The Twins are in Peril, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Knife
by Dave in Texas
Mrs. Dave in Texas and I made two daughters. Two little girls, four years apart, who are now no longer little and still find something in me worth loving.
We agreed after daughter number two that our procreative lives were fulfilled and complete. There were a few challenges the second time around, so we both agreed we could contemplate permanent measures to close this chapter in our lives.
We agreed upon this well after daughter number two was teething. So tubal ligation was less appealing than it might have been, oh, say a year ago.
So we discussed the Big V, and both agreed it was the best option among those we considered. Safety factors were high, reliability excellent, a time-tested procedure that held minimal risks.
I was ok with it, really. Guys get all fidgety and stuff about their guys, but I was committed to the goal, and familiar with the procedure. I knew many fellows who had walked through the valley of the shadow of the scrot, and they all assured me it was No Big DealTM
After consulting with the doc, I was given a sheet of paper with all sorts of information about it, what to bring, what to wear, what to expect. No surprises, really. Except for item number 3.
3. Prepare the area around your scrotum for surgery by cleanly shaving. Shave the scrotum only; it is not necessary to remove any other hair.
I contemplated that for a moment, and didn’t contemplate it again until the big day arrived.
I stood in the bathroom, looking in the mirror, with a safety razor in one hand, a can of Edge in the other, asking myself “How does one do this, exactly”? My wife, interested in my level of commitment (she had asked several “test” questions in the weeks preceding, to make sure I was
I said yes, fine, no problem. She asked “what are you doing”?
I replied with “I am preparing the area as directed by my physician”.
Now, I really thought that was pretty obscure. Not to her. She knew exactly what I was talking about, and I was surprised to hear her ask “do you want me to do it”?
Your brain tries to get you in trouble at times like this. Because it flashed a mental image of the gash on her leg she gave herself shaving like, 6 months ago.
It was 6 months ago, it’s not like she does it every day man.
I, did not care.
“No thanks dear, I got it. Uhm. Do you have a hand mirror”?
Without going into unnecessary detail, I can recommend to those of you facing this challenge that a counter top, a hand mirror, and a, uhm, place to rest your uplifted leg gives you the proper view and angle of attack to accomplish the mission.
I arrived at the doctor’s office, where they told me to drop my shorts and hop up on the table. A sheet was placed over me and the nurse gave me a shot of Demerol to relax me. Apparently I was in need of some relaxation because I couldn’t let go of the edge of the table.
The doctor arrived, gloves on, miner’s hat with the spotlight, and told me he was gonna give me two shots, a local in each of the twins. He said, matter of factly “it will feel like a little bee sting”.
Show of hands. Anybody ever been stung in the nuts by a bee?
I don’t know what that Demerol did for me, but I do recall feeling very not relaxed. So when he stabbed “lefty” with the needle, my left leg shot out like a whip, and I kicked over the tray of surgical instruments.
And the doctor got mad. “What the hell?! Those were all sterilized! Dammit, now I have to go sterilize them again”! He left, all huffy. The nurse was silently picking up the things I knocked over, and I wondered if I still have a needle in me.
Apparently I did. The doc came back in, still mad, and finished the injection, then gave “righty” the same treatment.
With every ounce of strength I had, I willed my right leg to be still. But all I could think about was “Oh fine. The guy that’s about to cut on my balls, is pissed off at me”.
The nurse brought in a clean tray, and he went to work. He’s a talker. Not really talking to me, just yakking. “Pull this little thing up through here, pull a stitch around like so, and ‘snip’!”.
This was getting on my nerves, so much so that when I heard something sizzling and I saw smoke, I gots to know what it is.
“Is that fire? What is that”?! I asked.
“Relax” he replied, “I’m just cauterizing the end of the vesicle”. Apparently some part of this procedure involved a soldering iron. I did not find this explanation the least bit comforting, but it sounded sufficiently technical that I stopped asking questions.
He began to talk and hum to himself again. At least he’d calmed down. And then he said it.
My head jerks up. “What? What did you say? Did you say ‘oops’? What ‘oops’”??
He said “oh nothing really, I just dropped the end of the vesicle and I have to get in there and find it”.
“Find it? Is this hard to do? Does it like, retract or something”?
“No, no, I just have to poke around a bit to find it. There it is! No big deal, you’ll have a little ‘surgically induced trauma’”.
This didn’t sound like a good thing to me. “Surgically induced trauma, means what, exactly”?
He looked up and said “You’ll have some additional swelling. Use the ice pack a lot this weekend”.
I lean back, thinking this doesn’t sound so bad. We finished up, he packed the area with some cotton or gauze or something, gave me some last minute reminders about medication, what to do if something like this or that happens, I was half paying attention. I walked very strangely out to my truck, drove myself home, and poured myself a generous portion of Mr. John Daniels. I grabbed the ice pack, took a pill, and parked it on the sofa for a nap.
That was, oh, around 11 in the morning. I woke up at 2, took another pill, and nodded off again until 5. I woke up at 5. I remember it was 5, because that was when my youngest waddled into the living room, spotted dad on the sofa, and did a header right into my crotch.
There may be a pill and a drink that deals with this discomfort. I didn’t have them, whatever they might be. I said a few things, I think it was largely a request to Mrs. Dave in Texas to please pull the infant out of my lap. Wide-awake now, I decided I need to go to the bathroom, so I got up.
And something, was not right.
I couldn’t put my legs together. They didn’t fit right anymore. I wandered to the bathroom, and dropped my shorts, and the cotton and stuff hit the floor, and I saw a purplish thing between my legs. A scrotum the size of a grapefruit.
“Oh” I said to myself, silently, because no words would come out. “So this is surgically induced trauma”.
I got over the initial shock, realized I wasn’t going to die, crawled back to the couch with more medication and ice, and spent the weekend there. Monday morning I really wasn’t quite ready to go back to work, and had the darnedest time convincing my boss I was dealing with complications from the surgery (he had done it himself, about six months ago, and of course had no complications). But I convinced him, and he said “fine, whatever”.
This was the beginning of the complete lack of sympathy I received during the next several days. My mother, my own mother, called me to ask me how I was doing, like she was concerned. I began to tell her, and she cut me off after two sentences with “well, you didn’t have 4 children so I don’t think you have anything to tell me about pain… blah blah blah”.
In my follow up visit, the doctor explained how rare that was; he called it a “one in a thousand” occurrence. I have met one other person who had a similar experience, but just one.
So gentlemen, if this is something that you are considering, I think you will find the odds working in your favor. I understand now they don’t even use a scalpel, it’s some other amazing medical thingy, so there’s even less to worry about.
But if I were you, I’d ask the guy how many of these he’s done in his career.
And if he says “oh, nine hundred or so”, I’d put it off for 6 months.
I’m just sayin.
Dave says he wrote this just to encourage the Pirate