The Big Snip

Three and out.

“OK, Ken, let’s switch up the category. I’ll take ‘Medical Procedures I Never Thought About Until I Started Adulting’ for $600.”

“This horrifying surgery for men requires only local anesthesia, sounds extremely painful, and isn’t 100% effective.”

Knee replacement? Lasik? Tattoo removal?

“Oh, sorry, Ryan. We were looking for ‘vasectomy.’ Better luck next time!”

But I suppose there is no next time—isn’t that the whole point, Mr. Jennings? These are the thoughts racing through my mind as I pace around the urologist’s waiting room second-guessing everything. And this is only a consultation.

I secretly knew this day would come once we learned a third baby girl was on the way. For some reason, even complete strangers feel compelled to inquire about your future offspring plans. This generally leads to shoulder shrugs and quizzical glances, but recently it’s become more apparent that we’ve maxxed out the team roster. And this cleary resonates with many other Americans—vasectomies are up 26% over the past seven years. More over, my wife’s pregnancies aren’t exactly easy and we need to have some semblance of a normal adult life at some point in the near future.

So here we are.

I’m handed a pamphlet that “should answer all my questions and ease my concerns” about the “fairly simple process.” Easier said than done, but thank you! I immediately notice the stock photo chosen to illustrate the story of my upcoming ‘No-Scalpel Vasectomy.’ A man, maybe mid-30s, has paused his bike ride to take an important, but seemingly positive phone call. The subhead “Permanent Birth Control for Men” completes the title page that was most definitely crafted in Microsoft Word.

But why is he in a full suit? With a backpack? On a bicycle that is at least two decades old? I suppose he represents the new me, post-procedure. He’s happy, content with his life decisions. He enjoys exercising on outdated equipment, and likes a good challenge for his morning commute, even though he shows up to the investment firm a sweaty mess. He prioritizes safety and has never heard of bluetooth headphones. He checks in with his wife, surprised by his speedy recovery. “They didn’t even need a scalpel!” he notes. Modern medicine, indeed.

The remainder of the trifold brochure is far too graphic for this blog, despite the colorful illustrations and scientific nomenclature. However, I am not eased. In fact, I’m more scared than before I entered the clinic, now contemplating the weight of this moment. And while the internet (and the Mayo Clinic) tells me that almost all vasectomies can be reversed, I wouldn’t be thrilled to make a return trip to the office—or see the pamphlet for that surgery. Like sharpies, tattoos and Keith Richards, this seems very permanent. Despite what Michael Scott says.

I talk with the doctor for about six minutes, as he gives me the playbook for gameday. His flippant demeanor suggests he’s done about 10,000 of these before, but I’m still sweating bullets. I schedule some random day for the procedure in the next six weeks with the front desk, unwilling to admit the reality of the situation in my mind.

And so the clock is ticking. I’m not sure I’m ready. I don’t know if it’s the prospect of infertility or fear of the surgery itself, but it’s daunting. On the other hand, my wife had the concept of child birth hanging over her head for nine months three times, so I really don’t have solid ground to stand on. Either way, I am proud of myself for abstaining from painfully obvious jokes, puns and off-color commentary throughout this whole post. That’s something, I suppose.

With that, we’ll see what happens next. Perhaps you’ll be driving down the street in the next few weeks and just happen to come across a well-dressed grown man riding an antique two-wheeler, looking happy and quite a bit relieved.

Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be on that bike.