Last month I wrote about some helpful tips to getting the snip. I hope you all paid attention. I’m I glad that I did, because I just went through a vasectomy procedure. Now that the anaesthetic-fuelled fog has lifted from my brain and my fingers are re-acquainted with the home row on the keyboard, I can tell you how it all went down.
My surgeon recommended that I go through a general anaesthetic, as he doesn’t like patients squirming around when he does his thang. I was more than happy to comply. The thought of looking down at Dr. Big Hands and his super sharp knife “Excalibur” lancing into my berries wasn’t a pleasant one.
So, this was my journey. I hope it encourages you as you embark on yours. Here’s what to expect from your vasectomy:
The blow (by cut) by blow
4:30 am – Pushing my needy cat off my head, I fall out of bed and into a welcoming hot shower. They recommend using an antibacterial soap when you’re cleaning down under, but it’s not necessary. Just make sure to show them some love with a good scrub. Because you won’t be able to be as hands on for the next week, so to speak.
Be sure to slip on some tight-fitting underwear before you go. You boys will need all the literal and figurative support they can get during this trying time.
5:20 am – I arrive at hospital early because I’m the first cab off the rank. Unfortunately, I was also the first one at the hospital, as the doors didn’t open till 5:30. I was just so excited to get gelded! Simple minds, simple pleasures.
Luckily, I had filled out all my paperwork the night before and filed it online, which I recommend as it makes life easier for both you and the registrar who’s checking you in (who, by the way, is equally happy to be there at 5:30 in the morning).
6:30 am – I was taken upstairs by a very animated nurse to check my vitals. I joked about what I wanted for my last meal, but was promptly ignored. #dadjokesrule! I was then asked if I had taken any ibuprofen or fish oil recently, which isn’t recommended because it can thin the blood. So be sure to stop medications and supplements that cause bleeding for one week before and two weeks after surgery.
And of course, refrain from drinking and smoking before and after the surgery. The fitter and healthier you are going in, the faster you’ll recover.
It’s a good idea to use the bathroom at this point. There’s nothing worse than having to shake the dew off the lily when you’re being aggressively wheeled around on a gurney by a nurse who’s still coming down from the night before.
7:30 am – I meet my anaesthetist, the doctor who says he’s going to keep me alive for the next hour. “Good luck with that!” I said, as he squeezed some cool liquid into a catheter inserted into my hand. An icy chill ever-so-slowly crawled up my arm. While this magical elixir was taking effect, I thought it would be a good time to have a chat with my new DrBFF to take my mind off the fun to come. My last memory was being wheeled into theatre under large, swinging octopus-like lights. I said something that seemed witty at the time like, “This feels like alien autopsy.” And then I was out cold. Probably best, because that was my second lame joke of the morning.
I did a little research as to what happened while I was blacked out. The anaesthetist inserted a small tube connected to a ventilator into my airway. He controlled the length of time I slept, and constantly monitored my pulse, breathing and blood pressure. I was also given a litre of intravenous fluids before, during and after surgery. Which explained why I went to the bathroom seventeen times after I came to.
After snipping and tying off my Vas Deferens, I was promptly sewed up and told that my stitches would dissolve in a week or two. Here’s hoping they listen to my surgeon.
Once the vasectomy surgery was over, my anaesthetist injected other drugs that reversed the effect of the anaesthetic. When he was satisfied with my breathing and blood circulation, I was wheeled into the recovery room where I awoke to some timeless couples’ comedy.
8:45 am – My tired eyes open slowly. I see other men coming into focus on deck in the hospital room. They all share one thing in common, the 1000-yard stare. I can feel their collective suffering about the unknown… “Am I doing the right thing? Will I ever be the same again? And is my beloved life partner here for moral support or to make sure I go through with it and don’t run out of the hospital screaming and crying?” On that note, many have brought their partners with them, all of whom have their hands glued to their hips and holding stern resting bitch faces. Alas, the poor guys are already castrated and don’t even know it.
11:30 am – I’m home with an ice pack on my soldiers and a computer on my lap. So far, so good. I’m going to try to milk this “pain” and garner as much sympathy as I can. Although, I know the only TLC I’ll be getting is from my cat. Stupid, needy cat.
