zhisou

There are moments in life that stand out like emotional mileposts. Sometimes stuff happens that acts as a reference point, you peg an event by whether or not it was before or after you broke your leg, or had a baby or moved house. Yesterday was one of those days for me. Yesterday I had my cock cut off.

Okay, that´s not exactly how it was.

I have been on the vasectomy tracks for some time - the train chugging along toward the inevitable date when I would have to lie back and watch a grown man take a pair of kitchen scissors to my downstairs department.

The first meeting was bad enough - the kindly doctor carefully drew a picture of a bollock with practised skill. He then drew the pipework, showing how the sperm leaves said bollock on its journey to the outside world. He went into enthusiastic detail about how it all works and how it can all go wrong - you know, swellings, infections, diseases, cancers … that sort of thing.

I sat patiently and looked for opportunities to crack gags and tried to come across all brave and macho and stuff. I even asked about testosterone, but I didn´t really care that much - I´d seen enough post-snip men around to know that they don´t suddenly start growing boobs, buying shoes and listening to Kenny G.

Then he said, “I´ll just do a quick examination then we can talk about …”

I said, “I´m sorry - what was that?”

“I´ll just do a quick examination”

“Examination?”

“Yes, nothing to worry about …”

Easy for him to say.

The “quick examination” involved him putting on some of those thin medical gloves and having a good feel about to check all was present and correct. He kept talking to me but I couldn´t look him in the eye, and when he said “Am I hurting you?” I said “Psychologically, yes”. It was horrible.

He said that it was possible to have children again after, but they´d probably need to inject a needle into the testicle and extract the sperm directly. I cannot imagine wanting anything that much.

Then came the day itself. You´ve got to shave first - a rectangle around the target area. I presume this is to get you used to feeling like a woman because it is quite a strange feminine feeling to stand in the bath, one leg on the side, with a razor between your legs.

I feigned blasé bravado as I was waiting to be called - I´d gone private because when I´d gone to the national health place I´d had the talk and the bollock drawings but then, in my confusion, I´d given them the wrong phone number. It was nearly right - but you can´t phone people approximately. I had heard nothing since.

I then got changed into the hospital stuff and walked toward the theatre doors. I had wondered if I should have given my little fellas a last hurrah - you know, for old time´s sake. In the end, the moment never quite arrived and that feels a little sad now - but one thing´s for certain, the hospital waiting area was not quite the right place.

I was laid down, my view obscured and my pants lowered by a nice man. There was a female nurse too, so I breathed in, I wanted to look my best after all. I made a couple of amusing quips and the doctor and the other guy chuckled - the miserable woman just ignored me. Perhaps she likes to keep a professional distance to avoid falling in love with the half-shaven half-naked middle-aged men she gets to see being neutered. It must be quite a struggle.

To make conversation, the Doctor asked me how Leeds United were doing and I winced in pain. This was only partly because he had just stuck a needle into my scrotum. That wasn´t pleasant - but as searing pain in one´s private parts goes, it was reasonably manageable.

I didn´t go into detail, but I told him that being a Leeds fan was a tough old lot - it turned out that the Doctor´s father had been the goalkeeper for Celta Vigo and Atlético de Madrid, so I made a joke about the son following his Father by making a living from handling balls (it sounded better in Spanish) but still the nurse didn´t crack a smile.

Then they did the other side and that was it - it seemed like a bit of an anti-climax. No wheelchair, no being mopped on the brow and put on a drip. The nurse woman helped me up and was quite pretty in a not-very-pretty sort of way, and then she marched off and I got changed and walked home.

Most disappointingly of all, apart from not being able to make that sour nurse laugh, is that today I feel fine. A bit of sensitivity, sure, but really no pain or anything! I had been hoping to make a bit of a meal of it, get some bedrest and some top-notch TLC - maybe drag it out for a month or so. One bloody day, and I´m fine - I even went to work and forgot about it!

What a swizz.