Vasectomization: The Story of a Vasectomy Victim

The time had come.  We decided to do it.  We had done so many other things in our life together that this just seemed like the natural next step.  One of us was getting snipped.  My doctor sat on the end of my hospital bed the day after I had Cameron.  She asked me, “What do you want to do about birth control now?” 

Now?  I thought that was a pretty self-explanatory question.  Now I had a one-day old suckling at my swollen breast for what Tradd and I had decided was definitely the last time.  Now my other two girls were in awe of the new baby and trying to show their interest by fighting over who got to sit in the fold-out hospital chair in the corner.  Now I was pretty damn sore in a place that was essentially vital to producing a new baby.  Now Tradd would risk death if he flashed any bedroom eyes my direction for the next few weeks.  Now was not the issue.  Now was the answer.  Little did I know that this was the doctor’s plan.  A sneak attack during the aftermath of childbirth and she would get us to commit to any form of birth control necessary to prevent another nine months and 18 years of child-rearing bliss.

Tradd and I both jumped in with the explanation that Cameron, our third baby girl, beautiful as she was, was going to be our last.  The doctor explained the pros and cons of a vasectomy versus a tubal and to my delighted surprise Tradd said, “Cindy carried and birthed all three girls naturally.  The risks and recovery with a tubal are about the same as childbirth, so I will be the one to get clipped.”  My jaw just about clipped Cameron on the cheek as she settled in to sleep at my breast.

What did he say?  I thought this was going to be a debate between us; good cop, bad cop style.  After the initial 30-second shock wore off, I practically begged my doctor to call in her urology doctor friends until one of them could come down to the hospital on the Easter weekend and perform this surgery right then.  No time to lose!  Tradd could change his mind in the future and besides that, the doctor had said “now,” right?  Since my sudden sugar-plum laced visions of a Vasectomy Room located between the Nursery and the Janitor’s Closet were apparently unfounded, we waited.  Although I still think that this would be a popular addition to any labor and delivery unit.

When Cameron was about 3 minutes old, Tradd called our list of people to tell them she had arrived.  It was a fairly short list.  It included my mom, his mom and Chief.  Tradd told Chief that the baby was born and asked immediately when he could start.  At the time, Tradd was working full-time EMS and had volunteered, tested for, and fallen in love with a fire department three hours away from where we lived.  When Cameron was four days old, Tradd left me at the door with a newborn in my arms, two girls bickering in the background, and tears in my eyes to drive three hours away to spend the next three days (factoring in drive time) courting his new mistress, Burton Fire District.  Let me clarify that my tears were not for emphasis or fear or longing for my husband for the next three days.  In fact, they were for me.  I resented the fire department for wooing him with its promise of a child-free existence for 48 hours.  I despised him for being able to kick back in a recliner and watch tv in peace in the evenings.  I hated the fact that he always had a clean bedroom, living room, bathroom and kitchen there because everyone cleaned up each day.  The tears have since left, but the subtle resentment and passionate role-reversal fantasies remain.

By the time Cameron was six months old, our family was settled in to Beaufort and living about ten minutes away from any of Burton’s stations.  We were on the department’s insurance and were again discussing permanent birth control.  The day finally came for the urology appointment.  Tradd made the call, went in to discuss things and tried to set the date for the strip n’ clip.  Scheduling the actual surgery proved to be nearly impossible though.  The doctor only performed vasectomies on Friday mornings between 7:00 and 11:00.  Since Tradd hadn’t built up a ton of leave time yet and we couldn’t afford for him to take leave anyways, he had to schedule it for the day that he got off shift so that he would have a full four days of recovery time before going back to work.  The way the scheduling worked out, the first available date was three months away.  Fine, I could live with that.  A day before the surgery, the doctor’s office called to say that the doctor had a family emergency and had to leave town, so they would need to reschedule.  Crap.  Again, we were told that Friday mornings were the only options and the next good date didn’t roll around again for two months.  We took it.

Once we had set a date and Tradd was sure he was going to go through with the surgery, Tradd asked me not to tell anyone.  I didn’t understand his reasoning until he mentioned his mom.  Okay, I can sort of give that to him.  He said he didn’t really care about having a vasectomy, but he didn’t want to have to discuss it with his mom.  She would call him repeatedly about it and beg him to reconsider and leave his options open to have another baby.  “Try for that boy,” was the phrase we always heard after having three girls.  He said he simply wanted to avoid the hassle and leave his mother out of the choices he made for his nether regions.  I fully agreed that the woman who hadn’t laid claim to his jewels since changing him as a baby didn’t have any say-so now, so I kept my mouth shut.

Before V-Day arrived, Tradd’s dad was told by his doctor that he possibly had prostate cancer.  We all prayed it wasn’t cancer and hoped for the best outcome.  His urologist wanted to see him again and perform a minor surgery to confirm it was indeed cancerous before deciding what course of action to take.  The week of Tradd’s scheduled vasectomy I found out that his dad was going to have his biopsy on Friday because that was the only day his doctor performed the in-office minor surgeries.  I choked back a nervous giggle and asked innocently, “Oh, what time?  Is it a doctor in Beaufort?”  It turns out that Tradd’s luck of the draw landed him in the same urologist his dad used.  I stifled more laughter as I called Tradd to tell him the news.  He wasn’t laughing as much as me, but even he saw the humor in it.  Tradd was determined to keep his secret until after the surgery.  It should still work out since vasectomies were first thing in the morning and his dad’s surgery was at 2:00 in the afternoon. 

On V-Day Eve, the doctor’s office gave us a friendly reminder call that Tradd’s surgery would be the following day at 2:30 in the afternoon.  I almost hung up then asked, “Wait, what time?” 

“2:30,” the pleasant receptionist said. 

“Um…we had been told that vasectomies are performed first thing in the morning, so he would have to be there at 7:00,” I said.

“Oh, well that was our policy up until a few months ago.  Now we just schedule them any time on Fridays.  Please have your husband come by today and pick up the paperwork he will have to bring with him, along with the medicine he needs to take before his surgery.”

After a quick phone call to Tradd at work, the girls and I went down to the doctor’s office to pick up his medicine and paperwork and also to plead his case.  I told the nice receptionist about Tradd’s upcoming surgery and his dad’s surgery 30 minutes before his.  I also told her and the nurse about his mom’s general disagreement with this type of procedure and explained why he didn’t want to sit in the waiting room next to her while he waited for his appointment.  The girls behind me, fighting over a magazine, did their part to help drive home my point about having the vasectomy.

The ladies assured me that there were no other time slots open for the next day, but we could reschedule for a different month.  I refused to reschedule again because at this rate I figured Haley’s Comet would make another pass before Tradd finally had the surgery.  The women found some obvious humor in the situation, but they were also very professional and understanding.  They thought it would be fun to scheme a plan, so the nurse said she would talk to the doctor and call Tradd on his cell phone to let him know what to do.  I gave them a description of Tradd’s parents so they would recognize them, then grabbed my bickering offspring and headed for the door. 

Tradd called me later to tell me that the plan was for him to avoid the waiting area altogether.  Since his dad’s appointment was a little before his, his dad would be in a room, but his mom should be in the receptionist area.  Tradd was told to go down the hall to the door past the main entrance.  The nurses would be expecting him to arrive this way, so it would be okay this time.  They would usher him into a room, shut the door, and his parents would never know he was there.  Oh, so simple, right?

Since the appointment was at 2:30 and I had to pick Storm up from school at 3:00, Tradd considered driving himself.  Once the pre-op Valium kicked in and our living room started spinning, he changed his mind about that one.  Instead, I had to drop Tradd off, go pick Storm up from school, then go back to get Tradd.  I asked him repeatedly if he wanted me to walk him in so that he didn’t bump into walls along the way.  He assured me he could make it on his own and promised he would be waiting for me outside.  I had my doubts, but every time I asked he was adamant that he would be just fine.  As he stumbled out of the truck, jock strap in one hand and paperwork in the other, I shouted, “Take the stairs up!  Your mom might see you if you take the elevator.”  He growled something about being fine and headed off.

By the time I got back to pick him up, his mom’s car was no longer in the parking lot and Tradd was waiting outside just like he said.  He shuffled carefully to the truck, asked for his bag of frozen peas and informed me he was no longer dizzy.  Apparently the episode in the doctor’s office sobered him right up. 

“So how did it go?” I asked.  He told me that his mom had made the simple plan a complete failure.  I was giggling inside and dying to hear everything all at once, but I waited patiently for him to explain.

Since Tradd had thought I was overreacting about taking the elevator, he ignored the sign for the desolate stairwell and waited for the elevator anyways.  Beside the elevator was the directory that said what doctors were in which offices.  Tradd patiently scanned this sign until the elevator doors opened and he was face to face with his mother.  I erupted in laughter at the whole crazy situation and was thinking that it was a damn good thing I didn’t walk him in after all.  Because if this had happened when I had been standing beside him, I would have collapsed in a fit of laughter at his feet and probably would have taken him down with me. 

“Oh wait.  It gets better,” Tradd said and continued with his story. 

“Well hey, honey.  What are you doing here?” his mom asked.

Considering Tradd’s Valium-fueled delirium I was impressed with his quick thinking.  He told her that he just wanted to stop by and see how his dad was doing with the surgery since we were all worried about the possibility of cancer.  She said he was doing fine, but he was in with the doctor at the moment and she was headed out to her car to get something.  She asked him to walk with her, but he politely declined.  I had to wonder, did the jockstrap in his hand add to this delightful conversation or detract from it, but I decided not to ask?

She told him she would just go back up with him instead of getting the book from her car.  He again thought with lightning speed, remembered the directory and told her that he was also there for an eye appointment. 

“Oh, but I thought you just got your eyes checked,” she said.

He had.  Just two months before, but he couldn’t tell her that.  Instead, he opted for giving her the look that all kids master.  The one that says, “Mom, you’re losing it.”

“Umm, it’s been a while,” Tradd said.  Not a lie, since the definition of the term “a while” is open for discussion.  “Why don’t you go get your book?  I’ll head upstairs and talk to the nurses to see how Daddy’s doing before I go to my eye appointment.”

“Okay,” she said.  “I’ll be up there in just a minute.”

Tradd made his escape into the elevator with a hasty good-bye to his mom.  When he got out on the third floor, he quickly headed to the far door, just as the nurses instructed.  He wasn’t going to take a chance that his mother decided to hop back on the elevator to be with him at his eye appointment or anything.

The nurses smiled and ushered him past a closed door, which turned out to be is dad’s room, and into another.  Before leaving what he referred to as his slaughter room after the surgery, Tradd made sure with the nurses that the coast was clear and his parents were gone for the day.  They said he was the last patient of the day and nobody else was in the office.

But when he went to check out, the nurses and receptionist wanted to know what had happened.  It turned out they had a story to tell him.  Just after Tradd had slipped in the office the back way, his mom returned to the waiting area.  Since she didn’t see Tradd there, she asked the receptionist, “My son was coming up here to find out how my husband is doing.  Have you seen him?”

The receptionist remembered me from the day before and since the whole office was helping us keep Tradd’s secret, she knew our story well.  What she didn’t know was that Tradd had literally run into his mother on the way upstairs.

The ever-professional receptionist gave the you're-losing-it smile and said, “No Ma’am.  Your husband is the last patient of the day and no one else has been in here except you.”

“Really?  Are you sure?  He said he was going to talk to the nurses in here before he went to his eye appointment next door.  But, I didn’t see his truck in the parking lot.”

“I’m sorry Ma’am.  I haven’t seen him,” the receptionist said.

After sitting for a minute, his mom got up again and told the receptionist that she was going to go check at the eye doctor next door to see if her son was there.  If he came in while she was gone, she wanted the receptionist to tell him to wait there for her.

The kindly receptionist was having too much fun with this whole fiasco and decided she would do her part to help our cause.  As soon as Tradd’s mom was safely in the optometrist’s office down the hall, the receptionist raced across the lobby and locked the door.  Since Tradd’s mom couldn’t get back in, she waited patiently in the hall for his Dad to come out of the back office door and the two of them left.

When Tradd had finished telling his story, I was in tears.  Tradd was trying his best not to laugh too hard because of the pain, but even he couldn’t help himself.  When I could finally breathe again, I got him settled in his recliner, remote in one hand and a second bag of frozen peas on his tenders.

“So, is this it?” I asked.  “How do we know that the procedure worked?”   I had to know.  There was no way I was going to chance another pregnancy.

“Well, after the pain goes away, we’re supposed to make it like rabbits for a while to be sure to squirt out any remaining sperm.  We have to use protection for the next six weeks then you get to drop off a sample of ejaculate so it can be tested for sperm.”

“Wait…I have to drop it off?”  I asked.  “I don’t have ejaculate.  I don’t carry that around in my pocket like you do.  Don’t you have to drop that off?  I mean, isn’t it sort of essential that you be there for the collection and all?”

“Nope.  They gave me a specimen cup.  So, you get to do your thing, help me jiz in a cup here at home, then you can take it down to be tested.”

“I ‘get’ to do my thing?” I asked through gritted teeth.  “What exactly is my thing?  And what the hell makes you think I’m going to take your man juice down to the local Jiz ‘N a Cup testing center?”

“Because you want to make damned sure you don’t get pregnant again,” he said.

Shit.  He had me on that one.

“Fine,” I said.  “Where do I have to take it?”

“That’s the good part because you only have a half hour to get it there, but it’s not far.  You just have to drop it off in the hospital lab and they’ll test it there then give the results to my doctor.  He’ll call and let us know as soon as he’s reviewed the results.”

“Ha!  The hospital lab?” I barked.

“Yeah, why?  What’s wrong with that?”

“Did you forget that your brother’s wife works in the hospital lab?”  I was giggling again.  “She tests all sorts of body fluids there.”

Tradd had settled into a stony silence, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Oh I know,” I said.  “How about instead of waiting for your doctor to call you the day or week after your sample is tested, you can just call your sister-in-law that evening and ask her if she found any movers and shakers in your Cup-O-Jiz?” 

I couldn’t make out Tradd’s expression through my fresh round of laughter and tears.  When I had finally laughed myself into a near oblivion, I felt the weight of Tradd’s silence.

“Don’t forget to put the other bag of peas back in the freezer,” Tradd finally said and flipped on the television without a glance in my direction.  For some reason, I got the distinct impression that he resented the extreme humor I found in this screwed-up situation.  I'm okay with it though because these days, the joy of definitive birth control makes certain situations a whole lot more fun!