MEMOIRIST IDOL

Don’t Do What My Husband Did After A Vasectomy

Or do what I went along with

“What if it doesn’t work?” Mike asks, after slugging back several beers on the morning of his appointment for a vasectomy.

“What if what doesn’t’ work?” I ask. “The procedure?”

“No,” he says, as if I should get what he means. “My penis,” he emphasizes. “What if it fucks something up and it won’t work anymore?”

“You mean like getting a hard-on? Having sex?”

“Yes,” he says, so convincingly. While I can’t help but laugh.

“It’s not funny, you know. This is serious,” he says.

“Don’t talk so crazy. That’s not gonna happen.” I maintain a serious straight face. “I was there when the doctor explained everything. So stop worrying.”

“Oh, easy for you to say. You’re not the one getting your bag cut open.”

“Like I haven’t had worse cut open. Really? We’re gonna go there?”

“I know… I know… I’m sorry,” he says. “That’s why I’m doing this. So you don’t need to. But a man’s got to wonder if it’s natural. If it affects anything else.”

“You’ll be fine,” I say. “Now let’s get ready.”

While he drains another bottle of beer, I pack up our two children to go stay next door with my parents. Knowing my husband as I do, I’ll need to devote every minute to his needs.

Heading out the door, he stops and says, “Just a minute. I’m getting one last beer for the drive.”

“Okay… okay… just hurry the fuck up.”

We arrive at the outpatient department at the Fisherman’s Memorial Hospital in Lunenburg for his appointment. As the doctor had previously informed us, married couples cannot get such a procedure without the consent of their partner. I, along with Mike, sign the consent form.

I kiss Mike, tell him not to worry, and sit in the waiting room, leafing through a magazine. Glad that for once I’m not the one having a medical procedure. Since I’d just gone through giving birth and two surgeries, he offered to do his part.

“Nothing to it.” Mike walks into the waiting room, all smiles. “Nothing to it at all.”

“See,” I take his hand, “I told you, you had nothing to worry about.”

We get in the car and he says, “Stop at the liquor store. I need more beer for tonight.”

“Did the doctor say it was okay to drink?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. Did he prescribe pain meds?”

“No. He told me to take Tylenol.”

At home, Mike describes in graphic detail the whole procedure. How he watched it all. When he’s done talking, he puts an album on the stereo and settles in to drink more beer.

A short time later, Mike calls me into the room, “We should have sex,” He says. “Try it out.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that right after surgery.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s okay.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on. Don’t be like that,” he says. “Come on. Let’s do it.” He moves over to sit beside me on the couch. “Why not?”

“What did the doctor tell you?”

“The doctor said it was okay. That I can if I want to.” He puts his arm around me, leans in, kisses me on the cheek. “So come on. While the kids are still at your mother’s. Let’s try it out. See if it still works.”

I say no several more times, but it’s to no avail. He’s determined to get his way. So I give in and we have sex on the living room sofa.

Afterward, just as I’m ready to bring the children home, Mike moans. “My bag hurts.”

“Did you take any Tylenol yet?”

“Yes,” he says, wincing, holding his hand between his legs.

“The freezing’s probably just wearing off,” I say. “I’ll get you some ice to put on it.”

I go to the kitchen, fill a baggie with ice cubes, wrap it in a hand towel, and give it to him. He sits on the edge of the sofa, his pants down around his ankles, and takes the ice from me.

“Look at it,” he says.

“I don’t want to.”

“See if it’s worse than before.”

“Oh my God, come on. For real?”

“Yes,” he says. “It hurts like hell.”

“Stand,” I say, and he gets up. I get on my knees for a closer view. Gently, I examine his swollen purple sac.

He reaches down and cups his scrotum. “It feels bigger than before.”

I stand up, and shake my head. “It doesn’t look good.”

“Oh.” He groans and flops on the sofa, his pants still down. “I should have listened to the doctor.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said to wait a couple of weeks.”

“You said it was okay.”

“Yeah.” He smirks. “Well, I lied, so you’d do it.”

“You fucking ass-hole. Maybe you busted a stitch!”

“Yeah, now I’m worried.”

“Why did you do something so stupid?”

“Hey.” He tries to pull me down beside him, but I don’t move and refuse to sit. “But it was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Not so much fun now, is it?”

To be safe, I call the doctor in town and explain what happened. “Best bring him in,” the doctor says.

I call my mother to ask her to keep the kids longer, that I’m taking Mike to the doctor. She asks what’s wrong. I don’t give her an explanation. I ask if my sister’s still there. My mother says she is and puts her on the phone.

Kathleen asks, “What’s wrong?”

I give her a quick rundown. “Don’t tell mom. Okay?”

“I won’t,” she says. “I’ll come with you.”

That evening, after seven o’clock, Kathleen, with her large nearing-nine-month pregnant belly, and I with intoxicated Mike, step into the doctor’s office.

The doctor takes him back into a room to examine him. Kathleen and I wait in the quiet, dimly lit room until the doctor escorts Mike out and explains that he doesn’t think Mike’s done any serious damage, but that he should continue to ice it and monitor the swelling.

“If it gets worse,” he says, “take him to the emergency department.” The doctor grins and says his goodbyes. I’m embarrassed by what the doctor's probably thinking.

As we’re heading out the door, Mike turns to the doctor, and says, “I just had to try it out. Make sure it still works.”

“Now that you know it does,” the doctor says, “give it time to heal.”

In the end, everything turned out okay for my husband, but I don’t recommend trying the same after a vasectomy.

And yes, I was young and naïve, and easily took my husband at his word.

Allie Funk brings an important topic to light in I’m ‘Too Young to be Disabled’ Her story touched me on many levels. As someone who has worked in retail and witnessed such judgments and co-workers assuming disabilities must be obvious or age-related. Also as a woman in my 50s, I’ve ended up with an invisible disability. I am all too familiar with the feelings Allie talks about. The inconvenience I often felt I caused others as I was accommodated in the workplace, to people believing I must be faking it.