Neutered

by Fat Daddy, Esq. on November 17, 2013

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“Help control the pet population. Have your pets spayed or neutered.” So said the coolest game show host of my youth, Bob Barker. Hot Mama and I had many talks and decided that we didn’t want any more puppies. We had grown tired of cleaning up their messes. And it’s difficult to take a long weekend vacation without finding someone to watch them. Sure they’re great, but they are undoubtedly a lot of work and commitment.

The day finally came and we drove to the clinic. After a short wait we found ourselves in the doctor’s operating room and soon thereafter I found myself sitting on the table trying to reassure the patient. A few Valium seemed to be aiding the process as well. Hot Mama sat in the corner and watched, anxious over the trauma her little guy was about to endure.

The doctor entered the room and went right to work. For a split second I considered telling him “you’re going to feel a little prick down there” but thankfully my Valium-clouded judgment was still adequate to prevent making the doctor laugh while he held sharp instruments near my scrotum. He did his best to warm the prep solution before application but to no avail. The second he started spreading it around things started shrinking faster than George Constanza could say “I was in the pool.”

I managed to keep my thoughts to myself. And there were plenty of thoughts. First and foremost was the realization that this is really happening. Like, “holy shit I can’t believe that I am laying naked on a table while some guy I just met is grabbing my balls while his assistant, who I also just met, looks on.” And “I know I said I don’t want any more kids but this shit is permanent.” And then there was “I’m glad I didn’t get a boner when he started because that would be awkward.”

After a few minutes of fondling for the spot, he injected lava into my vas as I bit down on my molars and contemplated how I would get my pants back if I ran for the exit. A brief period of discomfort and the sound of scissors snipping came next. Then more fondling and lava on the other side. More thoughts of seeking dental attention in case I crack a molar and then giving in to the situation like a dog zapped of his fight by the shock collar around his defeated neck. More discomfort, more snips, all done.

The doctor told me I could get dressed and gave me some after-care instructions. Hot Mama is a nurse so I usually let her listen to a doctor’s medical mumbo jumbo. He said no sex for ten days, and I was so proud of her when she asked him if that just meant intercourse or meant all sexual activity. Even though he said he meant no action, I thought it was pretty cool that she was trying to find a loophole for me.

Next we are standing in the hallway and the nurse hands me a plastic bag while explaining the process for testing my infertility. I looked at the bag and began to smile. I looked at Hot Mama and could see that she knew something inappropriate was welling up in my sarcastic, smart-ass brain. She knows me so well, after all we have known each other since kindergarten. As the nurse talked about returning my sample I looked at the 4 ounce specimen cup and asked “do I have to fill it up?” People are much more forgiving when they think you are still mildly sedated. She just explained that while the doctor does need “enough to test” I do not have to  fill it to the brim. “Well that’s good because I’m not a boar,” I thought, proud of my knowledge of porcine reproduction. I later told Hot Mama I had an even more inappropriate question that I managed to suppress and she assured me she would have slapped me in the face had I uttered it to the nurse. And no, it did not involve my knowledge of porcine reproduction.

My chauffeur delivered me to my door and I limped into the house while she went to pick up my medication and frozen peas. The rest of the weekend consisted of laying around the house watching football and catching up on recorded programs on the DVR. Really the only difference between this weekend and other weekends has been the frequent application of frozen produce to my crotch.

I love being a parent. We love the kids we have. But the time was right to say enough is enough. We have no aspirations for reality show stardom. Soon the hard work begins. Research shows as more “releases”  occur more of the residual swimmers are flushed from the system. The statistics vary but it appears the magic number is somewhere between 15 and 30. Hot Mama says she wants to help me with my recovery. I have six weeks until my infertility test. I have always been somewhat of an overachiever and this is another test I intend to pass.

photo credit: dsearls via photopin cc

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