Many years ago, I made the decision to make an appointment with the urologist to exclude the possibility of future fatherhood. In the years before, I had received four children in the span of five years. First one, then another one, and then two at once. I was afraid that multiplication had turned into exponentation. My wife had gone through some medical challenges during that time, so it was time for me to take the plunge: vasectomy!
During my first visit to the urologist, I received extensive explanations using maps and blueprints about the procedure and the preparations I had to make, such as removing the hair.
On the day of the, in my opinion, minor procedure, I decided to go to the hospital alone. I didn’t need any company; it would be a piece of cake (which turned out to be literally true after the procedure). My doctor brother gave me some encouraging words before I left. When I asked him if the pain could be compared to falling off a bike saddle, he answered, “Yes, but from the eighth floor!” Armed with this encouraging information, I set off.
In the waiting room, I was welcomed by an extremely friendly nun who asked me to follow her. – By the way, you didn’t need to show identification back then. She might have taken the wrong person -. We arrived in a spacious room with only a screen and a stretcher, very sterile, which I hoped I am to be afterwards as well. I couldn’t help but think, “Is this where it’s supposed to happen?”
The nun asked me to undress, except for my socks. Feeling a bit shy, I looked around and focused my gaze on the double door where I expected the urologist to appear with his bag of tools. No, the plan was different. The nun asked me to follow her. We walked through a corridor, me as smooth as a glacier from my chest to well below my waist, trailing behind the nun in habit. The sound of her rosary clicking filled the air. The journey took us past some sort of medical administration and finally led us to a treatment room.
The urologist greeted me with great enthusiasm, as if I were going to finance his vacation, and asked me if I knew exactly what was going to happen. That scared me a bit, and I replied that I thought it was more important that he knew, and that he wouldn’t be cutting my tonsils! I took a seat on the treatment table, and the urologist glanced at my bald underbelly as if he were at the poultry shop and said, “I’m going to give you a few numbing injections now.” Sister Aldegonda added, “And I will lift up whatever hangs in the way and stick a few plasters underneath.” I mentioned that I was highly allergic to plasters because when they were later removed, there wouldn’t be much skin left. The nurse kindly replied, “Then I’ll hold it during the procedure and keep it away from the scalpel.” That didn’t make me very happy!
The doctor thought the anesthesia had done its job by now and took a knife and a pair of scissors in his hands, creating a sound as if he were cutting through the New York phone book! “Ouch!” I cried out and kicked my legs up in pain. I had forgotten to mention that I don’t respond immediately to anesthesia. The doctor was so startled by my antics that the tip of the knife had found its way to a location not indicated on the drawing. It quickly became numb. With gathered courage, the three of us continued. In the background, comforting music played, Mozart’s ‘Magic Flute’. The magic flute would no longer apply to me in the near future.
In between, the doctor provided some technical information about how much he would remove from the ducts to ensure that they couldn’t reconnect. It was a strange sight: the urologist working like a plumber, I writhing in pain, and the venerable nun standing by the table, fulfilling her role as a drum major! After three quarters of an hour, the reduction was completed.
Fortunately, there was little traffic on the way back. Stumbling and groaning, I walked up my garden path and then entered the house. And then there was my wife, just finishing a phone call, asking you, “It went well?” Before I could answer this well-thought-out question, I collapsed onto the couch and fell half into a coma. I now saw everything as bagpipes!
On that day my sister celebrated her fifteenth birtday, and Ididn’t want to disappoint her by not visiting. Walking was already very difficult, let alone sitting. I didn’t want to confront my deeply religious parents with the fact that further grandparenthood from my side was no longer possible. So, I kept my spirits up and pretended I had just been to the hairdresser’s. When I carefully lowered myself onto a chair, I heard my sister coming downstairs, excitedly approaching me and plopping onto my lap. I really had three Adam’s apples!
The following period was very difficult and painful. Three weeks after the procedure, due to the pain, I visited my general practitioner. After observing the situation in astonishment for a while, he covered his mouth with his hand and stared in utter bewilderment. He muttered, “It’s as if you got caught between a train switch!” I was bruised from my belly to my knees.. After a few weeks, I had to bring a filled bottle to the hospital to see if there were still cells in the production that could cause reproduction. The agreement was that the tenth session had to be delivered to an assistant of the urologist, an older nun.
When I entered the room with the bottle, she was standing by the window with her back turned to me and didn’t bother to turn around. “What are you here for?” she asked sternly. “I’m here to deliver some production for testing,” I said. “Is this the tenth time?” she asked firmly. I replied that it was my first time here! “That’s not what I meant,” she grumbled, “but go ahead and do it on my desk!” I heard her say from behind her back. I asked, “Should I empty the jar on your desk?” She turned around angrily and said, “No, of course not, are you crazy!” Strange thought, such a ’tenth time’ will probably remain a dream for her…
Indeed, a piece of cake! Shortly thereafter, the last nuns bid farewell to the hospital. They probably couldn’t handle the modern times anymore.