to Tasha, and before long we were composing a small vasectomy-based song playlist. I suggested The First Cut Is the Deepest, Tasha countered with Great Balls Of Fire. We took to Twitter with our suggestions, and a few more came in, including Cut Me Up, What (vans) Deferens Does It Make and Love Removal Machine. I added another with Mack The Knife, and the whole thing died away as quickly as it started.
Boredom set in, and I took to Twitter, announcing “All done. There are now two small pieces of the inside of my scrotum sitting inside a bin in Chelmsford.” which struck me as accurate and amusingly gruesome.
As I write this final bit, it’s less than 20 hours after the operation. For anyone who has read through the above in the hope of finding out a true description of what a vasectomy is like, it’s not too bad. The pain at the time was fleeting. Even now, I have a dull ache and nothing more. I’m definitely erring on the side of caution though, and am unwilling to do anything too strenuous, which I feel is for the best. The most accurate description I can find for fellow males is that the pain feels like I was punched in the groin half an hour ago, and though it feels better, the ache is there as a reminder.
I go back to the hospital in three months to provide a semen sample, and hopefully from there get given the all clear, after which you may all call me by my new nickname of Jaffa (ie, seedless!)