And now for something completely different, my failed vasectomy. In 1988 I was separating from my wife of 27 years and it occurred to me that I might well be more sexually active in the future. Now that has to be an understatement because, since I have always had erectile problems, just about any sexual activity could be considered as “more.” I have always thought too much about what was going on, rather than letting things flow. A psychologist-therapist I knew characterized it as being on the bank watching, rather than in the river flowing. Fast starts, followed by wilting, is how I think of it.
Anyway, I thought it was a good idea to get a vasectomy. This occurred to me about a week before I was to load up a U-Haul mini-mover and head west. I found a Urologist close to home, called his office on the number given (the same exchange as at my house) and set up an appointment for the following Thursday. I was leaving on Saturday. I was to bring the payment in cash and an athletic supporter. Okay. All set.
The day arrived and I went to the local office, which was the only office that I knew existed. No one was there. Eventually I got the idea of calling, but this was well before I had a cell phone. So I had to find a pay phone, which I did. It turned out that the urologist had another office 20 miles away and was only going to be there for 30 more minutes.
So there I was, zipping through suburban afternoon traffic, envelope of money clenched in my teeth, jock strap hanging out of my pocket. I made it! I entered, went through the handoff of cash, and was given some material to read so that I would know the rules and conditions. In reading I found that I was not supposed to do much activity for several days, especially lifting and carrying. But I had to load a truck on Saturday! I was going to have to back out. I think the thought that went through the minds of the doctor and nurse was, “Another wimp.”
Now, if you have ever failed at sex (and I hope everyone has), believe me, failing at getting a vasectomy is just as embarrassing.
A side note: My partner Annie is a retired nurse. She has worked in the distant past in an Emergency Department (aka, an Emergency Room). Annie would say, “It’s a Department, not a Room!” Well, the abbreviation we all use is “ER.” The alternative is “ED.” Given the popular meaning of “ED,” I don’t think the switch is going very far.