Saturday, 27 September 2008

It's a date!

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Well, I went to see the doctor last night for a bit of a pre-op chat. I discussed things with a friend who is already a Jaffa and he described things from his perspective and I felt very comfortable with things.

Jim came along, as my relevant significant other, to give her blessing and to make sure I did not bottle it. After all, as she keeps reminding me, we agreed that this was for the best.

I was allowed in early, but all the receptionists know that Dr Watson's late night Thursday surgery is the vasectomy surgery and there was an unnecessarily high level of mirth emitting from the denizens of the reception. I owe the surgery £19.99 for a letter from a few months ago, so I made another attempt to pay it, but was, as always, sent away with the mocking laughter of the receptionist's disgust. If I want to pay then I shall have to find the original invoice. I think that I shall probably simply not bother for now.

Dr Watson is considerably slighter than most doctors. He seems a little shocked that Jim is accompanying me and passes comment, before offering me a chair next to his desk and insisting that Jim occupies a chair in the corner, as far from his desk as is feasible.

The comfort which discussing a vasectomy with the doctor without Jim's input is short lived as a laminated diagram of male genitalia is produced and placed before me. Now, I have long since understood that the severing of the vas deferens before they reach the seminal vesicles is the basis of a vasectomy, but it is a very different matter when I am sitting looking at a picture of a particularly small specimen with hugely oversized black sperm swimming towards the break.

Dr Watson tells me that he will have done 700 vasectomies by the time he has finished mine and I cannot help but wonder what kind of dreams a man who has maimed fourteen hundred testicles might have.

We have a bit of a vasectomy chat and discuss the issues which surround the procedure, which I shall go into at a later date. I mention my fear that, should Jim be brutally slaughtered by a jaguar which has swum the Atlantic, I may want more children by another lady in the future. Dr W gives this serious consideration and has a good response, but I can tell that the big cat reference was not overly appreciated, so I avoid any comments about the Leopard which I had envisioned coming over on the Chunnel to finish the job.

Well, it turns out that the hole which Dr Watson will be making in my scrotum is only 1mm by 3mm, which doesn't sound so bad. Apparently it will stretch to about a 3mm diameter circle during the procedure, but will shrink back almost immediately without any stitch or suture. I did enquire about inserting a transdermal implant at this stage but, whilst he thought the idea had merit, Dr W tells me that what I get up to in the comfort of my own home after he is finished is up to me.

It is explained to me that I have to continue using contraception for 16 weeks after the op, which includes 2 sperm counts. In China apparently the norm is to merely wait for 24 ejaculations, which I describe as 'a good afternoon's work', but which the good doctor tells me is an afternoon's work which will be both highly uncomfortable and unlikely to leave me in any fit state to take advantage of my haste. Basically it is 16 weeks for me.

"Right then, let's have a look at them then."
"Damn! I thought that this appointment was just for a chat. I am not sure how fresh I am, I have cycled here from work, you see."
"That's not a problem, I cycled to work today as well."
"Yes, but I am not going to be touching your genitals."
"Not on this occasion, no."

I am going to like this doctor.

Why is it that I am placed behind a screen to lower my trousers and pants? I go behind, drop me kecks and hop up on the couch, then Dr W comes around and pokes my nads for a few minutes before retiring to allow me to dress. What is the privacy for? I hardly gain from it and it all seems a little unnecessarily coy to me.

The doctor manipulates my testicles until the vas deferens comes up to the surface and shows me it through the skin. He explains how the scrotum is not an empty sack, but is made up of many layers and is, essentially, full. As he releases this vas deferens and hunts to bring the next one to the surface in the same spot, I comment on how strange it is that in can change shape and size so dramatically if it is full, but I am also acutely aware that, for whatever reasons of its own, my penis has shrunk to the size of a whelk. This is not the time to let me down with your irrational fear, little soldier. I want to get some decent shots of this and I am not going to want to keep them if I appear in them as a hairy twelve year old.

I broach the subject of having a photographer and video at the operation and he has no problems at all. He offers to bring a mirror too and suggests that it will make things less boring and that he would normally advise that I bring a good book. Jim is not so keen and becomes convinced (and still is) that she will pass out when he begins to burn into my testicles. The only concern which the doctor expresses is that if I try and watch directly by sitting up, I may be in his way and, if Jim zooms in too much, he won't look terribly photogenic.

"Anyway, that's no problem at all, I sometimes have trouble with the 18 stone truckers, getting the vas deferens to the surface, but it is no problem at all with a slim chap like yourself."


At work and home alike, I am routinely ridiculed for my obesity. Dr Watson, whilst not my regular doctor, is GP to a number of my friends and is well know for being particularly pernickety about weight. And he said that I was slim. In front of a witness. Jim laughs and I protest, fishing slightly. "I am fifteen and a half stone and I am hardly thin!". I bare and wobble my stomach at this.

The compliment I am after is duly delivered: "At your age there will be some loose flesh, but you are definitely not overweight. I am very happy with your weight, we have no problems there."

HAH! Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, David 'fat face' Tapp.

Anyway, from here I return to the desk, although Jim has now occupied the chair closest to the desk, presumably to make it clear who makes our decisions. She is wearing trousers, whilst I am only wearing shorts, which is coincidental, but appropriate.

I pick up the diagrams from the desk and notice that there is a need to shave. "You are shitting me!". But apparently he is not. Being bearded, I shall actually have to purchase a bloody razor for the job and, frankly I do not relish this at all. Having a cock like a dolphin is not my idea of fun at all. I have had a quick look for my cut-throat to see how I can manage with that, but I appear to have lost it.

One of the things about having children is that I do tend to put things in safe places, out of reach. Sadly I also am slowly losing my mind and cannot remember where I put anything at all. I digress.

Anyway, I explain that, now that Jim has let me down three times already, I am ready to give up my fertility. He asks if I am sure and I nod to Jim and say "Absolutely, she told me just this morning". Immediately catching on the the fact that I have 3 daughters he offers some condolence and is shocked to learn that even Bun, the cat, is female. What am I letting myself in for here? Is my family name to be severed as cleanly as my tubes by this vasectomy?

He has some selected questions to be sure whether I am being bullied into this and quickly determines that I am. We have a few talks about effectiveness and procedure and I wince a few more times at the fact that he is going to burn a hole through my sack and I am released with a date 3 weeks from now.

I shall look through my disclaimer forms and try not to panic about things such as this, this, this and so on. Also, a man burning a hole in my 'nads. Let us not forget that bit.


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