V-day

“You can switch on the television if you like,” offered the tiny nurse.

“That’s ok, I have a book,” I replied, waving my e-reader in the air.

The floor was covered in dollops of water, melted snow I brought with me to my vasectomy appointment. Oh well, I thought, it will dry up.

When I woke up on Friday and noticed winter had returned to Toronto in full force, my immediate thought was if my scheduled scrotal surgery was still in the books. I thought maybe this much snow would allow the world renowned urologist to use this as an excuse to lean back in his burgundy leather chair and ponder his success while drumming his delicate fingers on his giant mahogany desk.  I fired an email and was quickly informed by same tiny nurse that the severing and tying off of my vas deferens was on schedule and reminded me not to take any aspirin as if that was part of my morning routine.

I was prepared for the intimacy of this surgery – shit my pubic region was completely waxed by an attractive young woman – having my testicles massaged and scrotum slit open by a middle aged man who smelled like bar soap and Timbits was not going to be a problem.  I also was well aware of the potential discomfort/pain that was involved. Feh, ice packs and downtime was something I was looking forward to, not dreading. I was also very much informed how this pain pales in comparison with anything any woman had to go through during labour and/or birth.  Never once did I compare these two events, but just in case I was thinking it, many different women offered their stories to ensure any similar thoughts quickly and shamefully escaped via my ear.

So forms filled, I was scanning my book in the waiting room, looking at the shape of the letters instead of absorbing what they meant.  Truth is the one feeling I did not expect was a sullen wave of despondence, of true and thick melancholy.  Steph and I discussed this decision at length, this was a choice for the both of us, not a demonstrative announcement made loudly over dinner just so I could finish somewhere more comfortable than the manic shoving and recoiling and wave interrupting that was happening currently in the bedroom. We agreed on the pragmatism of the snip, the ease of my surgery compared to any on her and the risky stupidity of our current birth control methods.  We felt blessed to have such happy, healthy boys and the introduction of a baby to their and our lives was irresponsible for space, money and time reasons.  It was too much sacrifice for all of us, so the appointment was made, snowstorms happened and I sat waiting for the door to the surgical room to be opened by tiny nurse, welcoming me to lie down on a table, welcoming me to sterility.

But alas, I sent this text anyway.  “In the waiting room.  Sorry for not giving you a girl.”

I was sad for that reason and because it was just another tent pole of time, another item crossed off the list.  Another acknowledgement that I am indeed 43 years old and it is highly unlikely that I will ever be at the crescendo of a Swedish House Mafia concert, my face being whipped by the sweaty salty ecstasy  hair of some random rave hippie, dancing wildly with me until I passed out. I was not 18 to 25 anymore.

I walked away gingerly, taking the subway home because the one thing the winter storm did prevent was Steph’s ability to pick me up at the clinic.  She was home though when I arrived, working in front of an afternoon fire, her smile warmer than the grocery store fire logs.  She asked if I was ok, acknowledging the text I sent her and I said I was sore, but fine.

We spent the afternoon together.  Her working, me watching sports highlights, ice pack firmly hugging the nuggets.

It was the right decision.  But it still hurt.