I’m the wife, so I should be in the waiting room waiting, right? And that’s where I was, figuring forty-five minutes, tops, before my hubby stumbled out groggy, sore and, if all went well, infertile.
I wasn’t feeling bored, just kind of restless on an unseasonably warm Friday afternoon in January, in a cramped, brown paneled room that had a 70’s hangover and no windows. In fact, I was checking my watch thinking I might take a little walk when hunky Daniel the intern came toward me and asked with much earnestness and not a little concern, “Are you Sandra?”
People fell at my feet when I stood. “Yes. Is my husband okay?” Another second and mind might have been at that botched circumcision I once read about that caused the parents to raise their son as a daughter. But Daniel got to me while I was still in generic, not genital, panic mode.
“No, he’s fine. He just wants you in the room for the procedure. He said he was there when you gave birth and for everything else you’ve had done.”
“He said that?” I countered with attitude, “That’s not exactly true, you know.” But dapper Daniel had already executed an about-face and was heading back to the surgery room.
And there I stood with the unprecedented dilemma of do I, or don’t I, go watch my husband get neutered.
My first thought was I hate blood. My next was, couldn’t he have mentioned this in the car ride over? Then I would have had the chance to say, No way in hell, Sweetie Pops. You and your cojones are going to this show without me.
As I stood looking for a reason to just say no, I decided vasectomies belonged in the same category as football. You know, a guy thing. Something men and women who love each other don’t necessarily need to share. Also in the category would be hoagie eating contests, driving monster trucks over small cars, and setting farts on fire. But yikes. He had been at my side for two pregnancies worth of appointments, then of course, the births. I mean along with a baby comes a uterus full of gore, and that’s without discussing the episiotomies. It’s not like he saw the scalpel and bailed. At the very least, I figured I owed him a quick visit, just to say hi.
As I entered the room cautiously, he toodled his fingers in my direction. But truthfully, I wasn’t paying much attention to his fingers.
For all the times I’ve been on an ob/gyn’s table––that would be 23 yearly exams, approximately 25 more during pregnancies, plus five or so extra visits for girlie infections false alarms and good measure––I never thought I’d see this scene: hubby naked from the waist down, a white paper drape failing miserably at its job and, most horrifying of all, his strong, hairy legs propped up in stirrups. Stirrups.
He smiled at me. “Thanks for coming,” he said.
“Anytime.” I took my place on the side of the room farthest from his genitals.
He studied me. “Is this okay?”
“Of course,” I said, weakly plopping down in a plastic orange chair. When I caught myself with my torso and legs turned to the far wall and my head sort of tilted over my shoulder like a 40’s pinup model, I realized that my body language was screaming, um, Help!
I tried to rearrange myself. I willed myself to go stand by my man, but no. I couldn’t bear how vulnerable he looked. Slightly tipsy on central nervous system depressants, he could have been one of those sorority girls who gets toasted on eight glasses of grain alcohol and lifts her skirt for the rugby team. Honestly, I wanted to pull the drape over his balls and haul him back to his dorm to sleep it off.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he pressed.
“Sure. Sure.” But even two sures don’t make a certain. Still, there I was feeling very much caught in one of the worse situations of the “better or worse” part of our vows.
That’s when the door opened and the doctor entered.
“Hello. I’m Dr. Sagov,” he said. Well this was at least interesting, I thought. My husband had described for me the cheery, 5’5” barrel-chested South African surgeon who had, apparently, “fixed” the better number of Dad’s on the playground. In Hollywood, there are the A-list doctors—the nose guy, the ass guy, the boob guy. Around here, Sagov is the balls guy.
“So nice to meet you,” I said, when I really wanted to tell him that this was all wrong. It’s me they’ve always poked in, chopped at. And after every such personal transgression, my husband fed me soup, patted my back, kissed me better and put me to bed. I didn’t like his having two hairy legs in the air while my feet were on the ground. But nobody paid me any attention, so I kept observing the goings on rather like I watch horror movies, all tucked into myself, one eye on the screen. The other squeezed into a slightly damp knee.
While I winced, Dr. Sagov injected the local anesthesia down below, numbing the family jewels so their fertility could be painlessly stolen. Then the doctor, nurse, and Daniel stepped out.
That’s when, alone with my husband, I finally drew a breath and bellied up to the surgery table. I took my husband’s cold hand, readying myself to say that I needed to leave, when I noticed something in his face. He looked really doped-up, but he also looked in love. With me.
For all the discussions we’d had about this procedure, I saw, for a clear moment, the truth of what this meant. We’ve made our family. His evolutionary assignment on earth was complete. It even meant he had no plans to run off with a younger, more beautiful woman and give her babies. And, finally, since almost no man really truly wants his testicles sliced open, he was doing this for me.
I was the one who had pushed for the snip. After twelve years as the birth control guru, I demanded his full commitment to Project Stop-At-Two-Kids. And there it was. But in that moment, his legs akimbo, his genitals numb, I actually saw it as a bigger commitment to the relationship than having kids. It was the decision to stay together for, dare I say, as long as we both shall live. It was his profession of faith in us. And as long as he was staying by my side forever, I knew that I needed to stay in that room.
I nodded at him.
He smiled, happy dopey.
The medical team filed back into the room. They checked in with my husband’s parts then got right to business. This time, I hovered nearby, just above the waist.
For what I saw, the procedure may as well have taken place in another room. The few highlights I do recall are Dr. Sagov’s hands moving behind the cloth with firm precision. From my angle, he could have been sawing at a tough cut of steak. When I stole another glance, I saw drops of blood on the white paper. “La la la!” I sang out. Everyone turned to me for a second of concern.
I also remember the doctor isolating the vas deferens, and vociferously announcing this discovery to Daniel, “Here we have the vas!”
Then there were two quick snips and four little clips. Oh yes, and at one point, the doctor cauterized the ends of those zany sperm-carrying tubes that meant smoke and the smell of burning flesh drifted up from my husband’s genital region. And that was it. Job done. Dr. Sagov stitched him up with more proficiency than I’ve achieved in a lifetime of hemming pants. My husband pulled on his jeans and with a few instructions about a follow-up visit and not ejaculating for a week, we were on our way.
We stopped for Caesar wraps, fries, ginger ale and brownies. He ate all of his, then chowed my leftovers. Apparently there’s nothing like a vasectomy to give a guy the munchies. As for me, just knowing sex was off-limits filled me with that crazy brand of teenage horniness when you would dry hump a tree to get some relief from wanting the unavailable guy.
Then we went home, dismissed the sitter and drew our children close. And there was this moment before my husband settled himself on the couch with an icepack and the remote that we noticed just what we had. It was suddenly even more meaningful in the context of what we would not have more of.
I turned to him. "Thank you," I said. "Really, thank you."
He looked at me and smiled with his eyes. "You're welcome." Then, after lowering himself with much concentration and a few grunts, my husband once again turned toward me and said, “You know what I’m thinking?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“I’m thinking those are two cute kids. How about we keep them and stop there?”
“Agreed,” I answered, and leaned in to kiss his forehead.
