| General Non-Fiction posted March 11, 2012 | Chapters: |
...65 66 -67- 68... 
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An appointment with the doctor.
A chapter in the book Short
Getting Fixed
by Bill Schott
I cannot recall a day or an hour when I felt more ill at ease than during an appointment with our doctor concerning reproductive sterilization.
My wife was in the ninth month of her pregnancy, and the time had come to make decisions. Would we continue to repopulate the earth, or not? "No" was the unanimous vote. Now, how should we avoid it? Abstinence? Out of the question. Contraceptives? Too much trouble. Rhythm? Two kids proved we had rhythm; what we needed was a change of tune. Sterilization, it was decided, would be the means to the end.
Once we were in his office the doctor began by explaining the intricate and demanding operation involved with tubal ligation. He spoke of how tying off the Fallopian tube would keep the ovum from ever coming in contact and being fertilized by sperm. This course of action, however, was obviously not his first choice, and I perceived a slant in his explanations towards a vasectomy. What kind of man would I be to allow my wife to undergo the complicated cutting, with dubious success, of a tubal ligation, when a simple 'SNIP SNIP' on me would suffice.
His words were clinical, but his presentation formed a picture in my mind of a virtuous ovum wading out into the ocean and being ravished by lecherous sharks. Tubal ligation would be like barring sweet ovum from the beach. A vasectomy would act as a shark barrier; the tide comes in, but not the sharks.
As I recall, my wife seemed to move closer to the doctor as he explained the advantages of my undergoing a vasectomy. He would point out the procedure and she would nod and smile. Then they both turned to me waiting for my affirming nod. I felt as if a sales presentation was being made and I was the client. My wife would collect a finder's fee if the surgical sales agent could close the deal.
It had seemed normal to me for the doctor to stare at my wife's belly while visualizing and explaining the steps of a tubal ligation. I felt a bit self-conscious, however, when the topic and the staring were directed toward the operative area of the vasectomy. I crossed my legs and he looked at me as if I had blocked his field of view. I even looked down to see if I had.
The gist of the conversation was that there was no way of confirming the success of the tube tying other than not becoming pregnant. The tube would not be visible to the surgeon and complete blockage of the oviduct could not be guaranteed.
The vasectomy, as luck would have it, was immediately verifiable. The physician would have eye contact with the cords and by severing one would eliminate completely the possibility of sperm ever leaving home again.
Arguments for the vasectomy had become almost indisputable. The procedure itself was simpler, more reliable, and permanent. I was defeated, and insult was about to be added to injury.
It seems that even with the "bridge out" there would be sperm already across the span that could sneak in and make a mockery of medicine. Therefore, a most embarrassing procedure would have to be conducted. A sperm count would be necessary on consecutive post-operative occasions to purge my body of the final "hangers-on."
The doctor did not expound on the details, but I had a pretty good idea of how I would be producing the fluid to be scrutinized while in his office. My wife offered to help, but I figured I would have to handle it alone.
When the office visit ended, I made another appointment for a vasectomy. It would be set for a date after our child's birth. As the receptionist filled in the schedule sheet, I realized that she was assigning the date that my lineage would end.
Turning away I saw a couple sitting in the waiting room with their five children. The father bounced one boy happily on his knee while smiling at the pictures in a magazine that another pointed out. His wife was busy burping an infant and periodically pulling the thumb from a toddler's mouth. Still another wandered about introducing himself to everyone. My wife had noticed the family, too. She pecked me on the cheek, smiled, and returned to the receptionist's desk where she had the appointment changed -- to the next available slot.
I cannot recall a day or an hour when I felt more ill at ease than during an appointment with our doctor concerning reproductive sterilization.
My wife was in the ninth month of her pregnancy, and the time had come to make decisions. Would we continue to repopulate the earth, or not? "No" was the unanimous vote. Now, how should we avoid it? Abstinence? Out of the question. Contraceptives? Too much trouble. Rhythm? Two kids proved we had rhythm; what we needed was a change of tune. Sterilization, it was decided, would be the means to the end.
Once we were in his office the doctor began by explaining the intricate and demanding operation involved with tubal ligation. He spoke of how tying off the Fallopian tube would keep the ovum from ever coming in contact and being fertilized by sperm. This course of action, however, was obviously not his first choice, and I perceived a slant in his explanations towards a vasectomy. What kind of man would I be to allow my wife to undergo the complicated cutting, with dubious success, of a tubal ligation, when a simple 'SNIP SNIP' on me would suffice.
His words were clinical, but his presentation formed a picture in my mind of a virtuous ovum wading out into the ocean and being ravished by lecherous sharks. Tubal ligation would be like barring sweet ovum from the beach. A vasectomy would act as a shark barrier; the tide comes in, but not the sharks.
As I recall, my wife seemed to move closer to the doctor as he explained the advantages of my undergoing a vasectomy. He would point out the procedure and she would nod and smile. Then they both turned to me waiting for my affirming nod. I felt as if a sales presentation was being made and I was the client. My wife would collect a finder's fee if the surgical sales agent could close the deal.
It had seemed normal to me for the doctor to stare at my wife's belly while visualizing and explaining the steps of a tubal ligation. I felt a bit self-conscious, however, when the topic and the staring were directed toward the operative area of the vasectomy. I crossed my legs and he looked at me as if I had blocked his field of view. I even looked down to see if I had.
The gist of the conversation was that there was no way of confirming the success of the tube tying other than not becoming pregnant. The tube would not be visible to the surgeon and complete blockage of the oviduct could not be guaranteed.
The vasectomy, as luck would have it, was immediately verifiable. The physician would have eye contact with the cords and by severing one would eliminate completely the possibility of sperm ever leaving home again.
Arguments for the vasectomy had become almost indisputable. The procedure itself was simpler, more reliable, and permanent. I was defeated, and insult was about to be added to injury.
It seems that even with the "bridge out" there would be sperm already across the span that could sneak in and make a mockery of medicine. Therefore, a most embarrassing procedure would have to be conducted. A sperm count would be necessary on consecutive post-operative occasions to purge my body of the final "hangers-on."
The doctor did not expound on the details, but I had a pretty good idea of how I would be producing the fluid to be scrutinized while in his office. My wife offered to help, but I figured I would have to handle it alone.
When the office visit ended, I made another appointment for a vasectomy. It would be set for a date after our child's birth. As the receptionist filled in the schedule sheet, I realized that she was assigning the date that my lineage would end.
Turning away I saw a couple sitting in the waiting room with their five children. The father bounced one boy happily on his knee while smiling at the pictures in a magazine that another pointed out. His wife was busy burping an infant and periodically pulling the thumb from a toddler's mouth. Still another wandered about introducing himself to everyone. My wife had noticed the family, too. She pecked me on the cheek, smiled, and returned to the receptionist's desk where she had the appointment changed -- to the next available slot.
My wife was in the ninth month of her pregnancy, and the time had come to make decisions. Would we continue to repopulate the earth, or not? "No" was the unanimous vote. Now, how should we avoid it? Abstinence? Out of the question. Contraceptives? Too much trouble. Rhythm? Two kids proved we had rhythm; what we needed was a change of tune. Sterilization, it was decided, would be the means to the end.
Once we were in his office the doctor began by explaining the intricate and demanding operation involved with tubal ligation. He spoke of how tying off the Fallopian tube would keep the ovum from ever coming in contact and being fertilized by sperm. This course of action, however, was obviously not his first choice, and I perceived a slant in his explanations towards a vasectomy. What kind of man would I be to allow my wife to undergo the complicated cutting, with dubious success, of a tubal ligation, when a simple 'SNIP SNIP' on me would suffice.
His words were clinical, but his presentation formed a picture in my mind of a virtuous ovum wading out into the ocean and being ravished by lecherous sharks. Tubal ligation would be like barring sweet ovum from the beach. A vasectomy would act as a shark barrier; the tide comes in, but not the sharks.
As I recall, my wife seemed to move closer to the doctor as he explained the advantages of my undergoing a vasectomy. He would point out the procedure and she would nod and smile. Then they both turned to me waiting for my affirming nod. I felt as if a sales presentation was being made and I was the client. My wife would collect a finder's fee if the surgical sales agent could close the deal.
It had seemed normal to me for the doctor to stare at my wife's belly while visualizing and explaining the steps of a tubal ligation. I felt a bit self-conscious, however, when the topic and the staring were directed toward the operative area of the vasectomy. I crossed my legs and he looked at me as if I had blocked his field of view. I even looked down to see if I had.
The gist of the conversation was that there was no way of confirming the success of the tube tying other than not becoming pregnant. The tube would not be visible to the surgeon and complete blockage of the oviduct could not be guaranteed.
The vasectomy, as luck would have it, was immediately verifiable. The physician would have eye contact with the cords and by severing one would eliminate completely the possibility of sperm ever leaving home again.
Arguments for the vasectomy had become almost indisputable. The procedure itself was simpler, more reliable, and permanent. I was defeated, and insult was about to be added to injury.
It seems that even with the "bridge out" there would be sperm already across the span that could sneak in and make a mockery of medicine. Therefore, a most embarrassing procedure would have to be conducted. A sperm count would be necessary on consecutive post-operative occasions to purge my body of the final "hangers-on."
The doctor did not expound on the details, but I had a pretty good idea of how I would be producing the fluid to be scrutinized while in his office. My wife offered to help, but I figured I would have to handle it alone.
When the office visit ended, I made another appointment for a vasectomy. It would be set for a date after our child's birth. As the receptionist filled in the schedule sheet, I realized that she was assigning the date that my lineage would end.
Turning away I saw a couple sitting in the waiting room with their five children. The father bounced one boy happily on his knee while smiling at the pictures in a magazine that another pointed out. His wife was busy burping an infant and periodically pulling the thumb from a toddler's mouth. Still another wandered about introducing himself to everyone. My wife had noticed the family, too. She pecked me on the cheek, smiled, and returned to the receptionist's desk where she had the appointment changed -- to the next available slot.
 Recognized |
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This is based on personal experience.
Thank you CammyCards for the cool picture.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Thank you CammyCards for the cool picture.
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