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The Vasectomy

It wasn't too long after Stella was born, nearly a year ago, that Julia began to float the idea of a vasectomy. We had never planned to have more than two kids, and with my increased Homedaddy duties weighing more heavily by the day, I was becoming, as they say in the real estate business, highly motivated.

In theory. Not that I am squeamish. I just needed a little time to warm up to the idea.

Then, a few months ago, Julia called me to the living room to show me something. She was watching the Hypochondriac Channel, which is bundled with other essential gems like The Infomercial Network and "Canel Dios Mio! when all you really want to do is get HBO to see The Sopranos. This is the channel where they show actual surgical procedures in lurid close-up. You'll never in a million years guess what was on tap this particular evening.

There was this blue sheet with a little window cut out of it, with something sticking out that looked likeð oh no! It was being cut open! And then they reached in with some clamps and yanked out some plumbingð and this doctor was droning on about the whole thing as if he were reading stock prices.

That was enough for me. The whole thing got put on the back burner while I tried to see how much prayer, meditation, and beer it would take to block out that image. I was successful, to the extent that Julia didn't bring it up again for a while and I never made the appointment.

Now, with the year almost done, it came to my attention that our medical deductible had been met. If I needed another reason, this could be it. And so, I picked up the phone and set the wheels in motion.

A Vasectomy for Homedaddy? Can it be? Is this really, as some have suggested, a Career-Limiting Move? In a word, no. Vasectomy or not, we will be having no more kids.

My first appointment was for a consultation only. When Emma heard that I was off to a doctor's appointment, she was very curious and wanted to know if the doctor would look in my ears. I didn't think so. Not unless there's been some kind of breakthrough.

I have friends who've had this procedure; I had already heard all about it, so the consultation didn't tell me anything new. It's quick, it is allegedly almost painless (all logic notwithstanding), and then I'll need to spend at least a couple of days lying around on ice. Oddly, they always suggest a package of frozen peas, probably for its superior shape-molding properties.

Herein lies my real motivation: Two, and maybe even three whole days to lie around, silly on painkillers, with nothing but a couple of books and the TV remote. For this alone, I'd be willing to endure the procedure and then straddle the frozen peas. Gladly. Thawing the Birdseye, Riding the Jolly Green Giant; call it what you will, but I call it Time Off.

Julia has planned to be "away from her desk" for a couple of days while I'm on the mend. The tricky part is, what do we tell Emma?

Stella is too young to care, but Emma will surely be curious about my recuperation. Julia and I have discussed a number of possible strategies. A tummy ache seems like a logical candidate; maybe even the flu. Julia thought at one time that we might tell Emma that I've had a little operation, but I quickly nixed the idea. Thanks to the classic children's tale "Madeline," with the notorious Appendicitis Episode, she is mildly fascinated by hospitals and operations, and would doubtless demand to know the specifics.

There would be no way to avoid comparisons. "Madeline" is one of Emma's favorites; strictly A-list material. We've had Madeline in five different incarnations: the original books by Ludwig Bemelmans; the made-for-TV cartoon series; a live-action feature film (with a good turn by Frances McDormand as Miss Clavell); an audio cassette read by Carol Channing; and even an animated video featuring surreal musical numbers.

In all cases, the most interesting thing about Madeline and her surgery (besides the windfall of gifts) is the scar. In the animated musical version, Madeline entertains her visitors with a bizarre song and dance number, in which she pirouettes, lifts her shirt, and sings "Voila, my scar, voila, my scarð"

I'm afraid these expectations will be unrealistic, given my particulars. A song and dance number to proudly display my scar would be inappropriate at best, if not irreversibly traumatic.

I'm leaning toward the tummy ache. If you're going to lie, go big. That could explain two days laid out on the couch. The frozen peas might prove more difficult to explain. Maybe I'll tell her the microwave is broken and I am just thawing them out. Now there's a little defrosting trick I'll bet Martha Stewart never thought of.

Riding the Jolly Green Giant. Ho ho ho, indeed. Why do Santa Claus and the Jolly Green Giant say the same thing? A Vasectomy at Christmas time raises these sorts of issues.

Hopefully, I'll be right as rain by the time we head down to L.A. for the holidays. Today, my dad and his wife told us that they had a great idea to take the kids to see the Moscow ballet production of The Nutcracker.

I think I'll pass. Right now, I'd better get ready to go. The procedure is in one hour.

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© Todd Pinsky 1998-2002. All rights reserved.