“OKAY, NOW YOU’RE GOING TO FEEL A LITTLE TUG.”
Moments after hearing those cruel words (delivered with such nonchalance they were!—downright cheerful-sounding he was!) I felt this physical sensation coming from my groin that really got my undivided attention. It triggered a full-body clammy sweat and I very nearly passed out. Well, if that was a little tug, I cringe at the thought of what a big tug might feel like. Good lord—how to describe it? Hmmm. That little ‘tug’ on the ol’ vas deferens felt more like someone hot-wired a taut cord strung between the deepest part of my physical being and some sort of electric Agony Machine. If that sadist had only been frank with me—if he’d spoken candidly, had said something like, “Okay, now you’re going to experience a sensation that…well, painful maybe isn’t the best way to describe it—more like, ‘excruciatingly unpleasant.’ Are we ready?” Had he said something along those lines, even in that saccharine, I’m-a-doctor tone of his, at least I could have braced myself. But there was no time. Oh! My! GAWD!
Here’s the deal: It was a hot summer day and I was on my way to a scheduled outpatient surgery in Bishop. To be more specific, I was having (or is it ‘getting’?) a vasectomy, a so-called ‘minor procedure’ that I’d been putting off for some time now—a course of action that men of good intention tend to postpone in much the same way that people are always thinking about making their will but never quite get around to it. And why exactly was I having this minor procedure done on this hot summer day? Let’s put it this way: I can count on the fingers of one hand—one, two, three—the things that I can claim to know with complete certainty. Leading that short list is a fundamental cosmic-level precept: One can never be absolutely certain about anything whatsoever. Of this, I am entirely certain. Second in line is that old saw, still applicable, regarding death and taxes. Followed by being absolutely certain that I don’t want children. (Or, put another way, don’t want to help make any babies.) So, as regards item #3 on the list: I was taking care of some important business, at long last. Not just from a sense of duty, or a desire to insure that copies of my genes not be passed on, but from finding myself in a committed relationship with a woman of forty who already has two children and is ready to be done procreating. Why take chances?
BACK AT DORI AND MARTIN’S PLACE in Big Pine, after it was all over. I’d stopped by earlier and told them where I was going and why and said I’d stop by on my way back home. When I returned, they were out front with our old friend from Rock Creek, Dave, who happened to be passing through town. (They’d told me he was going to be dropping by.) I parked in front of the gate and the three of them watched in silence as I gingerly eased myself out of the truck and slowly hobbled toward them, bowlegged as an old broke-down cowboy. Dori or Martin, clearly, had told Dave about my appointment with finality. I could tell by the way he was looking at me. Right when I got up to them, Dave couldn’t hold out any longer and said, “Well, how’d it go?” He’d been letting his imagination run wild, I could tell. This is a touchy subject for a lot of men and, when presented with a situation that forces them to confront the idea on a personal level, they can get squeamish. All eyes were on me now, waiting for my response. I’d not spoken yet and just stood there looking at them. Standing there looking at me. Something about the tone of impatient expectancy in Dave’s voice made me decide to play with this. Maybe farce it up instead of going with drama or the purely clinical take.
Dave [looking grave]: “Well, what happened?! What did it feel like?”
Okay, concentrate. You can do this. Just don’t crack yourself up. Straight face!
Tim: “Well, of course I had to wait around forever. But they finally led me to a little room. A nurse took my blood pressure and all. Then she led me to another room. There was this big metal contraption up against one wall that I barely had time to check out before the doctor came in. A young guy. He and the nurse immediately started getting me attached to the thing. I didn’t have to put on a medical gown or even strip down to my underwear. The device was this, like, stainless steel cage. I had to stand inside it with my legs splayed out and they strapped them down at the ankles and above the knees with leather straps. My wrists, too, and a band around my chest. Then, this metal arm folded down and swung in from the side. It was this sorta spring-loaded rod with what looked like a boxing glove mounted on the end of it. I think it actually was a boxing glove at one time. Reddish leather…it looked old. Well, the doc pulled back on a lever mounted on the other side of the apparatus, whatever you’d call it, and the boxing glove thingey retracts about a foot and a half. Then he hit a little switch and…WHAM!” (This, accompanied by a violent slugging-someone-in-the-gut-with-fist gesture.)
Dave [horror and revulsion written on his face]: “Nooo!! That’s…that’s barbaric!”
Martin and Dori, off to the side, at first just sniggering, now busting up.
At this point, no longer able to keep my face straight. But I was done, anyway. “Son,” I said, “you’ve been had. Come on, Dave! I can’t believe you fell for that!”
Dave [crestfallen and chagrined]: “Well, you’re always so serious about things. So I believed you! How was I supposed to know?”
I hobbled past the three of them, heading for the kitchen. I’d stashed a bag of frozen peas that I’d picked up in Lone Pine that morning in their freezer. A bag of frozen peas, with which to ice my throbbing nethers. Now, apropos of nothing whatsoever: Ever notice how it’s always peas? They always tell you, “Get a bag of frozen peas and…”—always peas. Why not corn? Or those tiny little geometrically perfect carrot cubes? Or ‘vegetable medley’? No: always peas. Never ice! Peas. (It makes you wonder if highly paid lobbyists for the National Pea Advisory Board or something like were dispatched to Washington, D.C. to work the politicians over before the other frozen vegetable magnates could get to them.)
About that ‘little tug.’ What I actually felt was not the incision made in my scrotum—that was nothing. It was the feeling of having my vas deferens bodily dragged out of me, screaming, and a chunk of it excised. You see, back in the day they used to just sever the tube but men who’d had their vas-es ectomied were getting women pregnant; turns out that the two ends somehow were able to reunite and reattach themselves. How clever they are! So now, doctors remove a short section, which makes hooking back up no longer possible.
And, Oh! I failed to mention that there were two ‘little tugs.’ Had to take a break after the first one—I really did almost black out and was drenched in sticky sweat. The doctor had to open a window for me so I could breathe and left me alone in the room for a few minutes. When he returned for round two, I’d had time to compose myself and mentally prepare. But when I heard him say, “Okay, now you’re going to feel that little tug again,” again….
©2022 Tim Forsell August 1996, 10 Nov 2022
