All that worrying is over and the recovery is very nearly too. OK, at the moment I couldn’t run the 100 metre sprint or dance the nutcracker (sorry) but then I couldn’t anyway.
My op is over and apparently successful and I am back at work. All those misnomers (yes of course I knew it was my testicles that were being operated on and not my, ahem, wanger but nob gags are funnier) are done. Last week I went to a clinic and under local anaesthitic my vasa deferentia were severed. To prepare for this I had to remove my genital hair ‘using cream’. After my last post mentioning this I was helpfully sent this by a (very nice) tweep. Luckily Mrs Slightlysuburban had got me some high class cream from, er, Avon. It stung a bit but did the job. Hardly blogworthy.
I was awake the whole time and, a couple of sharp scratches when the local went in aside, it was painless. Just me, an elderly female nurse who must have seen more cocks that Jordan and my friendly neighbourhood conker surgeon. She was having problems getting rid of a wasp’s nest in her neighbours garden and he was having a BBQ that night. I know this because they were discussing it while I was being ‘done’. Also he had an ipod playing on speakers. It was Oasis. I suspect actually they have to choose the playlist rather carefully. Here’s what they couldn’t play:
- Who’s Sorry Now by Connie Francis
- Great Balls Of Fire by Jerry Lee Lewis
- Rock and a Hard Place by The Rolling Stones
- French Kiss by Lil Louis (you may have to have been in to house music in the late 80s to get this)
- Anything by the Scissor Sisters
- Anything by Willie Nelson
and probably a few more.
Afterwards my wife drove me straight home. The local was still working, it was a lovely day and I sat in the garden and read and took paracetamol before it started hurting just like the specialist said. I read 3 whole chapters of Paul Theroux and, as I had no sun cream on, went back inside and lolled on the sofa. Two hours later I needed a wee. When I tried to get up I nearly screamed the house down.
I was signed off for a week (though I managed to write one blog post and talk an enormous amount of bollocks on Twitter) and the recovery got worse before it got better. Luckily I heeded some advice I’d had and had plenty of paracetamol and clean, very tight underwear to hand. Right now it barely hurts at all. I’m hoping I’m out of the woods.
I received an enormous amount of support. To those of you who’d been there, done that, thanks and to the one who is about to, good luck. It is really not that bad. The op certainly is painless and the bruises when they come are at least amusing and spectacular.
My greatest feet was avoiding Baby’s flailing arms and legs and her special flying headbutt move. As I couldn’t move for part of the time this partly consisted of going everywhere with a cushion on my goolies.
I shall have no more children. They make it quite clear it’s irreversible. This had the mawkish effect of making me regard my children in a new light while I was laid up. I’m so proud of them. My funny, caring arty Boy and my lethal, sporty, noisy whirlwind Baby. They’re perfect and they cannot be replaced. My family is complete.
The final thing of note is that I am not technically all clear for another 16 weeks so the above is subject to Mrs SSD remembering her pills and me ‘getting the urge’ again (and that urge not to be to lie down with a paracetamol and some rum). Still, the rough time of when we should be all clear is established. Mainly because I have written ‘have a wank’ on the calendar. Since Boy can now read I’m about to change it to ‘WALK’. But I’ll know what it means.