Archive for category Having my Hampton snipped
There was a letter waiting for me when I got in tonight. From the clinic. You know, the one that needed my wife’s permission and might have contained a Palace supporting bollock specialist with a machete but didn’t. I’m sterile. Fuck.
Of course this means I have had “my fun” but let me tell you producing a sample on the one day and one time when you’re in the same town as the clinic and your mother’s in the house and she knows you have an appointment with a clinic but not why is as mechanical and secretive as building a nuclear powerplant only without the fun designing bits. Truth be told I’ve had more enjoyable sneezing fits.
Also I’m sterile. Fuck.
I thought I knew how I’d feel about this, that it would be a good thing and basically I’m happy and it is. Our two children’s routes in to this world were relatively straight forward, save Boy’s reluctance to make an appearance (a thing he now makes up for by trying to be first in the queue for everything) but they were stressful enough for me so I certainly wouldn’t put the other half through that again. And The Whirlwind has started sleeping through, stopped teething. She even sometimes tells me she’s taken a dump accurately. Could I do another eighteen sleep deprived months and still look after the two we have already? Hell no. Would the car seat and buggy stand up to another couple of years of abuse? Hell no again.
The other day I was on the train and there was a proud mum with a buggy and in the buggy was a tiny new born in one of those snow suits with animal ears and I nearly melted. I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THE ONE THAT GETS BROODY FFS. What am I? Some sort of half man? Mr Broody Sterile (not, I would suggest a good adopted name for the use of acting in adult movies)? I can still remember Whirlwind, light as a feather, balanced on my shoulder, vomit dripping down my back. No more vomit for a while. Not still she starts raiding my wallet and spending the findings on WKD anyway.
That’s it then. We are a 2 child family.
All I have to do now is fill in a feedback form for the clinic. I’m thinking of ‘could you include a DVD for sample time and ensure that my mother is in another continent for the day’.
Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off for a vat full of gin.
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.
There is now a day in my diary and it’s flashing at me like some big evil red buttony thing. On Wednesday I will begin the process of stopping producing sperm any more. My snip date is in. It was remarkably easy in the end. Though I am getting it on the NHS it is at a private clinic and, surprise, surprise, there’s quite a high drop out rate. I pretty much got to choose any Wednesday between now and the end of August and since any time in August would mess work around way too much I thought I might as well crack on with it.
Tomorrow I must remove my pubes with hair-remover cream. Let’s hope Boy doesn’t get back up after bed tomorrow for if he does he will catch Daddy, trousers round ankles, willy waving in the wind (I can dream) removing copious amounts of cock-beard with a wipe. Or I could just lock myself in the bathroom and shower it off. Less funny but much less chance of the authorities being involved.
Today I have ‘patch tested’ the removal cream to see if I’m allergic (PLEASE be allergic, PLEASE be allergic). In honour of the LOCOG ban on symbols representing the events in our Big City I have fashioned my patch in to a ring. I have 2 hairless rings now. WAIT! Don’t run away. You’re the last one left reading this stuff. *sobs*
I have a picture of the LOCOG inspired ring of hairlessness but I’m not quite brave enough to post it. It’s on my tummy though, promise.
My state of mind could best be described as ‘resigned’. This is going to happen whether I like it or not. I was starting not to so today I treated myself to a walk round Morrison’s in Reigate, just before lunchtime on the first day of school summer holidays. After 15 minutes you could have removed it with kitchen scissors, sans anaesthetic. There was also another practical purpose to my visit as I had to purchase paracetamol and ibuprofen as apparently, afterwards, it really fucking hurts.
That’s not the only risk though. There are chances that:
– I will get an infection and end up in A&E
– It won’t work
– It will work but will magically reverse later
It won’t work immediately anyway. I have to wait about 16 weeks and then send a sample (at least that will be more fun than giving blood, to quote the old Golden Girls gag) and then they will tell me if it’s worked and THEN wifey can stop taking pills.
Mainly I am focussing on one thing. They have given me a little Valium-like thing to take on the morning of the op. Strangely this is not making my brain go ‘wow this could be stressful’. Instead it’s going ‘WAHEY, FREE DRUGS’ while turning cartwheels. If I can make it do that on the day we should be ok.
For the last couple of days that noise has been making me wince. You think you don’t hear it and then you have to open a packet of bacon (*SNIP*) or help the Boy make something crafty (*SNIP*) or watch Edward Scissorhands (*SNIP SNIP SNIPITY SNIP SNIP*) and you realise that snips are all around us.
I have my appointment with the Vasectomy Clinic for a pre-operative assessment. I am shitting myself.
Taken a while hasn’t it? Remember Dr ****** needed my wife’s permission before she would refer me on the NHS? Well it took a while. Not because she was watching Dusty Bin or drinking Watney’s Red Barrel. Because the Doctor’s receptionist (yes at the same surgery) didn’t believe her when she rang to confirm. Not actually having been there I can only imagine the conversation.
Receptionist: Hello? Brighton 543459873495739453498721. How may I help you?
Wife: Er, well my husband, slightlysuburbandad, wants to have a vasectomy but you need my permission first. So I’m calling to give you it. As long as you do it carefully.
Receptionist: *noise of typing* Er, I’m sorry we don’t seem to have a slightlysuburbandad on the patient’s register.
Wife: Try (says my real name)
Receptionist: Oh yes him. Well, take it from me because I’m a Doctor’s receptionist and therefore know EVERYTHING that he doesn’t need your permission. That would be ridiculous and the subject of a large campaign were it the other way round. So sorry but you’re wasting your time. Good day!
Wife: Oh, OK. Goodbye.
Two days later I got a letter in angry doctor language asking why my wife hadn’t agreed to ‘the process’ yet. We dismissed this as a practical joke.
Five days after that we got a letter in even angrier Doctor language asking why she STILL hadn’t agreed and maybe I should, y’know, CHIVVY HER THE FUCK UP.
Luckily (?) a couple of days after that my wife burned herself quite badly on some steam and had to go to the surgery for a dressing. On her way out she got the receptionist to check my file, pointed out the angry doctor letters and gave her permission there and then. I was referred.
The receptionist now hates us. I bet, next time I’m in for a routine check-up, she says ‘OH HOW NICE TO SEE YOU. HOW’S THE COCK?’
Still I have my letter now confirming pre-op assessment date and giving me some basics on the process. Here’s my favourite bit:
“The day before your operation you will need to remove the hair from your scrotum, this should be done with hair removal cream”.
I’m glad they mentioned the cream. A one blade BIC would pretty much have been a deal breaker.
It also reminded me of a kid at school who had a totally hairless scrotum. One day someone suggested the light must bounce off it. Like a lighthouse. That was it. He was “Lighthouse” for the rest of his school days.
That’ll be me. Lighthouse The Barren. Begetter of no-one else again. Owner of hair removal cream.
So this morning my wife was at another Nearly New Sale. We kid ourselves these are in the name of recycling but she always defeats the purpose by coming back with more stuff than she set out to sell. It is, of course, stuff of a different size because Baby is growing.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Baby was giving me a much more practical demonstration of this. First she brought me the foot bit of the blue snowsuit with the enormous pink flowers mentioned in my is-it-a-boy-or-a-girl post. Since that’s still on my blog it has outlived the snowsuit which she has grown out of. While I was having a teary moment at this she disappeared.
This did not cause too much alarm. The kitchen door was closed and locked and the stair gate was closed, cutting off the possibility of Baby related calamity. Then I heard a familiar sound. The little
so-and-so darling climbing the stairs. She has worked out how to open the stair gate. I am metophorically buggered.
I remember this stage with the Boy. It involves a whole new phase of parent pain. From now until I am confident she can climb the stairs without risk (say, when she’s 10) I will be up and down the stairs 20 times a day behind her. I will develop the leg muscles of a Premiership footballer. And asthma.
I fetched her down and gave her a toy. She said ‘thank you Daddy’ and I bursted with pride. Then she threw said toy across the room. This used to be more annoying than dangerous but of late she seems to have developed an arm like Freddie Flintoff. I should probably reinforce the windows. With, y’know, steel bars.
Toys themselves are changing. Stacking rings and shape sorters are becoming phonics buses and dolls. She will bring me a book and hold it the right way up and say ‘book!’ and I will read to her. Soon it will be jigsaws and paints and a scooter and then, before I know it she’ll be at school and then, before I know it again, I’ll be searching her room for Thunderbird and Camel Lights while she’s out and tossing smelly long-haired boys in band T-Shirts down the street by their hair. It’s probably not long before I’m bed ridden and she’s feeding me mash and pretending she’s never heard the ‘Vicente played for Brighton once y’know’ story. Fuck.
Of course with every day I am starting to forget the bad things about her when she was new born. That she slept all day and not in the night. That she puked everywhere. That she cried non-stop for no fathomable reason. I am starting to remember instead that she was light as a feather and didn’t answer back. She certainly didn’t just open the stair gate and assault the North Face of the staircase without me knowing. I look at newborns in town now with an ‘aren’t they cute’ look instead of looking at the parents and thinking ‘you poor tired bastards’.
My Doctor had better damn well hurry up with that snip referral.
So last week I did indeed go to the GP and set in place the steps to get a vasectomy on the NHS
*hides every machete in England*
It was a normal-ish chat, except for the part where she again asked me if I was sure ‘just in case the worst should happen’, but she soon began the referral process. This involved one thing I was a little surprised about. Before anyone was giving me the snip my wife had to ring the GP and confirm she agrees with the decision. Yes, I need my wife’s permission to have my joystick amended.
Now let’s stop and think what would happen if this was the other way round. For comic effect let’s do so in a much more unenlightened era.
*puts on a large brain altering hat that gives the wearer the ability to think only in stereotypes*
*changes location and date to 1970s London*
Scene 1: A front room in a terraced house in black and white. Terry is having a Watneys Red Barrel. Enter Sheila from stage left.
S: Darling, you know we’ve talked about not having any more kids…
T: Fackin’ ‘ell shaat up. I’m tryna watch 3-2-1
S: Well I really think you ought to consider having a vasectomy
T: Fack off. Get my nob snipped? No fackin chance. Why don’t you get yer tubes done? (studies Dusty Bin)
S: Well, er, ok, if I must…..
Scene 2: At the GPs
Local GP: Sheila, before I refer you there’s just one thing, you’ll need to get Terry to call me and say he agrees to the process.
(Sheila rolls eyes and trembles a bit).
Scene 3: Back at the black and white terrace, 3 days later.
S: Er, Terry? Darling? Have you rung the doctor’s to talk about my surgery yet?
T: Have I fackin’ what? Later! I’m watching The Professionals. (whistles The Professionals theme tune)
Sheila storms out and commences writing a long letter to The Guardian.
Scene 4: The Offices of The Guardian on Fleet Street. Enter Women’s Affairs Editor and Editor. Editor is clutching a glass of scotch and smoking Rothmans.
WAE: This letter! Have you seen it? Men have to agree before a woman can be sterilized! Men! Agreeing! Other stuff requiring an exclamation mark! It’s like we never burned our bras!
Ed: (wearily) OK give me 500 words by tonight (takes huge drag on Rothmans and wonders how it was he got here)
Scene 5: A sped up montage is shown of the article causing outrage throughout liberal Britain. Campaigns are started. GP’s surgery’s are stormed. Questions are asked in parliament. Muesli is spilled on sandals. A bra is burned in arty slo-motion which somewhat contradicts the sped up nature of the montage.
Scene 6: Back at the black and white terrace 5 weeks later.
S: Terry? Love? Have you phoned the doctor?
T: Fack off! I’m watching The Sweeney. (Terry opens another can of Watneys Red Barrel).
Fade to grey.
*takes off stereotype hat*
We are not having any more children. In the big card game of life we are choosing not to twist. We’re sticking. There are two ways to achieve this. Well three really but the third involves me walking round like Buster Gonad and divorce. So two sensible options. The first is that Mrs S remembers to take a pill every day until she no longer has a menstrual cycle. The second is that (to quote Blackadder) I let a maniac with a pair of scissors near my John Thomas. Guess which one we went for?
I have read a couple of posts recently where the author wondered if they should be blogging on the subject that they were and I had the same thought. But somewhere I also read the awesome mammasaurus give a tip – it’s your blog, so blog what you want. God knows who’s going to read this. I have personal friends on my Twitter timeline. Football mates. But this is my life. Our decision. If I can’t explain it here I might as well roll up the blogroll, retire the URL and go back to having this nonsense rolling around in my head. And I get to do a whole load of nob gags.
So I am blogging it. It will eventually be common knowledge anyway. When the time comes I’ll need time off work. People will wonder what’s happened to me WON’T YOU? *points at you*. Also I know 2 blokes who’ve had ‘the process’ and both happily admitted to having it. The whole of our irregular poker club knows about one and our irregular poker club is far from discreet.
Another recent blog theme from both motherventing and sahdandproud was a question about if their children would ever read their blog. Well what if mine read this? Will they think it was down to them that we want no more’? Nothing could be further from the truth. I may – ok do – caricature them here but they are my world. Sunshine in a storm. Medium rare ribeye steak for my hungry soul. Part of me forever. Boy is clever and arty and much nicer to his friends than I am to mine and the poor sod’s got my sense of humour. I am so immensely proud of him. And Baby is a cute, talking, walking, water-worshipping barrel of fun and terror with more attitude than a rock band on a Jack binge. I am immensely proud of her too.
No if it were down to me we’d have had more, lots more, but this is with the benefit of hindsight. I admire beyond belief people with large families. I love babies. Toddlers. Kids. But…..
The truth is I spent my early 20s at raves and football. Then I met my Mrs and while I calmed down we still enjoyed eating out whenever we wanted and having friends round at 10pm and generally being child-free. Then we moved abroad for a bit. So we started this child rearing lark rather late. Now we’re in our 40s and I have dodgy knees and Mrs S has a dodgy back and neither of us have slept for years and we just couldn’t cope with another child if we tried. It’s a health and safety issue really.
So while Baby was a Foetus we decided she completed our family and we somehow decided this would be best achieved by me having my tadger fiddled with. When she was about 3 months I went to the Doctor to start the process and she advised me to wait a year ‘just in case’ and I could have leapt up and kissed her and made her sole beneficiary of my will right then and there (instead I just coughed – you guessed it – slightly). But I can put it off no longer. The year is more than passed so the other day I made an appointment to go back to my GP.
So what are my male, Dad, thoughts on this? Naturally I’m fucking terrified. I mean really. Here’s a small vignette of what’s going on in my brain.
– The surgeon could be someone from school who still harbours a grudge against me after all those years.
– The surgeon could be a Palace fan.
– The surgeon could be coming off a 20 hour shift having just performed harrowing but life saving surgery on a well loved public figure and now faces the choice between sleep, doing his accounts for Andrew Lansley or my cock.
– It might not work and we’d end up with a 3rd kid anyway the second the pill prescription ran out.
– I might not be able to get it up meaning a life time of popping blue pills like a teenager in Cream during the 90s.
– My water works might get infected meaning a second date with a vengeful, tired, Palace supporting willy specialist.
This of course is all wild speculation. So little have I thought about it, so far have I buried it in the dark recesses of my mind that I have no idea of what will actually occur. That’s what the GP visit is for. It could be laser right? Painless and over in a second? No need to even whip it out? Or they could stick a fucking huge camera up the eye and operate with a machete. *winces*. I’ve no idea. I’ve been putting it off a bit.
I am whether you like it or not going to update you. It’s my blog. My subjects. My rules. God help you. And God help Percy.