Thursday, March 19, 2015
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
The Vasectomy Heard 'Round The World
Remember that time I was pregnant for a total of 20 months and had my stomach cut open twice to have two little ladies yanked out of me?
Not doing that again.
So there it is, Kevin and I have decided to stop at 2 beautiful, wonderful, messy, rambunctious, lovely girls. There are so many reasons why a couple might decide this, some they talk about and some they don't, but just know, we are very happy with what we have chosen. Very content. Very sure. Except for the 10 days we weren't.*
*more on that later.
From the title, you have probably figured out that my husband, "Kevin", has had a vasectomy. (I have changed my husband's name to a name that is easy to spell/remember/pronounce, that may or may not be his real name, to protect his identity. Please don't ask me to reveal his name to you, it is inappropriate and I don't appreciate that. Also, his privacy means everything to me.)
Kevin decided on his own that he wanted this done. How do I know this? Well, one night while lying in bed, I hear a small voice from the dark say, "I will get a vasectomy if you want me to." Will you now? "Ok", I say. And then I follow that up with, "HAVE YOU BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS LONG? WHEN DID YOU DECIDE THIS? WHY WOULD YOU TELL ME THIS HALF ASLEEP!?" He then gently propped himself up on his pillow. He had some explaining to do and, from his wife's tone, this was probably gonna take a while. We talked it over and, really, it made perfect sense. Now, I was only aggravated that I hadn't thought of it first, though I think that a wife approaching her husband with, "Let's cut into your balls" is probably grounds for divorce. He saved me on that one. Kevin-1, Leah-0.
Now that it was out there and the gears were set in motion, he ran with it. He ran faster than any guy I've seen run pantsless toward a man with a scalpel. That's my guy: enthusiastic to the bitter end. (More on him losing his enthusiasm later). He made the consultation appointment on his own. Men shouldn't be left to their own devices to do certain things, and I guess this was one of them. He looked forever at a list of doctor's, called some offices, didn't approve of some, and then finally landed on the doctor that would sterilize him for good. And his name was doctor Killstein.
He chose a doctor with the word kill in his name and didn't bat a lash.
I stayed on birth control until I just couldn't anymore. I never noticed any side effects when I was on it from age 16-26, but now all of a sudden, I couldn't deal. Huge mood swings. Crying. Eating everything in sight. But what is a fertile girl who just doesn't have it in her to be pregnant again do?! Sure, there's things to protect from that but, who are we kidding? Do you remortgage your house to pay for the next 15 years of protection and just wait with bated breath for menopause? I had suffered through months of not being myself, and what prompted Kevin to even think the V-word was that I was unhappy. Which made him unhappy. Jesus, it made him wanna cut his manhood--we must have been unhappy indeed. I quit the stuff and he met the doctor and made his final appointment and then, there it was. It was happening.
Oh, shit, it was happening.
Let's talk about 20 days prior. We are good, we are ready to not have anymore kids. We talk it to death and we know this is right. I'm not sure what goes on in a guy's uterus, but in mine, there was sadness. Not sadness like, "I want another kid", but more like "I'm knowingly giving up the ability to bear another adorable, sweet, smushy little baby. Even though I don't want another adorable, sweet, smushy baby, I like having the option. But I don't, cause then I'm crazy on birth control. But, WHAT ABOUT THE NO BABIES". This is the madness that mostly I, but also a little of Kevin, had to live with. The Void, I called it. (I'm not coining this because I think I read it somewhere and it's awesome and I would never wanna steal someone elses's awesome). So I'm ok, I'm still good with no more kids. I'm old, I hated being pregnant the second time, I'm still battling weight, and my god when will I ever get my sanity back. Yes, two is good.
Right?
I think by now you can see that this was not an easy decision to commit to. It was easy to make, but not exactly to commit to. Trust me, there's a difference. 10 days out was messy. There was some liquor involved, a big football game (that clearly only affected one of us in such a way) and doubt. This type of doubt is the kind that can only be fueled by lots of red wine and jumping up and down at the TV during a touchdown (again, only one of us was doing that, but emotions were high all around). This leads us to realize we have T-minus 10 days til Vasectomy, prompting fear. Which immediately leads us to 10 days of random, unprotected sex that I will talk no further about. I know how many times we "rolled the dice" but I am a lady, in some circumstances. Welcome to that circumstance.
Fast forward to the day of. We are not thinking about the partially irresponsible things we did the 10 days preceeding, we are now just thinking of the V itself. There's some "prep work" to a vasectomy that I'd rather not discuss, but if anyone must know, you can private message me. (I can answer you in 6 words or less.) The procedure goes as follows (translated into my own words from the handout Kevin was given by the doctor at consultation): drop your husband off, wait 30 minutes beginning to end, pick your husband back up. That is what is expected to happen, however, expect the unexpected.
I dropped Kevin off in front of the office 5 minutes early, just like I would have if it were his first day of Kindergarten. As he was getting out I said, "I will go kill time lightly grocery shopping. Call me when you're done", as I would be 10 minutes away. He turned and flashed a nervous smile, not because of the impending procedure apparently because he said, "I forgot my phone". Of course he did. He probably would have left his penis at home, too, if it wasn't attached. So now I must gauge how much time this will actually take vs what we were told. Doctor's offices don't exactly excel at getting people in and out on time, as I'm aware. So I go and say, "I'll be back."
Much like the Terminator, there were also veins pulsing in my forehead.
I go to the store, rush through as much as one can with two children, and return about 30 minutes later. Now that there is no phone, I've had to guess when to come back. This means I can sit in the car watching the door for an indefinite amount of time listening to Thing 1 and Thing 2 argue in the backseat, in the dead of winter, or I can take the aforementioned children into the Urologist.
I love my life.
We get out and there is a slew of questions from Ren about "where are we and where is daddy and why are we here and is he ok and why is he at the doctor is he sick yeah then what hurts on him and can we eat and when are we leaving and can I play more when I get home and why are we here..." This, all before entering the office.
I get there and "check in", which is funny at a urologist's office for a girl. The female receptionist and I have a giggle. She knows just who I am here for, though, before I open my mouth because he is the last appointment of the day. Last snip. Last hurrah. Totally fitting for Killstein. She tells me I am right on time, to which I want to reply, "Oh, I'm an expert at this. Done it so many times", looking like a crazy black widow who sterilizes all her men. I thought the giggle we shared already was enough, though, so I just said, "Ok" and proceeded to sit. I heard Kevin, on the other side of the glass, doing some last checkout things. I was pleased with my timing as much as the receptionist.
Now Kevin, he didn't really give a shit, did he? He had to go and turn white and get tunnel vision and nearly pass out on the floor. I knew of none of this while it was happening because they whisked him back to his room so quickly. So, what was supposed to be a minute or two of waiting turned into 5, which was curious, but I was trying to be patient. For god's sake, he just sliced into his body for me! The next person I saw was a nurse with a small brown paper bag. She assured me all was fine, that he had just almost passed out. She seemed like she thought I would be more concerned than I was but, come on, I know this guy. He's not a weakling when it comes to blood and guts, but the aftermath of having just laid for a half hour getting his privates operated on by KILLstein and his hideous, old nurses (this is how I pictured each and every woman who saw my husband's penis that day), must have gotten the best of him. He over-thought it.
I was not worried about Kevin's well-being, per say, but I was worried about what was in that little brown bag. It looks like a pee cup, it stands like a pee cup, but that ain't no pee cup. That is a cup to check whether or not the procedure was a success, and he was instructed by yet another handout to return it, not empty, to the office in about a month. (Ok, it didn't give a time frame, it gave a number of...ugh, you know what, just private message me for more details. No, wait...don't.)
Kevin finally emerged 10 minutes later, after a couple more reassuring "Don't worry, he's almost ready" comments from the nurse. What I was thinking was "I'M NOT WORRIED, I'M HUNGRY", but what I said was another smiley "Ok". He finally comes out, being escorted by a not-hideous nurse who must just be the escorting nurse and not the penis-seeing nurse (of course), and all I can muster is "Wow, you're really gray!". He half smiles, which is kind. She tells me he was worse before, and then I realize that if we keep with this conversation we're gonna lose him for sure this time. I stand, gather my tired tots and gray husband, and slink toward the exit.
I asked the poor thing 100 times on our 7 minute drive home if he was ok. He said yes 100 times. He moved slowly when we got home, and, wife of the year over here, I carried the kids and the groceries myself (wife of the year!). He sat on the couch, but not before going straight to the freezer for a bag of peas. He did not eat the peas. While high on pain meds, he passionately debated me on how we shouldn't eat said peas in the future. I said "Why in the hell not? They're covered in plastic." We went round and round and I just don't remember who won the argument. I can only say this: I'm pretty sure I whipped up a pretty good stir-fry a week later. Luckily, he's a lightweight when it comes to pill-popping, so he probably didn't even remember the debate (or realize what he was actually eating). Leah-1, Kevin-0
The days proceeding were filled with not lifting, covering his private area with both hands dramatically every time one of his children came within 3 feet of him (they're the perfect height for punching or head-butting him), and being waited on hand and foot. He kept everything in pretty good perspective, and I think that wonderful man even mentioned how my two c-sections had been so much worse, and how my recovery time and scar were not even comparable to his*.
And now the million dollar question: ARE YOU PREGNANT FROM YOUR 10 DAY STINT OF FEAR AND DOUBT?! No. But that's ok because, after taking 2 pregnancy tests when I wasn't sure if I was late or not, and thinking to myself OH GOD PLEASE BE NEGATIVE, I know we did the right thing. Things are still not in the clear yet (I don't wanna talk about the cup in the bag), but we will be responsible adults from here on out**.
*I could be remembering this wrong, as it may have been me that pointed out, after day 3 in recovery, that what I went through was way worse than this piddly little procedure. I'm still not really sure how this went down, but I [think I] was most likely the good guy.
**I'm steering clear of red wine.
~Leah
Not doing that again.
So there it is, Kevin and I have decided to stop at 2 beautiful, wonderful, messy, rambunctious, lovely girls. There are so many reasons why a couple might decide this, some they talk about and some they don't, but just know, we are very happy with what we have chosen. Very content. Very sure. Except for the 10 days we weren't.*
*more on that later.
From the title, you have probably figured out that my husband, "Kevin", has had a vasectomy. (I have changed my husband's name to a name that is easy to spell/remember/pronounce, that may or may not be his real name, to protect his identity. Please don't ask me to reveal his name to you, it is inappropriate and I don't appreciate that. Also, his privacy means everything to me.)
Kevin decided on his own that he wanted this done. How do I know this? Well, one night while lying in bed, I hear a small voice from the dark say, "I will get a vasectomy if you want me to." Will you now? "Ok", I say. And then I follow that up with, "HAVE YOU BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS LONG? WHEN DID YOU DECIDE THIS? WHY WOULD YOU TELL ME THIS HALF ASLEEP!?" He then gently propped himself up on his pillow. He had some explaining to do and, from his wife's tone, this was probably gonna take a while. We talked it over and, really, it made perfect sense. Now, I was only aggravated that I hadn't thought of it first, though I think that a wife approaching her husband with, "Let's cut into your balls" is probably grounds for divorce. He saved me on that one. Kevin-1, Leah-0.
Now that it was out there and the gears were set in motion, he ran with it. He ran faster than any guy I've seen run pantsless toward a man with a scalpel. That's my guy: enthusiastic to the bitter end. (More on him losing his enthusiasm later). He made the consultation appointment on his own. Men shouldn't be left to their own devices to do certain things, and I guess this was one of them. He looked forever at a list of doctor's, called some offices, didn't approve of some, and then finally landed on the doctor that would sterilize him for good. And his name was doctor Killstein.
He chose a doctor with the word kill in his name and didn't bat a lash.
I stayed on birth control until I just couldn't anymore. I never noticed any side effects when I was on it from age 16-26, but now all of a sudden, I couldn't deal. Huge mood swings. Crying. Eating everything in sight. But what is a fertile girl who just doesn't have it in her to be pregnant again do?! Sure, there's things to protect from that but, who are we kidding? Do you remortgage your house to pay for the next 15 years of protection and just wait with bated breath for menopause? I had suffered through months of not being myself, and what prompted Kevin to even think the V-word was that I was unhappy. Which made him unhappy. Jesus, it made him wanna cut his manhood--we must have been unhappy indeed. I quit the stuff and he met the doctor and made his final appointment and then, there it was. It was happening.
Oh, shit, it was happening.
Let's talk about 20 days prior. We are good, we are ready to not have anymore kids. We talk it to death and we know this is right. I'm not sure what goes on in a guy's uterus, but in mine, there was sadness. Not sadness like, "I want another kid", but more like "I'm knowingly giving up the ability to bear another adorable, sweet, smushy little baby. Even though I don't want another adorable, sweet, smushy baby, I like having the option. But I don't, cause then I'm crazy on birth control. But, WHAT ABOUT THE NO BABIES". This is the madness that mostly I, but also a little of Kevin, had to live with. The Void, I called it. (I'm not coining this because I think I read it somewhere and it's awesome and I would never wanna steal someone elses's awesome). So I'm ok, I'm still good with no more kids. I'm old, I hated being pregnant the second time, I'm still battling weight, and my god when will I ever get my sanity back. Yes, two is good.
Right?
I think by now you can see that this was not an easy decision to commit to. It was easy to make, but not exactly to commit to. Trust me, there's a difference. 10 days out was messy. There was some liquor involved, a big football game (that clearly only affected one of us in such a way) and doubt. This type of doubt is the kind that can only be fueled by lots of red wine and jumping up and down at the TV during a touchdown (again, only one of us was doing that, but emotions were high all around). This leads us to realize we have T-minus 10 days til Vasectomy, prompting fear. Which immediately leads us to 10 days of random, unprotected sex that I will talk no further about. I know how many times we "rolled the dice" but I am a lady, in some circumstances. Welcome to that circumstance.
Fast forward to the day of. We are not thinking about the partially irresponsible things we did the 10 days preceeding, we are now just thinking of the V itself. There's some "prep work" to a vasectomy that I'd rather not discuss, but if anyone must know, you can private message me. (I can answer you in 6 words or less.) The procedure goes as follows (translated into my own words from the handout Kevin was given by the doctor at consultation): drop your husband off, wait 30 minutes beginning to end, pick your husband back up. That is what is expected to happen, however, expect the unexpected.
I dropped Kevin off in front of the office 5 minutes early, just like I would have if it were his first day of Kindergarten. As he was getting out I said, "I will go kill time lightly grocery shopping. Call me when you're done", as I would be 10 minutes away. He turned and flashed a nervous smile, not because of the impending procedure apparently because he said, "I forgot my phone". Of course he did. He probably would have left his penis at home, too, if it wasn't attached. So now I must gauge how much time this will actually take vs what we were told. Doctor's offices don't exactly excel at getting people in and out on time, as I'm aware. So I go and say, "I'll be back."
Much like the Terminator, there were also veins pulsing in my forehead.
I go to the store, rush through as much as one can with two children, and return about 30 minutes later. Now that there is no phone, I've had to guess when to come back. This means I can sit in the car watching the door for an indefinite amount of time listening to Thing 1 and Thing 2 argue in the backseat, in the dead of winter, or I can take the aforementioned children into the Urologist.
I love my life.
We get out and there is a slew of questions from Ren about "where are we and where is daddy and why are we here and is he ok and why is he at the doctor is he sick yeah then what hurts on him and can we eat and when are we leaving and can I play more when I get home and why are we here..." This, all before entering the office.
I get there and "check in", which is funny at a urologist's office for a girl. The female receptionist and I have a giggle. She knows just who I am here for, though, before I open my mouth because he is the last appointment of the day. Last snip. Last hurrah. Totally fitting for Killstein. She tells me I am right on time, to which I want to reply, "Oh, I'm an expert at this. Done it so many times", looking like a crazy black widow who sterilizes all her men. I thought the giggle we shared already was enough, though, so I just said, "Ok" and proceeded to sit. I heard Kevin, on the other side of the glass, doing some last checkout things. I was pleased with my timing as much as the receptionist.
Now Kevin, he didn't really give a shit, did he? He had to go and turn white and get tunnel vision and nearly pass out on the floor. I knew of none of this while it was happening because they whisked him back to his room so quickly. So, what was supposed to be a minute or two of waiting turned into 5, which was curious, but I was trying to be patient. For god's sake, he just sliced into his body for me! The next person I saw was a nurse with a small brown paper bag. She assured me all was fine, that he had just almost passed out. She seemed like she thought I would be more concerned than I was but, come on, I know this guy. He's not a weakling when it comes to blood and guts, but the aftermath of having just laid for a half hour getting his privates operated on by KILLstein and his hideous, old nurses (this is how I pictured each and every woman who saw my husband's penis that day), must have gotten the best of him. He over-thought it.
I was not worried about Kevin's well-being, per say, but I was worried about what was in that little brown bag. It looks like a pee cup, it stands like a pee cup, but that ain't no pee cup. That is a cup to check whether or not the procedure was a success, and he was instructed by yet another handout to return it, not empty, to the office in about a month. (Ok, it didn't give a time frame, it gave a number of...ugh, you know what, just private message me for more details. No, wait...don't.)
Kevin finally emerged 10 minutes later, after a couple more reassuring "Don't worry, he's almost ready" comments from the nurse. What I was thinking was "I'M NOT WORRIED, I'M HUNGRY", but what I said was another smiley "Ok". He finally comes out, being escorted by a not-hideous nurse who must just be the escorting nurse and not the penis-seeing nurse (of course), and all I can muster is "Wow, you're really gray!". He half smiles, which is kind. She tells me he was worse before, and then I realize that if we keep with this conversation we're gonna lose him for sure this time. I stand, gather my tired tots and gray husband, and slink toward the exit.
I asked the poor thing 100 times on our 7 minute drive home if he was ok. He said yes 100 times. He moved slowly when we got home, and, wife of the year over here, I carried the kids and the groceries myself (wife of the year!). He sat on the couch, but not before going straight to the freezer for a bag of peas. He did not eat the peas. While high on pain meds, he passionately debated me on how we shouldn't eat said peas in the future. I said "Why in the hell not? They're covered in plastic." We went round and round and I just don't remember who won the argument. I can only say this: I'm pretty sure I whipped up a pretty good stir-fry a week later. Luckily, he's a lightweight when it comes to pill-popping, so he probably didn't even remember the debate (or realize what he was actually eating). Leah-1, Kevin-0
The days proceeding were filled with not lifting, covering his private area with both hands dramatically every time one of his children came within 3 feet of him (they're the perfect height for punching or head-butting him), and being waited on hand and foot. He kept everything in pretty good perspective, and I think that wonderful man even mentioned how my two c-sections had been so much worse, and how my recovery time and scar were not even comparable to his*.
And now the million dollar question: ARE YOU PREGNANT FROM YOUR 10 DAY STINT OF FEAR AND DOUBT?! No. But that's ok because, after taking 2 pregnancy tests when I wasn't sure if I was late or not, and thinking to myself OH GOD PLEASE BE NEGATIVE, I know we did the right thing. Things are still not in the clear yet (I don't wanna talk about the cup in the bag), but we will be responsible adults from here on out**.
*I could be remembering this wrong, as it may have been me that pointed out, after day 3 in recovery, that what I went through was way worse than this piddly little procedure. I'm still not really sure how this went down, but I [think I] was most likely the good guy.
**I'm steering clear of red wine.
~Leah
Monday, March 2, 2015
I'm Not Judging You (But I'm Judging You)
I love how we, as a whole, say this to people--when deep down we are guilty in some way of doing this. Or am I really the only one? Really? Maybe I don't judge my family or friends--perhaps it's the girls I date, or don't, as it were.
Call it shallow.
I may openly support your "appreciation", as you'd call it, for Britney Spears but, internally, I'm sitting across from you trying to fathom how you could possibly call her a musician, let alone an artist. Chances are, we're not going on a second date. The same could be said for you sitting opposite me. I once dated a girl who didn't just dislike country music, she loathed it. Not to mention her very vocal opinions against metal music. I chalked it up to her not being eclectic enough--judgement.
Please don't be offended if we are out to eat and you order a Bud Light, Budweiser, or Coors Light and I interject, asking if you would prefer a Poland Spring or Pellegrino. It's not that I'm cheap, but your palette is. And I would rather pay for your true enjoyment of what you're asking for. Maybe you like domestic water-tasting lagers--I won't judge, but there probably won't be a second date...because I'm judging.
If you can't relate to cinematic art such as Freeway, Swimming With Sharks or Kill Me Later, don't expect me to comprehend your excitement over Transformers, anything with 'Fast' or 'Furious' in the title, or--lord, help me--Titanic. We may go on a second date because I'll over-analyze the fact that I'm being a bit too critical, or to appease my friends who want me to give you a second chance. I'll try and listen to you explain how movies resonate differently with people. While you're doing this, though, I'm no longer listening to your case. I'm fixated on how Titanic can resonate on any level, especially from a carpentry standpoint. Anyone knows they both could have fit on that bloody door. It's not romantic or chivalrous; it's idiocy, to say the least. No third date.
Maybe you don't this. I really could be the only one. Maybe I'm talking out my ass. Maybe you're reading this and can't believe how judgmental I can be over someone's musical or film interests or beverage choices. There will be no first or second dates for us, either. You're judging me for judging them.
JenG
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