It's Been A Week...

and I have been holding this story in. It's the story of my "vas" (the apparently adored term used by people who perform the act) or vasectomy. Last Wednesday I checked into my local medical clinic to have the anti-kid procedure performed. What is written below is my first hand account of the experience. WARNING: Certain words, descriptions, and thoughts shared below may be offensive to people who are not open to talking about their bodies, or hearing someone else talk about it, so if you are one of those people, I suggest you stop here and check back another time.

Now let's get down to business.

So I roll into the old clinic at 8:00 am, nervy, apprehensive, scurd, the whole 9 yards. It's not everyday your man parts are handled by a stranger or two, so I think my feelings are justified. So I'm sitting there in the waiting room for 10 minutes, give or take, when my name is called. Waiting with a clipboard and a smile is a nurse probably around the same age as me. She greets me with a nod and a "how are you?". I'm not really one to respond with anything but the truth so I said, "I'll tell you after this is over with." I figured that comment would get me a smile, a laugh, or at least some sort of smartass remark back from the nurse, but she completely stone-walled me, leading me to immediately assess her as a not so jolly person.

This is where things start to progress. Ms. 'Not So Jolly' leads me into a plain room with nothing but a dentist looking chair, a counter with various medical supplies, a sink, and a radio. It's funny how at certain times in my life I realize every detail of my surroundings, while at other times I wouldn't have a sniff if JLo were chilling in the chair next to me. Anyways...

I'm instructed to drop trou, take off my scivey's and wrap myself up in a standard patient medical gown. For some reason the nurse decides its important for her to leave the room while I change and excuses herself while I'm left to wonder what the freakin difference is? You are going to see my whole self anyways lady, aren't ya? When she returns I have positioned myself as instructed on the dentist chair, palms sweaty, heart beating alittle faster than normal. It's funny how at certain times in my life all I can do is imagine the worst. Actually that's not really funny but kinda sad because I do it alot. Anyways...

I'm convinced things are going to go terribly wrong. Then this, "I'm going to need to clean you, you will feel a cold swab. Once you are cleaned and properly positioned, I will get the doctor and we can begin." Um, when you start swabbing me lady, that's what I will consider the beginning.

So she swabs, and I go back into the zone of noticing EVERYTHING. And yes, The Bridge 95.7 is tuned in on the radio, and yes, that is the Cranberries "Linger" playing as my boys are cleaned by a nurse who I am convinced hates men and gets great pleasure out of torturing them, hence she has a job like this. Awkward is the word I would use.

Swabbing complete. Let's position! She takes four or five towels and lines my surgical area with what can best be described as a protective perimeter providing perfect presentation. And I'm pretty pumped!

"I'll go get the doctor." Ok bitch, whatever, let's get this over with.

I sat in the room for no less and 10 minutes. The anticipation of something bad is usually much worse than the actual event, right? Well the anticipation was killer. November Rain (Guns N' Roses), Never Gonna Be Alone (Nickelback), and Strong Enough (Sheryl Crow) all played in the background as the destruction of my manhood ran in the foreground of my mind.

The doctor rolls in. He is a good guy, I had met him a few weeks earlier when I came into the office for a preliminary informational session. BUT... he has a lazy eye. Ummm, even if there is nothing wrong with the guys eyes, when I can't tell where he is looking, do I really trust him to be slicing me open between the legs? Yes, yes I do. The guy is a Twins fan, how could I not trust him.

So we spent the next half hour talking about Denard Span playing centerfield, Pat Neshek coming back from injury, Jim Thome being a home run hitter, and Joe Mauer being the type of guy that any quality urologist would dream of operating on. The time flew by like church. And ZIP, one last stich and we are done.

With a flash of his lazy eye, the doc informs me that Ms. Not So Jolly will be able to instruct me on taking care of things after I go home. He smiles, cheers 'Go Twins' in my general direction, and is off. Thanks doc!

The nurse tries to leave the room to let me get dressed in pointless privacy, but this time I speed up the process and throw on my clothes before she has a chance to exit. Take that. She gives me some at home instructions and a few supplies, suggests a few things, wishes me well and sends me on my way. What? No back pat or butt slap? I gave her a hug and left in high spirits.

So thats the story of my vas. How many of you guys out there that have had one also had your mom pick you up afterward? Oh, just me? Thought so.

mmmmmk Bye!