I’ve never wanted children. The first time I attempted a vasectomy (under doctor supervision, don’t worry), it was 2018.
At a San Diego Planned Parenthood, I learned what the procedure was like (small incision, long-term decision) and that I’d be subject to a 30-day waiting period to prove no coercion. I signed forms saying I understood the procedure’s permanence. This was the consultation.
But at the front desk, I was floored to hear they didn’t have availability for months. A scarcity of surgeons, I was told. It was August, and they gave me a number to call in November.
Wouldn’t you know it, November rolled around and I looked at the crush of the incoming holidays and my service industry availability, and didn’t feel like integrating the procedure into either. So I balked.
It took a future November’s arrival to change that: November 5, 2024.
I had watched my country’s theocratic shift with mounting dread, Dobbs splintering us into state rules on a draconian sliding scale. But with the full conservative sweep of two branches of government (and, arguably, the third) I knew it was time to book a return appointment. All men owe women concrete action demonstrating their health is our health.
Imagine my surprise when the doctor brought out the same forms, saying sterilization consent expires after 180 days.
”Well, couldn’t it just be that I took six years to make a very considered decision?”
It couldn’t.
I’d need to wait another 30 days. I thanked her for her time and immediately booked an appointment from the parking lot with a urologist in my HMO. At that consultation, he told me he could do it after three days. His version differed: two punctures; draw the vas deferens out through each; cut and cauterize; dissolving stitches. He promised minimal recovery and scarring.
“You’re aware this procedure is forever? Reversals are performable but not guaranteed effective.”
I thought of great loves who wanted children and I didn’t, the catalytic reason we parted.
I signed the form.
The day of, I shaved the incision area and took my generic Valium. I’d chosen local anesthetic so I could be conscious.
The nurses prepped me, bathing my genitals in warm iodine cleanser. They drew a curtain across my abdomen so I’d experience the entire surgery blind.
The doctor came in and made eye contact for final confirmation I understood the procedure’s permanence, then the wizard disappeared behind the curtain.
He announced everything before he did it, which was a comfort. A stick when the anesthetic went in. Pressure from the clamp before each puncture, an eerie discomfort running through my lower abdomen to my kidneys when the vas deferens was drawn out, like plucking a guitar string inside me. The heat of the cauterizing instrument.
Afterward, a nurse put mesh underwear on me to hold the packed gauze in place, warning me the iodine stain could mislead me that the gauze was bloodier than it was. They pulled my spandex bike shorts over that, the most supportive underwear I own.
I alternated ice on/ice off every fifteen minutes for the rest of the day. They told me to sleep with it on, with a towel as buffer. I took the prescribed pain meds and slept soundly.
Recovery completely depended on supporting the area and keeping everything as motionless as possible. Also, weight distribution: I was much more comfortable with my penis on its side, rather than between my testes. I had little passive pain, spiking only when I got up or sat down too fast. I took Tylenol in the daytime, the stiffer stuff after dinner.
The first encounter with real pain was during my first permitted shower on Day Three. Left to the mercy of gravity, the absence of support made everything so tender.
The second time was more acute, when I accidentally fell asleep on the fifth night naked. I woke up queasy, pain shooting to both kidneys. It immediately recalled the times I was crotch-kicked as a soccer goalie. Back in my bike shorts, the pain subsided—how I’d sleep until Day Ten.
I packed a diminishing amount of gauze daily to catch blood seepage from the no-scalpel incision, now on Day 20 a scab with a dime-size swollen knot beneath. I return in three months for an analysis to prove all my swimmers swam their last swim.
I hope my account demystifies the vasectomy and its recovery. Experience and pain tolerance may vary.
