Mar 15, 2021

 

 

 

It’s March Madness, so you know what that means. Yup, you guessed it, thousands of men holding frozen peas on their precious family jewels while loafing on the sofa.  I never knew there was a correlation between the NCAA and the act of getting one’s sac rewired, until a friend told me it’s the thing to do this time of year.  Studies reveal that vasectomies go up by 30% during these cherished days of television glory. 

Now women, let me just tell you that these men are gonna milk it for all they can, especially during basketball games. His inability to get anything on his own will lead you to wonder if they accidentally removed a testis. No need to check; I assure you they did no such thing. 

My hubby will readily confess that the recovery was minimal. Rather, it was the prep for the procedure that has left a lasting impression in his mind. 

I’ll give you a little peek into how this is gonna go down. 

There he’ll be, butt-ass naked from the waist down with only a baby-blue, paper robe covering his chest. A nurse will knock on the door, greeting him with a smile along with a bowl of warm water and three fluffy, white washcloths. She’ll introduce herself and politely ask if she may prep him for the procedure. He’ll try to make small talk with her as she gently, though exceptionally thoroughly, washes his ball-sack. 

What does one think to himself during a moment like this?  Well, here are just a few thoughts that are likely to run through his head:

“Strange, my wife actually begged me to come here.”

“Should I offer to wash them myself?”

“Should I have shaved?”

“Shouldn’t a male nurse be doing this? No….scratch that, bad idea.”

“Oh God, now is not the time to stand at attention.”

“Where’s the camera? Am I getting pranked?”

“Should I really be awake during this?”

“Our washcloths aren’t this soft. Why doesn’t my wife use dryer sheets like my mom did? Those earth-friendly dryer balls don’t do shit.”

“I should have done this years ago. That last kid is turning out to be a real asshole.”

The doc will then enter the room and find your hubby wide-eyed with a guilty yet confused look on his face. They will begin the procedure, and the whole thing will be completed in just under 20 mins. There is no need for a scalpel or stitches, only a minuscule hole where a needle was inserted.  

Men worldwide will be milking this time for all it’s worth, as their wives attend to their husbands’ every wish and emotional fragility while also chasing around his offspring. 

Need more chips?

       “On my way, Honey. Do you want BBQ flavored or Dorritos?”

Forgot the bowl for the pistachio shells?

        “I’m grabbing one, Honey.”

Need another beer?

        “Do you want Heineken or Lagunitas, Sweetie?”

Or, maybe it’s emotional support he needs.

          “Just give me a sec. I gotta put the baby down, then I’ll come hold you, Babe”.

Friends, thousands of hard-working women will be pulling double-time over the next week. Sadly, many will be tempted to remind their husband that they were vacuuming the house a mere 48 hours after pushing a screaming football out their ping-pong-sized vagina. She will want to explain that she nearly fainted from the white-knuckle pain of breastfeeding a newborn on her swollen, chapped nipples, all while enduring involuntary uterine contractions as her body worked feverishly to return her uterus to its original size.  (Excuse me, but why the damn rush? Nobody else needs in there anytime soon. )

Sadly, we will have some fallen sisters who will be unable to bite their tongue.  Oh my, how they will regret it, as this will only encourage their men to prove that their torturous agony is real (albeit in their minds). Unfortunately, these poor women will have unknowingly doubled their husbands’ recovery time, which will now extend to Easter Sunday. 

All this vasectomy talk reminds me of a great story when Kaveh and I first discussed him getting snipped.  Wanna hear the story?  Sure, ya do.

It was August of 2019, and a familiar melancholy had been snuggling up with me over the previous weeks. I chalked it up to some hormonal imbalances caused by my birth control along with seasonal affectiveness disorder.  Yes, it’s a real thing.

Many of us desert rats are affected by the extreme heat of Arizona’s grueling summers.  For months at a time, we must seek refuge in our air conditioned homes, away from the scorching sun, having little to no contact with nature.  Not even our pools bring a reprieve as they reach hot tub-like temperatures.  This is a recipe for institutionalization for a solar-powered woman like myself.  I yearn to walk barefoot in the grass, sway in the wind in my hammock and dig my hands in the rich soil of my vegetable garden.  Sure these can all be done in the summer so long as they are done before the sun rises. 

We were reaching temperatures over 100 degrees for three months straight, and the kids had been home from school for ten weeks.  Kaveh had just been appointed the Director of Trauma Surgery.  He was running on empty and rarely ever home to help with the kids or provide me a source of entertainment.

Most of our friends get the hell out of Dodge once July hits, but there was no skipping town with Kaveh’s work schedule. We were forced to bear through the unrelenting heat. The limited adult exposure was placing me on the brink of becoming a woman whose face was on a missing persons’ flyer.  It was a game of tug-of-war for my sanity, and I was slipping in the mud as I attempted to keep myself and two kids happily entertained indoors from 7 am to 9 pm.

Late one night, I crawled into bed with Kaveh and decided it was time to let him know that I couldn’t seem to shake the melancholy that had been creeping over me. This was exceptionally difficult for me to confess, as there were one thousand reasons to feel grateful.  Acknowledging my depression made me feel weak and even incapable at times, as the heat often affected my ability to think clearly. 

He was intently scrolling on his phone as I cuddled up close to him, resting my head on his arm and wrapping my legs over his legs. 

“Kaveh, I’ve been feeling sad lately, and there isn’t exactly a logical reason for it. I feel stupid telling you, but I just don’t have the energy to do anything, nor do I want to do anything,” I say in a soft voice.

“Hmm, your doc said the birth control is messing with your hormones. Do you think you need to switch your birth control?” he asked while still looking at his phone. That night he was busy searching for a tuxedo for an upcoming event and was still deciding between renting one or buying one.

I nodded and replied, “I hate to risk having even bigger problems with the next birth control.”

He looked up briefly and said, “Maybe it’s time I consider a vasectomy?”

What? That’s not where I thought this conversation was headed. I was shooting for a hug. A bonus to the hug would be a day off or even just a nap pass. That’s all any mom of toddlers truly yearns for, an undisturbed, guilt-free nap pass. Can I get an AMEN?

But alas, he brought up the vasectomy topic.  The window of opportunity had been opened (you will soon find that hilarious), and I would be a fool if I didn’t seize the moment.

He continued saying, “Maybe I should just do it. I’ve been thinking about it for a while”.

“Ya, we could think about that. It’s probably a good idea,” I said, trying not to sound too eager.

“But it’s gonna be expensive,” he said with hesitation in his voice.

“Oh no, I’m losing him,” I thought to myself. I quickly interjected, “Ya, but eventually, you gotta get it, and really what are we waiting for?”

“You’re right, Babe. What size do you think I need?” he asked.

“Hun, this doesn’t affect your size. Besides, if it did, why wouldn’t you just pick large? I mean, duh”, I replied with a chuckle.

Finally, he turns away from his phone; with that look on his face he gives me when I have said something idiotic (I know this look well). “What in the hell are you talking about?” he said.

“I’m talking about you getting a vasectomy. What in the hell are you talking about?” I replied, confused and annoyed by his annoyance with me. 

“I’m talking about buying a tuxedo instead of just renting one.  I think every grown man should own a tuxedo,” he said with a sense of pride in his voice.

And this, my friend, is how miscommunications happen between two people who are carrying on entirely different conversations.

It gets even funnier. I’m telling my friend this story; she laughs until she snorts, then suddenly stops and turns to me with a dead-serious look in her eyes.

“Shea, we gotta be careful when trying to communicate with our loved ones. Misunderstandings like this are how I ended up with a finger up my butt! No, really, while in the heat of the moment, I realized the bedroom window was wide open for my holier-than-thou neighbor to hear it all.  I whispered to my husband, “the window is open.” He took this as his invitation to do what he’d been wanting to do, and wham bam, I had a finger up my arse. Boy, I won’t make that mistake again. I am now explicitly clear with my communication in bed.” 

“What’s the moral of the story?” you wonder.   Oh, there are so many nuggets of wisdom here.

#1: Brutal temperatures, hot or cold, are hard on us.  So, check-in with your friends. 

#2: Please don’t attempt to carry on a conversation with somebody who won’t bother to look up from their phone.

#3: If you know somebody recovering from a vasectomy this basketball season, be a doll and drop off a bottle of wine to his wife.  

#4: Close the bedroom window before making love.

And with that, I will close this chapter.

Just looking out for you,

Shea

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