The Cut (part 3 of 5)

NOTE: I’ve received a few e-mails about the first two parts of this story. Apparently I was not as clear as I had thought in part 1 about the timing of this part of my life. This entire episode happened over a period of four months not too long ago. Now complete, I’m sharing the story in a compressed form.

I'm going through with it.

I’m lying on the exam table, knees up, legs spread, feet in stirrups. I thought the stirrups were for women only. Now I know better.

A nasty thought flashes through my mind - I hope I’m not a woman when this is complete.

I’m wearing the paper gown. Could these things be any more flimsy? The nurse has come in and swabbed me ‘down there’ with that super hypo-allergenic disinfectant stuff. I’m not sure if I’m smelling that – or my fear.

Let me put that in perspective. While I’m not a US Marine, I’m nobody’s wimp either. A couple of years ago I was running in a local park, after dark, and a stray dog came up and bit me – took a chunk of flesh out of my butt, to be exact. I drove myself to the ER, got my shots and stitches with nary a whimper. So I can handle the pain.

But this is different. I am voluntarily letting a doctor cut me up IN A VERY SENSITIVE AREA. A razor sharp metal object, to be exact, plus some sort of flaming thing for good measure. A screw up here is a bit more damaging then a few extra stitches in my ass. So I think I’m entitled to a little apprehension going into this.

Plus, I give myself some credit for going through with this at all. According to the doctor about 20% of the men who come in for the initial consultation don’t go through with the procedure. I’m sorry, did I say men? I meant wimps.

On the other hand, their plumbing still works.

Doctor Jackson comes in, wearing scrubs, followed by two other people. A man and a woman. He says hello to me and introduces the male, a very serious Indian guy named Vishtal. He then introduces the woman as Jennifer. They are both residents, he says, and would like to observe the procedure, if that’s okay.

“Sure,” I say. I doubt I really have much say in the matter anyway.

There’s only one problem.

Jennifer is hot. I mean, really hot.

She fills out the scrubs very nicely. That’s hard to do. She’s definitely got something going on if she can make scrubs look sexy. Even in my current state, my mind starts to do what a man’s mind starts to do when a beautiful woman is standing in front of him, smiling and looking great.

I’m suddenly concerned for my equipment - which, as you might expect in my current position, is cowering. That’s probably a good thing for what’s about to happen. What I don’t want is for my mind to communicate to my body that Jennifer is standing there.

I try to focus on Doctor Jackson, or on Vishtal, on just about anything other than Jennifer. It’s not working.

Perhaps this is part of the plot. ‘We’re going to tease you, then we’re going to cut you up and you’ll never be able to think thoughts like that again. Or at least not act on them.’

Did I just think that? Maybe the drugs are kicking in. Oh, that’s right. Local anesthesia doesn’t work that way.

Before I know it the doctor has his gloves on and is getting ready to work. He picks up the scalpel and begins to speak. “We’re going to make two small incisions here, and here,” he points, talking to me as well as the residents. Due to the paper gown I can't actually see where he's pointing, exactly. But it really doesn't matter because I can’t take my eyes off the scalpel. It looks about as big as a Samurai sword. And he’s going down there with that!

Things begin to happen quickly. Before I know it the cuts have been made. The local anesthetic must be working, I don’t feel a thing. The doctor is talking to the residents as he works, describing what he’s doing in a clinical, professional manner. Jennifer is all business. I assume I’m not embarrassing myself, if you know what I mean.

In a brief flash of vanity, I also hope she’s at least mildly impressed.

So far in this procedure I’ve barely felt anything. Suddenly the doctor rises up and turns to me, holding what looks like a ten-inch stand of wet spaghetti. “The first side is done,” he says. “This is what we’ve taken out of you. Now we’re going to tie off both ends and cauterize.”

He turns back to work. I’m amazed at the length of tube he removed, and tell him so. “Oh, yes, that’s normal,” he says. “We really don’t want the two ends to grow back together. Besides, you won’t be needing it any more, now, will you?”

He’s got a point there.

Suddenly I catch a whiff of burning flesh. That’s me, I think.

Doctor Jackson notices my alarm. “We’re cauterizing now. It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“No,” I say. And it really doesn’t.

This whole thing is a big disconnect. I’m getting cut and burned in a very sensitive spot, by my own choice, and having a conversation with a doctor and two residents as if they were simply taking my blood pressure. I’m smelling my own flesh burning, and we’re talking about the weather!

The doctor rises again, holding another strand of wet spaghetti. This one looks even more like spaghetti as it has sauce on it. Red sauce. No, wait – that’s my blood.

Suddenly, it seems, it’s all but over. They are stitching me up, which doesn’t take long because the incisions were very small. The residents step back and the nurse comes back in to clean up.

Doctor Jackson tells me that I’ll be sore for about 48 hours. “I like to do these on Friday so patients have the weekend to recover. It’s best if you can stay off your feet as much as possible for the next couple of days.” He writes out a prescription for some pain meds.

“You’ll be swollen for the next 24 hours or so. It shouldn’t hurt to urinate, but if it does give me a call on Monday.”

If it hurts to urinate, I want to be calling someone before Monday!

Next he hands me a specimen bottle. “Remember, there is still sperm in your tubes. You should not have unprotected intercourse for at least a month, probably two months. You need to flush the remaining sperm out of your system. After 6-8 weeks bring a sample in and we’ll test to make sure all the sperm is removed from your body.”

The time reference throws me off a bit. It seems like the expulsion of remaining sperm is a function of ‘activity,’ if you get my drift, not time. I need to call him on this. “About how many ‘encounters’ would you say it takes to flush out the remaining sperm?”

“To be safe, about 20-25,” he says. “It varies, of course, so that‘s why you want to bring a sample in for testing.”

The nurse returns with a bag of ice. She hands it to the Doctor, who says, “You’ll want to use ice to keep the swelling down tonight and tomorrow. By Sunday afternoon you should be pretty well back to normal.”

He hands me the ice. Jennifer makes no move to help me position it. Oh well.

It’s over.

I thank the doctor, we shake hands. I turn to go out through the waiting room. I don’t know how to say this delicately, so I’ll just say it – my balls feel HUGE. Plus there’s an ice pack down there, and it’s really cold. Walking is somewhat awkward. No, actually, it’s very awkward. I pass the receptionist, knowing she knows I’ve been clipped. I’m still a little numb down there, and I wonder when the pain will hit, how bad it will be.

I catch site of myself in a mirror. I look okay, all things considered. And, hey – I’ve got one hell of a package!

My wife is waiting in the parking lot to drive me home. I ease in to the passenger seat; gently work the seat belt into place.

“How did it go?” she asks.

I’ve planned for this.

In my highest falsetto voice I say, “Just fine!”

It’s great to be The (ouch!) Family Man

Coming next: Part 4 – The Consummation