by Ethan Johnson
February 17, 2007

The deed is done. Yesterday, I underwent the no-scalpel vasectomy procedure, which means, simply, that if my brother and his wife don't procreate, the name of Johnson shall perish. No pressure or anything. As I lounge through the recovery phase of the procedure, I thought I'd share my experience for the benefit of any men out there who are considering and/or dreading it.

Note: The following concerns my personal experience, and is in no way a substitute for qualified, expert medical advice.

My main criteria for which doctor to go to was that he/she attended either a) Baylor Medical School, or b) a Big Ten school. I lucked out and found one that attended both (he is a Michigan grad). I wore my Michigan State shirt to the consult to be provocative, and he appreciated the Michigan connection that we shared, coupled with a dislike of Ohio State. (Don't get me wrong - I am objectively pro-Big Ten, but if we're going to split hairs about intra-divisional rivalries, OSU comes up short.) I was interested to learn that this doctor performed "no scalpel" vasectomies. I think the majority of horror stories stem from the scalpel procedure.

Women may roll their eyes in disgust at all of this, but the fact is, (most) men are conditioned from a young age that their "junk" is pretty much sacred. I'm not sure how this translates on a 1:1 basis for women, but if I had to hazard a guess I would say bust size would be comparable (do I have any, how big are they, are they too big, etc). I found myself having psychological issues with this procedure on the front end, despite having entered into it voluntarily. Would the procedure work as advertised? Would there be "just" discomfort? Would anything go wrong? If so, what? The various (and I daresay unfounded, or the result of the scalpel version) horror stories that I'd read here and there didn't help. Many were little more than hearsay, and designed to reinforce the notion of "don't wreck your junk."

After the consult, I had to get my mind right and prepare for the procedure. I put in two straight weeks on the treadmill, including a session the day of the procedure, partly to offset the mandatory down time that I'd be lounging through afterwards.

Sitting in the waiting room was a trip. Someone tuned the radio to a really far out classic rock station, which had a knack for digging really deep in the well for their material. Nothing like following ZZ Top with "See Emily Play" by Pink Floyd. I felt like I was waiting in line for a hotly anticipated movie, and seeing the faces of the crowd as they filed out of the previous showing. Someone had a vasectomy mere moments before I did, and he slowly ambled out of the office area amid much scrutiny. He seemed OK, just really slow in his movements.

When my turn arrived, I had to wait in the exam room for a few more minutes to silently contemplate more classic rock wafting down from the ceiling. In short order, the doctor arrived and got to work.

I laid flat on my back, and stared intently at the ceiling. I really had no interest in watching the procedure, and I figured if I could focus on other things I could minimize my discomfort. For me personally, the procedure wasn't painful in the least. I felt some pressure and tugging here and there, but nothing that sent me through the ceiling.

My doctor was very chatty, and was really grooving to the radio station. He wondered aloud who set the station, and remarked that the uptempo music a) reminded him of his college days, and b) made him work faster. I thought that maybe toe-tapping music wasn't the right call when the patient is expected to lie still.

As an aside, my mother refers to a block of 5 minutes as a "Whitney Houston." This is usually said in the context of a doctor visit, and more to the point, some procedure the doctor is performing. So if she has to wait 15 minutes for some eye drops to take effect, that's "three Whitney Houstons." My old dentist used to whistle to "lite rock" while he worked, so this might be where this originated. The vasectomy procedure (end to end) lasted 6 Whitney Houstons. Or is that Fleetwood Macs?

One surreal moment came when my doctor, mid-procedure, decided to talk politics. Who did I like for President? He didn't like Hillary or McCain. He identified as a social liberal and a fiscal conservative. I laid there wondering why such a potentially confrontational topic was being raised over a procedure that I preferred warranted his full attention. Fluffy small talk was OK, but politics? Why don't we deconstruct the Bible while I'm here? As he got into the subject he looked at my face more often than whatever his hands were tasked with. Ack! I managed to change the subject to DSL. And HDTV. And favorite TV shows.

After the procedure, I was left with a clotted incision no longer than 1/2 inch. By the end of the day, I was able to "just" use a band-aid as opposed to more awkward gauze. The post-procedure instructions said that I should ice the spot down "off and on", and I never got around to doing that. I really haven't had any swelling other than a slight bump on the incision site. I just have an occasional prickly sensation like a paper cut.

I can't use the treadmill for five days, and I'm supposed to stay off my feet as much as possible for 48 hours. Mar took this to mean that I'm not allowed to do anything. My doctor suggested that I use a hand bell to summon her for every stinking thing and I'd find myself becoming more self-sufficient. I didn't go that route, but I'm walking slower and avoiding lifting things. After my progress with the treadmill, I am worried that I might get all marshmallowy from this down time. Fortunately it's just for a few days.

When I ambled out of the office, another man was waiting, who gave me a knowing nod. I assume that he was next in line. He watched my every move with great interest. I tried to be as outwardly assuring as possible without directly addressing him. For me, this really wasn't that big a deal. At least, not once the procedure got underway.

If my advice has any sway to those who are considering this, I'd say first and foremost choose your doctor wisely. Also, choose the office wisely. My doctor's staff was amazing (and I passed along the doctor's kudos for selecting a rockin' radio station), to the point that I am planning on sending the admitting nurse flowers. Matters of one's "junk" are grave indeed, and a competent, professional staff goes a long way towards allaying any fears and concerns. If at all possible, go the no-scalpel route. And despite whatever inclinations you may have, force yourself to stay off your feet and not lift anything over 15 pounds.

When the man ahead of me returned to his wife after the procedure, I looked at his wife's face and saw a blend of love, admiration, and awe. She helped him with his coat, and he insisted on holding the door for her even though he technically shouldn't have, as the door was heavy. When my turn came and went, I saw the same blend of emotions swirl around on Marlena's face. She helped me with my coat. She held the door as we slowly made our way to the elevator. <EM>