I open the door for my wife to the urologist’s office. “Ladies first.”
Beth pokes me in the ribs. “And soon-to-be-not-so-manly men last.”
“Hey now,” I say, looking at my watch. “I can always walk right back out this door.”
My vasectomy is scheduled for 10:00 a.m., but this day began more than a year ago, back when Beth gave birth to the boys. The attending nurse came in and checked on her prior to the caesarian. The nurse was an exceedingly chatty woman with pendulous breasts who claimed to know Peyton Manning and who I remember as being named Jill. She talked Beth out of the tubal ligation. She said to her, “Don’t let the doctor feed you that ‘while I’m down there I might as well’ bullshit. If you want to be up and about tomorrow, tell them to kiss your ass. If you want to be bedridden for a week, get your tubes tied.” And then Nurse Jill looked at me and said, “He looks like a tough guy. I think one small snip is a fair trade for cutting open a six-inch gash in your abdomen…twice.”
They sewed Beth up, her tubes intact. The vasectomy issue remained unsettled, largely because the state of our marriage remained unsettled. After we got back together, it became a once-a-month dance with us:
“When are you going to make an appointment with the urologist?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“As soon as I’m comfortable with the idea of my nutsack getting sliced open.”
I was prepared to do the vasectomy two-step for as long as she let me get away with it, which turned out to be about six months. She backed me into a corner with one simple gesture: she went off the pill.
Marriage is the toughest job in the world. It requires patience, compromise, and the humility to acknowledge there are very few nonnegotiable items when it comes to the marital covenant. A couple of my nonnegotiables are: one, nothing interrupts the Notre Dame game on Saturdays; and two, my immutable right to make love to my wife without ever wearing a condom. Some would call that a very shallow outlook, but I’m too busy having mind-blowing, latex-free sex with my wife—who for purposes of this analogy is doing a reverse cowboy wearing nothing but a tight Notre Dame polo and plaid knee-highs—to give a shit.
Beth signs me in. The waiting room is unusually crowded—well, not so unusually, but I’ll get to that later—so we stand shoulder to shoulder against a wall.
“Nervous?” Beth says, turning to me.
“No,” I say, looking at my watch again.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?”
Beth nods at my watch. “We’re ten minutes early. Relax.”
“I’m kinda hoping we’ll get in and out.”
“Where you gotta be?”
“Nowhere,” I say. “Just want to get it done and get home.”
“And get on the couch with me waiting on you hand and foot?”
“Doctor’s orders.”
“Yeah, doctor’s orders,” Beth says. That’s when her eye catches a glimpse of ESPN Sportscenter on the waiting room television. “Wait a second.”
“What?” I say, fully aware I’m busted.
“Today is Thursday.”
“That’s right.”
“As in the first day of the college basketball tournament.”
“Really?” I say. “That’s a weird coincidence.”
“Is it?”
“Kind of funny how many guys are in here today, don’t you think?”
“Hank, please don’t tell me this is the reason you’ve procrastinated about this for six months.”
“Well, it’s not the only reason.”
“You son of a—”
“Oh come on now, Beth. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Four days and forty-eight games of basketball, during which time you’re actually under strict doctor’s orders to be at my beck and call. How could I not pass that up?”
There’s a knock at the door between the waiting room and the examination rooms, a door we happen to be standing in front of. We move away from the door.
“You ready, Hank?”
The nurse’s voice is casual, familiar even. Her jet-black hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, but the perfect Asian bone structure and the slightly mushy lilt on the end of her voice are dead giveaways. Well, that and the familiar D-cup Asian boobs staring back at me.
It’s Lang, my full-breasted, half-Vietnamese neighbor. She always wears shorts and never wears shoes. I make up excuses to go over to her house just to look at her tight calves and perfect bare feet.
And I really need to move to a bigger fucking town than Empire Ridge.
Beth doesn’t recognize Lang, partly because she looks distinctly different with her hair up, but mostly because Lang is part of that exclusive subset of pariahs in my insecure wife’s social circle known as The Perfectly Nice Women Who Will Never Be My Friends Just Because They’re Hotter Than Me Club. In a way, the club is a godsend, as it helps me behave, but it gets annoying when we’re vetting the invite list for vacations and couples weekends and “Does she look better than me in a swimsuit?” is Beth’s one nonnegotiable item. In recent years, it’s also really cut down on the quality of the traffic in our hot tub.
My wife kisses me on the cheek, still a little miffed, I think. “Bye-bye, balls,” she says, unapologetically, grabbing an open seat in the waiting room. I leave her to watch ESPN break down today’s basketball games with the eight other wives.
CONSENT FOR VASECTOMY
I, the undersigned, request that Empire Ridge Urology, Inc., perform a vasectomy on me. It has been explained to me that this operation is intended to result in permanent sterility, which means that I would not be capable of fathering a child.
I agree to the administration of local anesthetic (medicine to numb the area of the surgery) or other medications before, during, or after the procedure.
I understand that vasectomy is not immediately effective and that I must use another method of birth control until a semen test proves that my vasectomy was successful.
I recognize that, as with any operation, there are risks, both known and unknown, associated with vasectomy, and that no guarantee has been given to me as to the results of this operation. Possible complications include, but are not limited to, the following:
a) Inflammatory reaction in the epididymis or vas deferens (5%)
b) Excessive bleeding into the scrotum (hematoma)
c) Painful nodule or scar (sperm granuloma, neuroma)
d) Infection
e) Allergy or adverse reaction to an anesthetic or medication
f) Emotional reactions that could interfere with normal sexual function
g) Impaired blood flow resulting in loss of a testicle
h) Failure to achieve or to maintain sterility
I understand and accept that these or other conditions may necessitate further treatment, tests, another operation, procedure, and/or hospitalization, at my own expense. I request and authorize Empire Ridge Urology, Inc., to perform such treatment or procedures as required.
I have read and understand the contents of the Informational Booklet, including the alternative forms of birth control for both men and women. I understand and will abide by the instructions for care after vasectomy, and I have received a written copy.
I hand Lang my signed consent form.
“Excessive bleeding into the scrotum? Loss of a testicle? That’s comforting.”
She tries not to laugh. “Those are extreme worst-case scenarios, Hank.”
I’m trying to make small talk, given that I’m pants-less and Lang has just dropped to her knees and is about to grab my balls. It’s all I can do to not get an erection, but the mental image of my scrotum bleeding excessively helps.
“This should only take a second,” Lang says. She grabs the can of Barbasol off the counter with her right hand. She squirts a dollop of shaving cream in her left palm. She gently massages my scrotum with the shaving cream.
Memo to any guys considering a vasectomy: make sure your urologist has a hot nurse, and shave poorly.
“Soooo…” I say, “is Lang a family name or something?”
Her face only inches from my junk, Lang shaves with a deft touch. “It’s a Vietnamese name.”
“Meaning what?”
“It’s a little embarrassing.”
I look at my balls and then at Lang. I arch my eyebrows. “Uh, you are worried about being embarrassed?”
“Good point,” Lang says. She rubs my bare balls with a wet, warm towel. “All done.”
“So I can go?”
“Don’t you wish.”
There’s a knock at the door. The door to the exam room opens. A big black man in a small white coat enters. His nametag says, almost unbelievably, Dr. Balzac.
The doctor nods at us both. “Nurse Lang, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“Good morning, Doctor,” we chime in unison.
“Let’s get to it, shall we?” He reaches his open hand out to Lang. Lang hands him a syringe. He points the syringe at my balls. “You take a Valium before you got in here?”
I nod. “Two of them.”
“Oh boy,” Lang comments.
“This is the lidocaine,” the doctor says in a monotone voice. “Just some local anesthesia to numb the skin and vas deferens. You’re going to feel a tiny prick.”
“That’s what she said,” I say.
Lang laughs. The doctor doesn’t.
“Fuck me!”
“Sorry about that, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Did I get you?”
“That was more than a little prick,” I say. Suddenly, I feel short of breath. My chest is tight. I’m sweating.
Lang notices immediately. “Hank, what is it?”
My eyes are open wide. The room is shrinking. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“Nonsense,” the doctor says nonchalantly. “Probably nicked a blood vessel. You’re just getting a small dose of adrenaline in your heart right now.”
“In other words, a mini-fucking heart attack?” I say.
Impassive, the doctor nods. “It’ll pass.”
“Please…” I say, grabbing Lang’s hand. “Just talk to me.”
“Sweet potato,” Lang says.
“What?”
“Lang is Vietnamese for sweet potato.”
I nod. “Keep talking.”
Lang wipes my forehead with a towel—a fresh one, not the one that was wrapped around my bag five minutes ago. “My mother’s parents were sweet potato farmers just outside of Saigon. My father was a US Marine. He was married to my mother in the US Embassy the day Saigon fell.”
“Wow, that’s kind of awesome.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“I’m feeling better now, save for the fact the ceiling looks like it’s made of Jell-O.”
“That’s the Valium kicking in.”
“Cool,” I say.
And then it hits me: the urge to sing.
“They’re called Bui-Doi…”
Lang shakes her head. “Here we go.”
“The dust of life! Conceived in hell! And born in strife!”
“Nurse Lang?” Dr. Balzac says.
“They are the living reminder of all the good we failed to do…”
“Sorry about this, Doctor,” Lang says. “Hank is on a little bit of a Valium bender right now. Apparently my Vietnam story has him singing the big emotional anthem from Miss Saigon, the one about the lost generation of Vietnamese children conceived from Vietnamese women and US soldiers during the war.”
“We can’t forget, must not forget that they are all our children, too!”
I think the doctor actually smiles this time, although to be honest the whole world looks like it’s smiling at the moment. “Well…” he says, “that’s different.”
Lang wheels me out of the exam room in a wheelchair. Beth is standing there waiting for me near the exit door.
“How did it go, honey?”
I throw a thumb over my shoulder. “I got my balls shaved by this sweet potato!”
Beth puts her finger to her pursed lips. “Shhhhhh…”
“What?!”
“You’re screaming, Hank.”
“My urologist’s name was Doctor Ballsack! Can you fucking believe that?”
Beth looks at Lang. “Is he going to be like this all day?”
“Ballsack!”
Lang shakes her head. “He’s been hallucinating a bit from the anesthetic. It should wear off soon.”
“Thanks, Miss…”
“You can call me Lang, Beth.”
“Have we met?” my wife says. “You look familiar.”
“Just in passing,” Lang says. “I’m your neighbor.”
“Get out of here.”
“No, really.”
“Ballsack!”
“I can’t imagine why we haven’t crossed paths yet.” Beth laughs without a trace of earnestness in her voice.
“Oh, oh, oh, I know,” I say, sticking my hand in the air like Arnold Horshack from Welcome Back, Kotter. “It’s because you’re too insecure to have friends who are hotter than you.”
An uncomfortable, almost standoffish silence hangs in the air between Beth and Lang. If I could feel my tongue, I’d probably try to articulate some sort of mediation. What the hell, I’ll give it a try:
“They’re called Bui-Doi! The dust of life! Conceived in hell! Born in strife!”
“Uh…” Beth says. “What’s going on?”
Lang smiles. “I find it’s best to just let him finish.”
“We owe them fathers and a family, a loving home they never knew. Because we know, deep in our hearts, that they are all our children, too!”