Everything old is neutered again

or

Sterility before Senility!

I like kids. I just don't like condoms.

For 30-odd years I had been waiting for the "daddy enzyme" to kick

in. I didn't want kids of my own at any given time, but I always

thought that I would someday.

In the meantime all of my friends were spawning right and left. While

I was having a blast with my entertaining deadend jobs the rest of my

generation was busy crankin' out the pups. But this was fine with me:

I get to hold their babies, feed them, play with them, and then hand

them back when they get cranky or stinky.

Then I go home to my place with the white carpeting and the breakable

items and decide again that nope, don't want to be a daddy.

So I wasn't ready emotionally or financially to start a family. But,

as my poor, grandchildless Mother pointed out, hundreds of times: If

you wait until you are ready to have kids - you're never going to

have kids!

Then three random events harmonically converged and caused me to take

some positive action. Or perhaps negative action. One was that I

turned 35 and suddenly qualified as an entirely different

demographic. Secondly I left the charming the dead-end jobs and

accidently landed one with actual benefits. Full medical coverage:

hmmm. lastly I also got a girlfriend upgrade who was unfixed and that

meant returning to wearing raincoats in the shower. Ugh.

So, as a new years' resolution I decided to put my money where my

mouth is, walk the talk, and remove the evolutionary setting from the

family jewels.

I called my fancy new insurance to see if vasectomy was covered. The

nice lady practically hugged me through the phone lines. Was it

covered? Oh yes! Yes! YES! Apparently it is exponentially cheaper to

deal with procreation here at 'his' headwaters than down at 'her'

pregnancy delta.

The phone lady's reaction was more than just actuarial joy, however.

So I informed some of my female co-workers of my spay-as-you-go plan

and they all but hoisted me on their shoulders and gave me three

cheers. Hmm. I hadn't considered it to be attractive that I was

removing the DNA disc from sexualitys CD carousel, but there I was

losing my manhood and being hailed as a god. Cool.

Next I called my local medical clinic. I could have called the local

hospital, but it is run by the Dominicans and I felt much more

comfortable taping down procreation's pause button in a place that

was officially enthusiastic about the procedure. So around Winter

Solstice I called the clinic and asked for an appointment with a

doctor. They randomly assigned me Dr. Yule, who is one of only three

doctors there who do vasectomies. So the Gods were smiling upon me.

The consultation for males in my new demographic is quite brief:

Have kids?

Nope.

Want kids?

Nope.

Sign here.

Later he did ask me if I was currently sober, coerced, or got the

idea that morning from my toaster. Yes, no and no. Great, he said,

and with a gleam in his eye like sunlight on a knife blade he

proceeds to explain, in gargantuan detail, exactly what is going to

happen next week during the operation. I listened: First the room got

stuffy. Then my collar got tight. then the room got hot. Then I

couldn't catch a breath. Then the room started spinning. Then he was

laying me out on the table and giving me a drink of water and noting

how pale I was.

I went home with a sheaf of illustrated booklets (which I carefully

never opened), a small sealed sterile tupperware container, one

valium, and an appointment for two days after Valentines Day. Again,

a smile from above: Tired of chocolates and flowers? Have your lover

neutered for Valentines: its the gift that stops giving.

To keep myself sane beforehand I tried to keep it all in perspective.

Its a drive-thru band-aid procedure: One hour from the time you walk

in as a robust virile stud to the time that you hobble out as an

emaciated eunuch. One hour of uncomfortable, and then you never have

to worry about contraception again. Ever.

I distracted myself with the activist arguments: There are 6 billion

people on this planet now - enough folks so that there is one for

every man, woman, and child. We will be a viable species for the

forseeable future - no matter who we elect to high office. I have

good genes, its true. Passing some of them along would probably

create a pretty neat new person. But they're not my genes; they are

pretty much Everybodys. Remember that if all of us myriad races of

humans were presented at the Westminster Kennel dog show, we'd all be

on the same leash.

The night before the operation I stood in front of my bathroom

mirror, naked, with a pan of warm, sudsy water, a hand mirror,

scissors, and a razor. And shaving the luggage was so novel and weird

that it actually distracted me from why I was doing it, which was a

very good thing.

Next day I rode my bicycle to work, for the last time for a couple of

weeks. At midday I rode home, dug out my old soccer jockstrap,

changed into the loosest sweats I had, and popped the valium. Now it

has been 20 years since I was last stoned, and 15 since I was even

drunk. So by the time my beaming girlfriend guided me into the

doctors office I was on the Yellow Submarine virtual reality ride. I

was more than pliant: I was a pull-toy. Groovy.....man.

The nurses guided me into the same room and the same table that I had

almost fainted on earlier. Dr. Yule was cheerful and efficent, but I

was too busy battling blue meanies to concentrate on what he was

doing down there. He kept asking if I felt something but I never did,

or if I did it was so far away and distant....

He asked me once if I wanted to see, but no, that's okay, I'm playing

Tetris with your melting walls.

Afterwards, sterile and alone, I put on my old jockstrap, carefully,

and walked out of the office, slowly. My girlfriend, who had been

cheering me on for three months now (since I announced my plans) was

now doing back flips and cartwheels around the office. She drove me

home and I told her the same office story over and over and over

again until the drug wore off. Then I got three days of all of the

movies and take out food that I wanted.

Did it hurt? Not during the operation. The sound was the only

uncomfortable thing. Afterwards it was only peeing that was

unpleasant. But no, the recovery was not very painful. What was

painful was the only fact not mentioned in all of the paperwork, or

by the doctors, nurses or anybody: If you shave off all of your

scrotum hair it will all grow back: STUBBLE!!!!

For a week at work I couldn't lift anything heavier than a book and I

walked like an elderly Texan with a puffer fish in his pants.

All in all though it was pretty smooth sailing, which was lucky for

me because nobody really knows why some men sail through it and go to

parties the same night, and some are doubled up in agony for days.

So, physically fine, but emotionally....

For about three days afterwards I received little, tiny emotional

queries from the area in question. In effect the little squirmy dudes

were saying "I'm melting! Melllllting.....!" and for about 6 weeks

after the operation I was faced with the fact that I would never

father children. This is what I wanted of course, but still my body,

or something deeper; my Being perhaps, was taking me aside every so

often, tugging on my sleeve and saying: "Yo, Dude. What are you

doing? What's all this 'bridge out' nonsense? Don't you realize why

you're here?"

Well yes, I do. And it just doesn't include making more of me.

So, as the saying goes, has getting spayed made a 'Vas Deferens' in

my sex life? Well, not Vas, but better certainly, more spontaneous,

and removing the monthly worry factor is a major plus for both of us.

The final chapter in the fumbling of my balls is the test. The test

to see if any of the little squirmy dudes are still lurking in the

halls. This is what the little sterile tupperware container is for.

You bring that in and they 'check for corpses' as Dr. Yule says.

After 3 weeks I called his office and left a message asking what the

procedure is for these things. Do I see him, or make an appointment

or just see the lab or what? Two days later I got this phone message

from a very hurried nurse:

"Ah, no sir, you do not need to make an appointment or see the

doctor. All you need to do is to drop off the container at the lab

about an hour after you - um, after you, er, well......about an hour

after, uh, you, you, you obtain a specimen! Yes! Thankyoubye."

She seemed more uncomfortable than I ever was.

Angus McMahan

Vesica@cruzio.com