He had a vasectomy on Monday.
It’s true; there will be no more bulging bellies for me… no more first glances at a new baby… no more brand new fingers curling around mine… no more first smiles… no more sleep-deprived, hormonal, dazed first weeks… no more sore, cracked, bleeding nipples! No more tiny feet crammed up my ass in a bed that’s already too small! No more RESPs to open! No more baby equipment to bleed our already stretched funds into! WHOO HOO! NO MORE BIRTH CONTROL!
The procedure went well. We had every confidence in Chris’urologist, but I must admit that I got a bit of a pang as we walked into the hospital that I had given birth to Dove in for the sole purpose of ensuring that I would never be walking in there to give birth again. Of course, this whole process is full of bittersweet ironies and understandings, many of which have years left to play themselves out.
We went to register in the Urology ward, where a corkboard on the wall was plastered with dog and cat pictures. I turned to the receptionist. 'They're all neutered, right?' Waka waka. Without missing a beat she responded, 'Oh definitley, but we sure are glad to have a human to practice on.'
Oh, urology humour. Such an overlooked area of medical comedy in general.
There was little intake to go through, save for putting on the gowns, and Chris was taken in after only a short wait. I went and got a coffee and tried to flip through a magazine but I couldn’t really concentrate, and every time the automatic door slid open my head snapped up, looking for him. I didn’t realize that I was worried until he was away from me, and as the moments slipped by my adrenaline became elevated until, with a flush of relief, Chris appeared in the open doorway and waddled towards me.
He was a bit pale, and there was a stain on his gown, which, thankfully, was only iodine. Of course, my mind had already registered blood, and it was quickly trying to talk itself back to a less gory place.
I waited while Chris slowly got dressed, and then we made our way out of the ward. We literally live less than a block from the hospital, and Chris insisted that he could walk home, no need for me to get the car.
However, by time we made it to the sidewalk, there was some discomfort – mine.
I tried not to let my mind go there, but all of a sudden it was deep in medical procedure territory, and I guess knowing that Chris was ok allowed my ‘fight or flight’ instinct to switch from the the former to the latter. My heart started beating really quickly and my face flushed. Then came the black spots and before I knew it, I was down, splayed on the sidewalk trying to find centre in a world that was spinning.
‘K! Are you alright? Do you need me to go get the car?’
Awesome. My husband just voluntarily had his vas deferens severed, but I’m the one that passes out. If you want to accuse me of being a spotlight hog, now would be a good time.
Somehow we make it home, but once we got to our front porch I abandoned Chris for our couch, where I took refuge for a bit until the second bout of nausea passed. Chris managed to get himself settled, and it occurs to me that I am like the husband that passes out in the delivery room – and I would be pretty peeved at me right now.
I eventually get my shit together and spend the rest of the day doing penance for my initial faux pas (seriously, how tacky is it to pass out at your husband’s vasectomy), slathering Chris with pillows, ice, magazines and attention.
So, now I’m feeling good. Better than Chris, that’s for sure, who has cut his
Everyone has been calling and wishing Chris well; my BFF wished him a mazel tov on becoming a Jew (heh heh), and many people (well, mostly guys) have had the same question: when can Chris resume his husbandly duties?
Not to worry; he’ll be able to take out the trash as early as next week.
…and to answer the first question every Jewish mother asks: yes, yes, yes, but what did you eat? You can find out here.