My Wacky Vasectomy
PART ONE — “THAT WOULD BE NICE”
The question came sooner than either of us likely expected (or, at least, sooner than I expected): “what is your birth control plan?”
My wife was just about 48 hours postpartum with our second child and we were readying to leave the hospital, exhausted but elated and beyond ready to introduce our first little monster to his baby sister. We knew, for purely financial reasons if nothing else, that this child would likely be the last; that we’d be “two and through” as *insert parenting blog* liked to say. A pregnancy featuring just about 35 full weeks of morning sickness sealed the deal, at least as far as my wife’s mental health was concerned. Still, I figured we’d at least have a week before needing to figure out how we would go about locking in the roster of our nuclear family (especially since sex was off the table for at least six weeks).
Maybe it was just due diligence on behalf of our care providers; a box to check on their discharge paperwork. Maybe there was a rise in postpartum blooper babies that I somehow missed in the news. Or maybe it was something ELSE in the news that put birth control front of mind: Roe v. Wade had been repealed less than 24 hours prior.
We gave a non-committal “still figuring it out” response and before we knew it were on our way home. As I sat in the passenger seat (those who know my wife won’t be surprised that she insisted on driving), doom-scrolling and thinking about my daughter one day inheriting a world that was content to diminish and control her entire sex, a real answer to the question we dodged started to form in my head.
“You shouldn’t have to pump yourself full of hormones for the next 30 years if we know we’re done,” I said. “Maybe I’ll get a vasectomy.”
“That would be nice,” she replied.
As it would turn out, I was far from the only man in the United States thinking that now might be a good time for “the snip.” While it is generally too early for concrete data to be gathered, “healthcare providers around the country have anecdotally reported seeing increased demand for vasectomies in recent months.” In states where abortion has become massively restricted, if not outlawed entirely (with many fearing that contraception will be next on the hit list), options are becoming increasingly limited for those who want to avoid unwanted pregnancy. Despite a decades-long trend of American men avoiding the entire concept like the plague, vasectomies began to spike in popularity in the months following the repeal of Roe.
So while I may not have one of the most unique vasectomy stories, I’m willing to bet I might have one of the funniest.
PART TWO — THE NEGOTIATION
I’ve been in plenty of awkward situations before, but none could have prepared me for the urologist’s waiting room.
Being young and in relatively good health, I hadn’t had any occasion to visit a urologist before, and so I was unprepared for the discordant, hyper-aware and yet entirely closed off atmosphere of a room full of men about to get their junk examined. I was the youngest in the room by, conservatively, fifteen years, and if not making eye contact with other human beings were a sport, I swear each and every one of us would’ve podiumed that day.
As I read through the paperwork the receptionist handed me, I learned what lay in store should I decide to go through with the procedure: exactly where they’d cut and what they’d do once there, how long it would take to heal, the process required to confirm sterility after the fact, etc. It all seemed fairly straightforward and having spent likely too much time on the internet doing research beforehand, it was nice to have a simplified narrative to absorb…at least until I reached the section about reversibility. Namely, that vasectomies were not as reversible as the internet made it seem. The truth is that while reversing a vasectomy is technically POSSIBLE, it is by no means GUARANTEED. And perhaps more importantly for my budget-conscious family, it was expensive and not typically covered by insurance.
Something else not typically covered by insurance? Freezing sperm and keeping it in cold storage “just in case.” While I was on board with the procedure going in, this new info removed the two important safety nets I assumed I had.
I completed the required consultation with the doctor and went home to report my findings. The reversibility revelation was a big one; I had never willingly undergone a procedure that was even remotely permanent. I had no tattoos and no piercings. Shit, some years of my life came and went with extremely few haircuts. Generally speaking, I let my body do its thing and tended not to get in its way and the prospect of breaking that streak was, if not scary, at the very least unsettling. The newly-realized permanence of this procedure was giving me pause for the first time since I brought it up and my wife sensed that.
After playing the world’s smallest violin for me, given what her body went through growing and expelling two lifeforms, she wisely played her ace.
“If we feel like we still want to grow our family, the next baby can have four legs and fur.”
I knew what she meant, but I needed to hear her say it.
“Are you saying that if I get a vasectomy, we can get a dog?”
“Yes. Eventually. When the kids are old enough.”
“You know I’m going to hold you to that, right?”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
The extent to which this was groundbreaking cannot be overstated. For years I wanted a dog and for years my wife made clear that it was dog or kids and I picked kids TWICE with zero regrets. Still, the prospect of welcoming a very good furry friend into the fold had massive sway.
I was going to go through with it no matter what, but I’m glad I held out for that deal. No backsies when you read this, my love.
PART THREE — KNIFEMAN
The night before my procedure, I tried a lot to calm my increasingly frazzled nerves. Pizza for dinner, quality Nintendo time, and watching the Brooklyn-99 episode where Terry is thinking about (but ultimately, thanks to Jake, does not go through with) a vasectomy all helped but the steady hum of anxiety remained. No one likes surgery, let alone surgery on the most sensitive part of their body that can’t be undone. As we drove to the clinic (referred to in my instructions as, I shit you not, the Boston Pain Center) the next morning, my wife did her best to keep me calm. This included offering a full get out of jail card if I really wasn’t sure, $250 cancellation fee be damned. It wasn’t necessary, I still wanted to do it, but the mental discomfort that came with thinking about future physical discomfort was persistent nevertheless.
That’s when I heard it; the familiar chugging guitar intro to one of my favorite songs. But it wasn’t just any song. No, the song playing as we got off the exit, headed towards a surgical procedure was…Knifeman by The Bronx.
(Let that one sink in for a second.
…
GET IT???)
I immediately started laughing. Deeply, genuinely, in a way I hadn’t in a while. The coincidence was too perfect, the comedy too dark, the timing too precise. I am a big believer in fate and while the chances of this song popping up at this exact moment was high (Faction Punk on Sirius plays The Bronx a lot and 95% of the time it’s this song), the fact that it DID pop up at that moment was enough to convince me that while it may not be sunshine and rainbows, that this decision was ultimately the correct one.
“And out here on the border line
It feels a lot like forever
We’ll all be damned if this machine
Turns life into routine”
PART FOUR — JEWISH GEOGRAPHY
I didn’t mention this before, but of all the urology practices in Greater Boston that I could have ended up with, I ended up with the twin brothers who were both orthodox yeshiva alumni and both went into the urology business together. Honestly, the sheer campiness and “you can’t write a joke this good” energy would’ve been enough to get me through, but what happened next is truly the coup de grace.
As with any surgical procedure that you stay awake for, it’s essential for the surgeon and nursing staff to keep you talking. Specifically, they needed to keep you talking about anything but what they happened to be doing to you at that moment. We had covered the “Happy Hanukkah we’re both Jewish” part during the pre-op, and so the usual shmoozing ensued: “where are you from? What do you do for work? How many kids? Names? Blah blah blah.”
That is, until, we got to where I went to high school.
“Oh, do you know *NAME REDACTED*?”
“Of course!”
“How about *ALSO REDACTED*?”
“Yup!”
“Actually, my son went to that school.”
“What’s his name?”
“*REDACTED*”
“He was a freshman when I was a senior!”
That’s right, I played Jewish Geography while getting a vasectomy. And, weirdly, that fact brings a smile to my face every time I think about it.
Like I said, you can’t write jokes this good.
EPILOGUE
The week after my procedure had its ups and downs. It is a major tool of the patriarchy that men don’t need to typically live with discomfort below the belt. System after system after system exists to maximize male comfort, especially in that area of the body. And so while I am positive that the discomfort I felt is nothing compared to childbirth, or after an annual exam, or what women’s bodies naturally do to them every single month, time nevertheless seemed to slow down as my body worked to heal itself.
But heal itself it did and like all storms, this one passed without incident.
Which brings us to the inevitable final question: “why the hell did you just write 1600 words about your testicles?”
And THAT answer is simple: because men don’t do it enough. Not in the way that matters.
Since I decided to go through with my vasectomy, I’ve talked to a number of men about the procedure and for each one considering it or already having undergone it, I met a man vehemently opposed to the entire idea. It was through this process that I, for perhaps the first time, could truly see the full spectrum that is modern masculinity and MOST points on that spectrum involve not talking about our bodies unless it involves muscle mass or penis size.
Now, this could be the point where I hobble up to my soapbox and ramble on about toxic masculinity and empathy, where I try and fail to understand the pain of what women regularly do to their bodies to please or otherwise satisfy men. I could talk about how for the first time in my life my commitment to feminism actually didn’t feel performative, but that isn’t really the point here. I’m not some kind of hero because I underwent a perfectly safe, slightly invasive procedure (and I’ve berated several people who have acted like I was).
In his autobiographical field guide Manhood for Amateurs, author Michael Chabon states that “the handy thing about being a father is that the historic standard is so pitifully low.” It’s with that in mind that I bring us back to what started this whole tale: my daughter. All I am, truly, is a father who wants a better world to exist for his child than the one that currently does. A world where men take an equal share of the responsibility for birth control, where all bodies play a part in preventing pregnancy if that is, indeed, their goal.
I’m not haughty enough to think that one man voluntarily sterilizing himself and then writing about it publicly will collapse thousands of years of institutional misogyny. But I do think, maybe, if we stopped talking about vasectomies like they’re the ultimate sacrifice instead of literally the least we can do for the women we love, then the idea of men undergoing discomfort in general for the sake of women won’t seem like such a ghastly idea.
Because honestly? That shit was hilarious.
