Dec 18, 2012
I’ve just left the offices of the venerable Dr Snip, holding Maki in one arm and a bag of post vasectomy information in the other, with Tyson running ahead of me along the footpath and I feel two things in particular – a semi-revulsion at how my vas deferens looked poking from the puncture wound in my otherwise aesthetically pleasing scrotum, and a vague sense of relief.
A False Sense Of Finality
I’m congratulating myself on my bravery to not only be surgically violated in my most private area, but to also interview the Dr and his assistant as it was happening, when Tyson trips over and screams his way to face-plant the pavement.
It’s when I yell Tys! that I first become semi-aware of a dull ache in my groin. But I only appreciate the intensity of it when Tyson – a wailing semi-formed human hell bent on returning to the safety of his most constant protector – charges me with arms out wide to perform his second face-plant in a minute; this time dead centre on my genitals. My upper body almost folds over on him like a mouse-trap.
I drop the bag but thankfully not Maki and it’s as I’m rubbing Tyson’s head and blinking the shock-tears from my eyes that I manage to find a positive – at least it’s over. The months of trepidation, the dozen tactics of avoidance, the constant harassment by my Mother-In-Law and her ‘know-it-all’ aqua-aerobics club…. over.
I just have to take a semen sample to Gribbles to make sure I am void of swimmers and sexual utopia awaits, for me and Reservoir Mum!
As I’m driving back, with the boys in the car, listening to some cool tunes, my legs spread from drivers side door to centre console, I look at myself in the rear vision mirror and imagine Reservoir Mum and I having wanton and risk-free sex several times a day for the rest of our lives – like fluffy white bunnies covered in sawdust inside a display tank at the local pet-shop. I am overwhelmed by a sense of finality.
I glance over my shoulder at a now smiling Tyson and a wide-eyed Maki, and in an emotion-choked whisper say, ‘It’s over boys. The vasectomy is over.’
Tomorrow: The Vasectomy Diaries – Entry 8
17 April 2013 (Four Months After The Sense Of Finality…)
After several nights of child-interrupted sleep – exacerbated by the fact that I’m writing well into the early hours of the morning – I’m preparing Archie and Lewis’s lunches for school in a t-shirt and underwear, following my carefully formulated and trialed Stay-The-Fuck-Awake Plan of having a coffee every three and a half minutes, when Reservoir Mum comes into the kitchen, ready for work and wearing an eye-catching pair of black slacks….