Frozen Peas • <strong>Voice</strong> <strong>Male</strong> Men‘s Health By Gregory Keer Sitting in bed with a bag of frozen peas in my lap, I was in heaven. Never mind that I was enduring a steadily pulsing pain in the middle of my body. My wife was catering <strong>to</strong> me. She served me food, allowed me <strong>to</strong> nap for much of the day, relinquished ownership of the TV remote, and gave me long looks of adoration. For the first time in eight years—since my wife got pregnant with child number one—I was the center of attention. The secret? Four little syllables. Va-sec-<strong>to</strong>-my. In my proud state of convalescence, I had grand visions. Mostly, they involved variations on the following dialogue: Wendy: “We can’t have sex <strong>to</strong>night. I might get pregnant.” Gregg: “Of course we can. I got a vasec<strong>to</strong>my!” (Insert image of me in superhero Spandex, bearing a giant VM on my chest for Vasec<strong>to</strong>my Man!) Certainly, my vasec<strong>to</strong>my would not preclude the other excuses of “I’m tired” and “Honey, the kids are playing Candy Land in the next room.” But this new state of male harmlessness would put me in the driver’s seat on all other occasions. I must admit that more readily accessible sexual activity was a motiva<strong>to</strong>r for getting snipped, though it wasn’t the only fac<strong>to</strong>r. My wife and I had reached the point of child saturation. Three boys were enough <strong>to</strong> keep us happy and busy. Also, after years of primarily relying on Wendy for the contraception, it was my turn <strong>to</strong> take over the responsibility. So, four months after Ari was born, I made a pre-op appointment for my little procedure (please don’t take the word “little” the wrong way). In Dr. Leff’s office, I felt a bit funny. It wasn’t just because the urologist was a family friend whom I had known since I was 12. It was the thought that, upon getting vasec<strong>to</strong>mized, I would no longer be able <strong>to</strong> create children. I knew “ I felt a bit funny: on getting vasec<strong>to</strong>mized, I would no longer be able <strong>to</strong> create children. I knew I would still be a man, but this was an alteration of my identity.” I would still be a man, but this was an alteration of my identity. Then, as Dr. Leff explained the procedure, I realized this was one of the most grown-up things I could do. It’s one thing <strong>to</strong> decide <strong>to</strong> have children. It’s another <strong>to</strong> close the chapter on creating kids and concentrate on raising them. A week later, I found myself in the surgical chair, ready for this new chapter. Dr. Leff politely asked if I wanted <strong>to</strong> watch the procedure. I passed on the observation part (I was confident but not that confident) and opted for a verbal play-by-play. “Last chance,” the good doc<strong>to</strong>r said, as he prepared <strong>to</strong> snip. “Let’s do this,” I said, chuckling nervously in my vulnerable state. With that, he cut, cauterized, and tied off the vas deferens in less than 20 minutes. The only evidence was two small red marks. At the end, a scene from Everything You Always Wanted <strong>to</strong> Know About Sex, But Were Afraid <strong>to</strong> Ask popped in<strong>to</strong> my head, the one in which the sperm prepare for lift-off. In my sequel <strong>to</strong> this vignette, “workers” assemble for a big speech from the boss, who announces, “We’ve closed the fac<strong>to</strong>ry.” Yep, my “boys” had officially retired. Barring a $10,000 surgery that could res<strong>to</strong>re my baby-making ability, I was a new man. As Wendy drove me home, I announced, “Let’s go for lunch <strong>to</strong> celebrate.” “Will the Novocain last?” she said. “I’m fine,” I said with bravado. “I feel— oh, that’s a little sore. I need <strong>to</strong> lie down.” At home, I applied the bag of frozen peas <strong>to</strong> reduce the swelling, but the pain never rose <strong>to</strong> the serious level. Maybe it had something <strong>to</strong> do with all the wonderful service my wife provided during the day and the loving hugs of my sons, who came home later. (I decided <strong>to</strong> leave out the details of Daddy’s doc<strong>to</strong>r visit and opted for a “Daddy strained his leg” explanation.) By the next morning, I felt tender but not uncomfortable. I managed <strong>to</strong> coach my oldest son’s basketball game that morning and, aside from some ill-advised jumping up and down <strong>to</strong> protest a bad referee call, you would never know I was nursing my lower ana<strong>to</strong>my. About six weeks later I was pronounced sperm free. Today, I feel no difference in my body. Mentally, I’m rather proud. I’m even part of a club of friends I never knew had had vasec<strong>to</strong>mies. As with so many other intimate details, most fellas don’t discuss getting clipped. Perhaps it’s because, physically, it isn’t as big a deal as it may have been for generations past. I’m happy <strong>to</strong> report that, while I’m no longer in the baby business, I’m ever more focused on just being Dad—and hearing a few extra “yeses” from my wife. Gregory Keer is a syndicated columnist, educa<strong>to</strong>r, and on-air expert on fatherhood. His Family Man ® column appears in such publications as L.A. Parent, Bay Area Parent, and Bos<strong>to</strong>n Parents’ Paper. In addition <strong>to</strong> writing for Parenting magazine and the Parents’ Choice Foundation, Keer publishes the online fatherhood magazine familymanonline. Keer can be reached at www. familymanonline.com. 20
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