"When you arrive for the consultation, ask if they make an incision.”
“Oh, you mean like non-invasive.” “Yah.”
“How would they do that, kick me in the junk until they shrivel up and fall off?”
“No. It’s called a no-scalpel vasectomy.” “You mean, like they don’t slit my bag?”
“They have a tool they use to puncture the skin between your penis and your testicles. The same tool is used to pull out the tubes and crimp them and cauterize them or some shit like that.”
“I feel better already.”
“When you have your vasectomy, do you have to deny your religion? Do you have to tell your priest?”
“Why the hell would I do that? He would just tell my mother-in-law.”
“Did you know they cauterize the ends of the snipped vas deferens before they stitch you back up?”
“Stop it! Just talking about it is painful! Whalen already just can not leave me alone about the procedure I am about to experience. He had a vasectomy when he was 23 years old, almost 25 years ago, and he thinks that things have not changed.”
“He probably just wants you to think that.”
“He is even convinced that I will have to endure the oldest, fattest, and homeliest nurse they can find to shave my sack. Whalen is successful in giving me anxiety, but I am still going through with it.”
“Ya know, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have a fat-ugly nurse shaving you. At least that way, you wouldn’t have an erection, and another woman calling you.”
“What makes you think she wouldn’t call me?” “Fear of rejection?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I get off work at 2 p.m., and I am scheduled to show up for check-in at 2:15. Turning in my inmate urinalysis specimens at the NSP clinic has me running a few minutes late, so I call the urology clinic to let them know I am a few minutes behind schedule. I am the last procedure of the day for Dr. Sushil Lacy, and he is probably ready to call it a day’s work. Lacy is the same doctor that performed Exstrom’s procedure 13 years ago. My boss has an eight-year-old son now. You do the math.
If you knew what you were doing, you would never buy a car that was built on a Friday afternoon. People just do not do their best work. With this knowledge, why would you ever schedule a vasectomy at 2:45 on a Friday? Fucking Whalen keeps putting the seed of bad thoughts in my head.
When I arrive, five minutes late, the staff acts as if I have not inconvenienced them at all. They are not rushing to catch up. I am given a key to a locker immediately, and instructed to change into the gowns provided. Exiting the locker room, I find a cute young nurse waiting for me, and I am almost hoping she is not the one who gets the honor of shaving my privates. Hopefully, she is only processing me in and doing some of the paper work. As luck would have it, she also leads me into the operating room, where a few other cute young ladies are waiting with apparatus designed to prepare me for surgery.
I lay on the table, and before I can even finish shifting into my comfort zone, two of the young ladies remove my gown and begin touching my junk. Immediately I begin to conjure up my best images of dead puppies while simultaneously attempting to decipher 19 times 19 in my head. One nurse has a safety razor in her right hand, while the other two “position” my things to facilitate her work.
Desperately, I am trying to distract myself and not think to myself that there are three women studying my stuff, but I am not having much luck. The chub begins to form as blood rushes to my penis. One of the nurses without the razor in her hand must have noticed, because as my member began to roll to the side with the most blood, she applied the coldest betadine solution ever produced. I think it was frozen prior to my arrival.
They were not finished prepping me. As the one continued the betadine freeze treatment, the other advised the one with the razor of the locations that were not completely shaven. What the fuck is 19 times 19 anyway? It seemed that my penis never got so much attention. When the three ladies completed their task, Dr. Sushil Lacy entered the room. He was a short man of Indian descent (Not Native American, but the country of India.) and had the tightest mustache on the planet. I have never seen facial hair so well groomed. He had the hand strength and build of a watch-maker, and I was glad. After all, he was about to work with something I hoped he viewed as delicately.
Dr. Lacy claimed that I was about to feel something, “This will feel like the dentist, only not in the same place.” I braced myself for a shot of lidocaine in the nuts, because if anything down there feels remotely close to my dental experiences, it can not be enjoyable.
“Doctor, oh my, you should be aware…he has three.” “Why is the last patient on a Friday the hardest one?” “Cause you’re tired and you don’t give a shit, it’s not
supernatural.”
“I think I read that in Orbiting The Giant Hairball.”
“No, it was in a DiCaprio movie, I think.”
The feeling resembled a fingernail touching my scrotum. I hardly felt the lidocaine shot at all, but I wound up with two stitches in three places that took two weeks to heal. I also left the building with two business cards in my pants pockets that I would discover later.
One morning at work, just eight days after the surgery, I lowered my underwear to urinate. The act of lowering my underwear made me well aware that the miniscule wound-weeping had super-glued my sack to my underwear and I just pulled out the stitches on one side. I asked my supervisor, Joann Kinney, to call the shift supervisor and see if I could comp out (take accumulated time off) and go home. That call produced a negative response, since she had already informed a previous caller that they could not depart. When I asked Kinney to make the call, I thought we were fat on staff and that it would not even be questioned. I also had not realized the discomfort that would soon follow from the pulling of the stitches. I made another call shortly after the failed attempt to get me removed from the facility.
As I entered Whalen’s control station, I quickly informed him what I was going to do, and pleaded with him to not laugh out loud while I was on the phone. He agreed not to laugh, but in hindsight, I should have asked that he not do anything to make me laugh.
“Lieutenant Andrzejewsky” answered the shift supervisor.
“Hey LT, this is Caseworker Batiste. I need to fill you in on my situation, and why I need to leave today.” Whalen is just looking at me at this point, probably wondering quickly what he can do to make me lose it.
“OK.”
“I realize that I had Kinney call earlier to use my comp time, but she did not fully realize the need for me to depart. You see, I had a vasectomy a week ago, and I just blew some stitches.”
Whalen began to moan painfully in the background. I had to turn away so the visual of him holding his sack did not contribute to my need to laugh.
“I am having some discomfort. If there is anyway you can get me out of here, I would be greatly appreciative.” Feeding off my comments, Whalen is now mimicking someone giving head.
“Oh fuck, get out of here. Take sick time or comp time, arrange that with your supervisor when you come back, but get out of here.”
For Whalen’s benefit, and to prove to him that I could take it, I stated, “Ma’am, if you need proof, I saved my stitches. I taped them down to this date in my organizer.”
“Are you shittin’ me Batiste?” “No, Ma’am.”
“Well hey, if anybody asks, I guess you are prepared. I think your credibility is okay here. Now go home.”
“Should I wait ‘til count clears?”
“Batiste, get the fuck out of here before I change my mind!”
As I am leaving the parking lot, I get a strange number coming up on my cell phone.
“Hello.” “Hi, Hector?”
“This is Heck.”
“You don’t know me, but I took your number out of our medical records. I hope you don’t mind…pause…could you meet me somewhere?”
“Who is this?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, my name is Jenny. I was one of your nurses at the urology clinic.”
“Did something come up on one of my tests?”
“Well, no, but I was one of the nurses shaving you…in preparation for surgery, and I was hoping that we could get together for a drink…or something? It’s been eight days; you should be healed up enough.”
“Dude, get out of the fight path, I gotta bust ass, and Garris is out there eating ice-cream.”
“That’ll waft right into his Rocky Road.”
“Oh, you mean like non-invasive.” “Yah.”
“How would they do that, kick me in the junk until they shrivel up and fall off?”
“No. It’s called a no-scalpel vasectomy.” “You mean, like they don’t slit my bag?”
“They have a tool they use to puncture the skin between your penis and your testicles. The same tool is used to pull out the tubes and crimp them and cauterize them or some shit like that.”
“I feel better already.”
“When you have your vasectomy, do you have to deny your religion? Do you have to tell your priest?”
“Why the hell would I do that? He would just tell my mother-in-law.”
“Did you know they cauterize the ends of the snipped vas deferens before they stitch you back up?”
“Stop it! Just talking about it is painful! Whalen already just can not leave me alone about the procedure I am about to experience. He had a vasectomy when he was 23 years old, almost 25 years ago, and he thinks that things have not changed.”
“He probably just wants you to think that.”
“He is even convinced that I will have to endure the oldest, fattest, and homeliest nurse they can find to shave my sack. Whalen is successful in giving me anxiety, but I am still going through with it.”
“Ya know, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have a fat-ugly nurse shaving you. At least that way, you wouldn’t have an erection, and another woman calling you.”
“What makes you think she wouldn’t call me?” “Fear of rejection?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I get off work at 2 p.m., and I am scheduled to show up for check-in at 2:15. Turning in my inmate urinalysis specimens at the NSP clinic has me running a few minutes late, so I call the urology clinic to let them know I am a few minutes behind schedule. I am the last procedure of the day for Dr. Sushil Lacy, and he is probably ready to call it a day’s work. Lacy is the same doctor that performed Exstrom’s procedure 13 years ago. My boss has an eight-year-old son now. You do the math.
If you knew what you were doing, you would never buy a car that was built on a Friday afternoon. People just do not do their best work. With this knowledge, why would you ever schedule a vasectomy at 2:45 on a Friday? Fucking Whalen keeps putting the seed of bad thoughts in my head.
When I arrive, five minutes late, the staff acts as if I have not inconvenienced them at all. They are not rushing to catch up. I am given a key to a locker immediately, and instructed to change into the gowns provided. Exiting the locker room, I find a cute young nurse waiting for me, and I am almost hoping she is not the one who gets the honor of shaving my privates. Hopefully, she is only processing me in and doing some of the paper work. As luck would have it, she also leads me into the operating room, where a few other cute young ladies are waiting with apparatus designed to prepare me for surgery.
I lay on the table, and before I can even finish shifting into my comfort zone, two of the young ladies remove my gown and begin touching my junk. Immediately I begin to conjure up my best images of dead puppies while simultaneously attempting to decipher 19 times 19 in my head. One nurse has a safety razor in her right hand, while the other two “position” my things to facilitate her work.
Desperately, I am trying to distract myself and not think to myself that there are three women studying my stuff, but I am not having much luck. The chub begins to form as blood rushes to my penis. One of the nurses without the razor in her hand must have noticed, because as my member began to roll to the side with the most blood, she applied the coldest betadine solution ever produced. I think it was frozen prior to my arrival.
They were not finished prepping me. As the one continued the betadine freeze treatment, the other advised the one with the razor of the locations that were not completely shaven. What the fuck is 19 times 19 anyway? It seemed that my penis never got so much attention. When the three ladies completed their task, Dr. Sushil Lacy entered the room. He was a short man of Indian descent (Not Native American, but the country of India.) and had the tightest mustache on the planet. I have never seen facial hair so well groomed. He had the hand strength and build of a watch-maker, and I was glad. After all, he was about to work with something I hoped he viewed as delicately.
Dr. Lacy claimed that I was about to feel something, “This will feel like the dentist, only not in the same place.” I braced myself for a shot of lidocaine in the nuts, because if anything down there feels remotely close to my dental experiences, it can not be enjoyable.
“Doctor, oh my, you should be aware…he has three.” “Why is the last patient on a Friday the hardest one?” “Cause you’re tired and you don’t give a shit, it’s not
supernatural.”
“I think I read that in Orbiting The Giant Hairball.”
“No, it was in a DiCaprio movie, I think.”
The feeling resembled a fingernail touching my scrotum. I hardly felt the lidocaine shot at all, but I wound up with two stitches in three places that took two weeks to heal. I also left the building with two business cards in my pants pockets that I would discover later.
One morning at work, just eight days after the surgery, I lowered my underwear to urinate. The act of lowering my underwear made me well aware that the miniscule wound-weeping had super-glued my sack to my underwear and I just pulled out the stitches on one side. I asked my supervisor, Joann Kinney, to call the shift supervisor and see if I could comp out (take accumulated time off) and go home. That call produced a negative response, since she had already informed a previous caller that they could not depart. When I asked Kinney to make the call, I thought we were fat on staff and that it would not even be questioned. I also had not realized the discomfort that would soon follow from the pulling of the stitches. I made another call shortly after the failed attempt to get me removed from the facility.
As I entered Whalen’s control station, I quickly informed him what I was going to do, and pleaded with him to not laugh out loud while I was on the phone. He agreed not to laugh, but in hindsight, I should have asked that he not do anything to make me laugh.
“Lieutenant Andrzejewsky” answered the shift supervisor.
“Hey LT, this is Caseworker Batiste. I need to fill you in on my situation, and why I need to leave today.” Whalen is just looking at me at this point, probably wondering quickly what he can do to make me lose it.
“OK.”
“I realize that I had Kinney call earlier to use my comp time, but she did not fully realize the need for me to depart. You see, I had a vasectomy a week ago, and I just blew some stitches.”
Whalen began to moan painfully in the background. I had to turn away so the visual of him holding his sack did not contribute to my need to laugh.
“I am having some discomfort. If there is anyway you can get me out of here, I would be greatly appreciative.” Feeding off my comments, Whalen is now mimicking someone giving head.
“Oh fuck, get out of here. Take sick time or comp time, arrange that with your supervisor when you come back, but get out of here.”
For Whalen’s benefit, and to prove to him that I could take it, I stated, “Ma’am, if you need proof, I saved my stitches. I taped them down to this date in my organizer.”
“Are you shittin’ me Batiste?” “No, Ma’am.”
“Well hey, if anybody asks, I guess you are prepared. I think your credibility is okay here. Now go home.”
“Should I wait ‘til count clears?”
“Batiste, get the fuck out of here before I change my mind!”
As I am leaving the parking lot, I get a strange number coming up on my cell phone.
“Hello.” “Hi, Hector?”
“This is Heck.”
“You don’t know me, but I took your number out of our medical records. I hope you don’t mind…pause…could you meet me somewhere?”
“Who is this?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, my name is Jenny. I was one of your nurses at the urology clinic.”
“Did something come up on one of my tests?”
“Well, no, but I was one of the nurses shaving you…in preparation for surgery, and I was hoping that we could get together for a drink…or something? It’s been eight days; you should be healed up enough.”
“Dude, get out of the fight path, I gotta bust ass, and Garris is out there eating ice-cream.”
“That’ll waft right into his Rocky Road.”
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