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NOTE/WARNING - This post contains a fairly unflinching description of a vasectomy operation that hasn't gone entirely according to plan, I don't think it's in 'bad taste' or anything, but if you don't want to read about willies and bollocks and bleeding and a bit of frank sex talk and suchlike, this may not be the post for you. Fair warning given, I think.
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So then, yes, on Friday morning I had a vasectomy. Me and Mrs Hearthly have talked it over quite a bit as we're pretty much at the last chance saloon if we want another child (she's 41 and I'll be 41 in May), and whilst we both think it'd be nice in some ways we don't fancy being in our 50s when the child is in their teens, and on top of that Hearthly Jnr is absolutely adamant that she doesn't want another baby or toddler in the house (I think she quite likes being an only child). She's 10 already and that'd be a big age gap between siblings as well.
Why go for a vasectomy at all? Just one less thing to think about I suppose, we've been using withdrawal successfully for over ten years, but it'd be nice to be able to stay inside Mrs Hearthly rather than pull out, as unlikely as it sounds shooting your load over a woman's belly/boobs/arse does get old eventually. I don't like condoms, the pill doesn't agree with her at all, so a vasectomy seemed like a sensible choice to sort out contraception permanently.
I've been waiting nearly 18 months for the operation which is fair enough I suppose as it's not exactly life or death surgery, but my date finally came up so it was off to the hospital for 8am on Friday morning.
Perhaps a portent of things to come was when I was sent off to a bathroom with a disposable razor and some shaving foam with instructions to shave my bollocks, which is something I haven't done since the age of 16 when me and my girlfriend of the time pretty much experimented with everything. (NOTE - Golden showers aren't really that great.) I didn't take my glasses with me which didn't help, and foamed myself up before getting the top off the razor so my hands were all slippery, then as I fumbled with it I managed to slice my fucking thumb open with the razor once the top came off. It was quite a nasty cut too so I ended up with a bandage on before I'd even gone down to theatre.
Then they wheeled me off for the op, and the anaesthetist set about his task of putting me under, he tried twice on my left hand but couldn't get the cannula in, and something broke as well, so I ended up with two puncture wounds in my left hand (and it hurt quite a bit too) before he tried on my right hand with success. Apparently my veins are 'mobile'.
Before long I was under and next thing I was waking up in the recovery room, and got wheeled back to the ward. As I came round I felt like I really quite needed a wee, the ward was empty save for an old bloke who was still under sedation from a colonoscopy, so without thinking about it too much I got up, walked to the toilet about 10 feet away, and then walked back to my bed, sat down, and starting pissing about with my phone.
About a minute later I became acutely aware of a very wet and warm feeling down in my bollocks and arse crack area, upon looking down there was a big red patch expanding on my robe. And then upon lifting the robe up and looking at my knackers, I was greeted by the site of blood pumping out of the area where they'd cut and stitched on my left bollock, like with every beat of my heart a little gush of blood came out. There was really quite a lot of blood down there.
I wasn't panicked or anything, after all I was in the hospital, so I waved over to one of the nurses through the window to their reception area, and was immediately attended to. They cleaned up down there, lifted me up, got a massive great sanitary pad arrangement underneath me, and got me a fresh robe. Fortunately the stitches hadn't actually popped or anything (I had two stitches on my left bollock, and one on the right), but obviously the wound was open enough for it to bleed quite a lot.
They used some spray wound sealant that was cold as hell, and applied some gauze, which I then had to gently hold against the wound for about an hour. And that was it for the next few hours, unfortunately every time I got up to do anything (just go to the toilet basically) the bleeding started again and it was back with the sealant and fresh gauze, but as the afternoon moved on into the evening it finally seemed to have settled down to just a small amount of weeping, and with the blessing of the doctor I was allowed to go home courtesy of a lift from my father-in-law. Oh yes, I was also wearing a jock strap for support. Very sexy. (The walk out to the car and getting in and out of the seat weren't fun, due to me feeling very much like I'd received a hefty kick in the bollocks and of course didn't want the bleeding to start again.)
First thing I did upon getting home was pour myself a large glass of wine, because fuck not drinking for 24 hours after an anaesthetic, when your bollocks have swollen to the size of a tennis ball, are bloodied and sore and bruised, have stitches in them, are weeping blood, are tormenting you with constant pain, and you can't even fucking walk properly - you need to fix that shit with a drink.
So here I am on Sunday afternoon and things aren't massively improved. The bleeding has stopped which is good, but my left bollock isn't at all happy about the indignities that have been thrust upon it. It's substantially oversized, black and purple all over, is sore as hell and throbbing, and generally doesn't look or feel at all like the bollock I've been acquainted with all my life. The right bollock isn't nearly as bad but again there's a lot of black and purple bruising, and one of the tubey things is a bit sore, and there's bruising on my actual knob as well.
I've had a couple of showers and managed to get just about all the dried blood out of there, unstuck all the hairs and whatnot, as well as got rid of all the sealant stuff that was sprayed on as that was constricting them quite badly.
Oh and fuck me, just had a look down there to remind myself of the carnage, and my right bollock has now wept a bit of blood out of the wound. Fucking awesome.
I guess I'll have to cart myself back to the hospital and get them to take a look, or rather, get my father-in-law to run me as there's no way I can drive. On the plus side it doesn't look like there's any sort of infection down there, my wee is working normally, and I got a stiffy before when Mrs Hearthly was getting changed, so it still functions on that level. (Although the mere thought of actually doing anything with the stiffy didn't cross my mind, I can't even begin to imagine the agony involved.)
On balance, if I could go back to Friday and decide not to have the vasectomy done, it's safe to say that's the course of action I'd choose.
VASECTOMY - JUST SAY NO.
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It would be fair enough if, for instance, you lived right at the foot of one such hill because then yeah, fuck it, there's no harm in seeing how far you get; but when I generally need to travel non-trivial distances to even get to a hill it would kind of suck to be 'done' not long after starting. I suspect once it settles down a bit I will try a decent walk one day just so I can see for sure what my limits are but from recent experiences just wandering around the city streets I'm not expecting much from my overall energy levels.
