Pre-Op

It seems that blogging is the new Confessional, and no subject is too taboo. Even the most shy and retiring elderly village Librarian will – given some space to type and the illusion of anonymity – feel the need to divulge their innermost secrets. Their infernal lust and curious perversions. Their most embarrassing moments.

With this in mind … let me tell you about my day.

Today, I got my private parts groped by a late-forties John Sargeant-lookalike with a crooked little-finger, whom I had only met two minutes previously.

Now that classes me as “easy” by any scale. Even Paris Hilton would think that was fast going, and suggest that next time I might put up a bit more of a struggle (or at least had him buy me a drink first).

It goes something like this …

We have two children. We do not want any more. Oh God, no. Much as I love them, my tolerance towards children is low and we could not cope with a third.

My wife has no intention of taking pills for the next thirty-years or so to prevent this from happening, and so we (and you, dear reader) reach an inevitable conclusion.

I'll be going from blue-top to red-top. You'll either understand this metaphor, or you won't.

Going from blue-top to red-top. You'll either understand this metaphor or you won't.

After many prods and reminders I finally go and see my doctor, and he refers me to some clinic on the other side of town. This vexes me: I was expecting to be sent to the hospital (what with the procedure involving SURGERY an’ everything) but I go along with it anyway.

And so I end up in quite an upper-class GP’s waiting room, in quite an upper-class part of town. It’s a part of town where the majority of residents are retired and Comfortably Well Off – there is a shelf of Dick Francis in the waiting room and that seductive sex-kitten June Whitfield is selling stairlifts on the telly. I cannot understand why a doctor who spends most of his time dealing with patients in their eighties should also be Derby’s “Dead-Hand Dick” expert on Vasectomies.

I am fairly nervous. I have kept quiet about how nervous I am, because it hasn’t gotten me any sympathy. Apparently, the twenty minutes of surgery I will go through is nothing compared to nine months of being prodded and groped, culminating in a 36-hour labour and the intense pain of pushing a large melon through an opening only really large enough for a ping-pong ball.

I can follow this reasoning … but I feel I must point out the key difference. Childbirth is natural. Having someone poke your testicles with sharp knives and then tie knots where God never intended them to be tied certainly bloody isn’t. But my protestations have fallen on deaf ears.

I’m shown in to the Doctor’s office. I find it oddly comforting how bored he seems by the whole thing. He has apparently done this operation thousands of times, and I can’t imagine my nervous demeanor is any surprise to him. He asks me one or two questions – the oddest ones being about the state of my marriage, how many children I have, and whether they are healthy. Apparently a lot of men try to get reversals if they suddenly decide they want more children, and a common reason for this is divorce and remarriage or if one of their existing children dies. I cannot help feeling that this is rather ghoulish.

And then the examination proceeds.

Hippocratic Oath and friendly bedside manner can get stuffed: I do not want to engage in polite chitchat while a doctor has some of my most important possessions in his hands. I’d rather he just shut up, checked I had the expected number of testicles, and mark X if so needed.

“Yes, this is the tube we’re going to cut. Just here, between my thumb and forefinger. Do you see?”

“Not without a carefully positioned hand-mirror, no. But I’ll take your word for it.”

Pants up. Trousers up. Out the door in two minutes flat, with an intense desire to re-assert my masculinity by going straight to B&Q and buying myself a new set of pliers. I’m not sure why I thought of pliers, though it may have something to do with the doctor’s grip.

And the last thing I hear from the doctor as the door closes behind me?

“Make sure you’ve shaved your scrotum before you come back next week.”

Great. So now I have to decide whether to use a blade razor (like hell), my electric razor (if so, I’ll never use it on my face EVER AGAIN) or borrow one of my wife’s mysterious girly-creams (smell of burning, anyone?). Or perhaps visit my local hairdresser and ask for a trim and some highlights while they’re at it.

Why do I think that I’m going to end up in A&E following an embarrassing accident before this tale is done?

(Part 2 will be written after the event, while I’m recuperating. Don’t expect photos.)

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posted in Diary by Oddbloke

 
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