vituperation

I opened the front door and walked into the lobby of the medical center. No offices jumped out at me, but there was a big sign on the wall, listing all the doctors in the building. Scanning the list, I found that Dr. Judy’s ex-husband (and my ex-doctor) practiced there, but he wasn’t who I was looking for.

My reasons for this visit were far more serious than a routine trip to the general practitioner.

I found the name I was looking for, noted the suite number, and headed for the stairwell. The tiny office sat in the corner of the second floor, and the three people in it took up almost half the available chairs. I signed in, presented my insurance card and license, and took a clipboard to fill out personal information about myself.

Name? Check. Address? Check. Age, sex, marital status? Check. Insurance information? Check. Purpose of visit? Good question. I pondered for a moment.

Vasectomy consult, I wrote in a shaky hand.

I finished the paperwork and turned it in. The receptionist checked it, and pointed out that I hadn’t filled out the back side of the second page. I sat back down, and checked ‘N’ for every single malady listed. I’m a healthy motherfucker.

I gave the clipboard to the receptionist a second time. She checked it over.

“You’re a healthy motherfucker,” she said. Or something like that. That might not be the exact phrase she used; I’m a little hazy on the details. Nerves, and all that. I smiled, and agreed that I was indeed a healthy motherfucker, then apologized for my penmanship.

“I work on computers all day,” I said. “And almost never have to write. Plus, I’m left-handed, which pretty much guarantees illegibility.”

I realized I was babbling and shut up.

She gave me a copy of their privacy policy, and something to sign indicating that I’d read it. I also had to sign off on who gets to see my medical records (Robyn) and for how long (”till further notice”). Except I wrote “till ftuhrer” before I could stop myself, and had to scratch it out. I apologized again.

“You nervous?” she asked, her eyes gleaming.

“Maybe a little.”

I sat back down to wait. Across from me, one man filled out the same paperwork for an older man who I assume was his father. A boy of about 15 sat with them, completing the generational trifecta. They looked to be good country folk in their overalls. The older man clutched a huge Ziploc bag of pill bottles in one liver-spotted hand.

A drug rep came in. Have you ever noticed that drug reps are pretty uniformly good-looking? This one was no exception. She told the receptionist that she had an 8:15 appointment with the doctor.

Funny, I thought, that’s the same time my appointment is.

We sat in silence, the five of us. Occasionally the man filling out the paperwork asked the older man a question. Turns out the older man’s problem, whatever it is, has been going on for two weeks. I can’t really imagine anything requiring a urologist that I’d put up with for two weeks, but it’s a well-established fact that I’m a pussy of mammoth proportion.

A nurse popped out and called the drug rep back (we see who takes priority, huh?). The boy moved from his spot by the aquarium to the chair by his (presumably) father. I noted that each table had a Bible sitting on it, and there was a whole hanging display full of tracts and booklets about Bible stuff.

Then the nurse called me back, and I followed her into the bathroom to get weighed. From there we went to a small room where she sat me down to take my blood pressure. Across from me was a recliner, and a small TV/VCR combo. I noticed a long blonde hair on the seat of the recliner.

Oh my God, I thought. This is the porn room. Where they collect post-op samples to check and make sure the guy is shooting blanks.

“116 over 62,” the nurse said. “That’s pretty good.”

I noticed that there was also a Bible in here. In the porn room. Come to think of it, that Song of Solomon has some pretty hot stuff in it.

“Thanks.”

I’ll bet that hair is from some guy’s wife, lending a helping hand while they watched porn on the little TV.

“I have some information here for you to take,” she told me, and handed me a packet of stapled pages. I thanked her.

Oh, shit. What if I’m supposed to give them a pre-op sample today? Fuck. I can’t beat off with a bunch of people walking around outside the door.

“It should explain things, give you an overview of the procedure.”

I wonder if that drug rep would come in here and help, if that’s what they need?

“In the meantime,” she said, and pointed at the TV, “we have a video for you to watch before you talk to the doctor. It’ll explain the procedure.”

Oh.

She started the video and left me alone, with an instruction to open the door when the video was over so she’d know to send the doctor in. In the video, Geraldo and Manuela, the happy-yet-fruitful Hispanic couple, dealt with the fear that Manuela might’ve caught pregnant. Fortunately for them, she wasn’t, but she told Geraldo that they “needed to talk.”

I think we all know what that means.

Sure enough, Geraldo went to see the urologist about the hot new “scalpel-free” vasectomy he offered. Geraldo was understandably nervous, so the doctor put him in a room with several other men, so they could bond and talk about vasectomies. The doctor explained the procedure, and the video had some stunning computer graphics. Below is an accurate representation of one of those graphics, showing the male external genitalia.

See what I mean? I can only imagine the Hollywood-sized budget these guys were operating on.

The men expressed their various and sundry concerns with the doctor (”Will I still be me?”, “Will I sing soprano?”). The doctor assured them they would still be men, only unable to have children.

After hearing their questions, I have to say I’m thankful they’re removing themselves from the gene pool. We have enough people in the shallow end as it is.

Next, the doctor explained that they’d need to bring in a sample to make sure the procedure took. According to him, you’re still fertile for about 20 money shots after the procedure.

“Twenty?” one man asked. “That could take years!”

That cracked my shit up. I hope no one outside heard me.

The video ended with Geraldo and Manuela sitting down to discuss Geraldo’s decision (though we all know whose decision it really was, don’t we?). The kids joined them (what the fuck?) and the screen went black. I hit the rewind button, turned off the TV, and opened the door.

While I waited for the doctor, I read over the handout the nurse had given me. It was chock-full of fascinating information, and I’m glad I had the time to read over it. I learned many new things. For example, did you know that sperm forms in the testes? I had no idea, but now I know, thanks to the information packet.

The doctor entered. He was a tall man, wearing glasses, with short stubbly hair like me. His handshake grip was firm, which is a good thing. Too damn many dead-fish handshakers out there. I liked him. He went over my medical history, asking questions here and there, and we spent a goodly amount of time talking about the whole losing weight thing.

My wife claims I manage to work it into every conversation I have with strangers, but I really don’t try to. It just happens. In this instance, when he’d commented on how healthy I am, I mentioned that doctor Judy said, “the only time you come to see me now is when you’re hurt or for a physical.”

“Now?” he asked.

See what I mean? I had to explain then about all the health issues I used to have but no longer do.

He checked my heart, and commented on the big scars marking my chest and abdomen. Then the dreaded moment arrived.

“Drop your shorts for me, please,” he said, and turned to put on a latex glove.

I complied, and stared off at the ceiling, doing the “if I can’t see you, you can’t see me” trick I learned from our cats during trips to the vet. I willed myself to a happy place. Not too happy, mind you, because I didn’t want to embarrass myself with a twitch. Or worse.

He rammed his hand up to the wrist into my scrotum, feeling around for a tube.

“That’s one,” he said, then moved his hand to the other side. Push. Push. Grope. “And that’s two.”

“I’m glad you could find them,” I quipped. “I was afraid the nerves might make them suck back up into my belly.”

He just looked at me.

And grabbed my little man with that same firm handshake grip. Squeeze. Slide. Squeeze. Slide. Squeeze. Twist. Turn. Squeeze.

I wondered if I’d have to pay extra for this part.

“I’ll bet the surgery helped you out down here,” he said, and tweaked Little Fred.

He was matter-of-fact with his tweak, not pervy or anything, but I nearly ran up the wall and clung to the ceiling.

“Yeah, it did.”

“I tell all my patients that the best way to increase the size is to lose the fat above it.”

“The surgery did wonders,” I admitted. “Lifting everything up like that.”

“I’m sure it made it bigger.”

I never in all my life imagined I’d be having such a conversation with a man.

He dropped Little Fred and rammed his hand back up into my pelvic cavity.

“Cough.”

I did.

He moved his hand to the other side.

“Again.”

I complied.

“Okay,” he said, turning from me. “Pull up your pants.”

He peeled off the latex glove, pitched it into the trash, and washed his hands.

“Do you have any questions?”

“How long until I can start working out again?”

Priorities, you know.

“It takes six weeks to fully heal, but use your best judgement. You probably want to take a week or so off. The biggest danger is bleeding.”

I nodded, thinking that a week off the weights would be good, as a recent round of intense training has awakened the beast-in-the-shoulder I thought I killed almost three years ago.

“You want some happy pills for the surgery?”

I nodded, and he wrote a prescription for two Halcions.

“These’ll make you not care,” he said.

“In the event I take the pills that day, then tell you to just ‘cut them off’, please don’t.”

He grinned. “I don’t think you’ll tell me that.”

“Just in case I do.”

He started scribbling on a second scrip sheet.

“This is for the pain,” he said. He wrote a very large “P”, and put a smiley in it and a hat on top. Then, following it, “ercocet”.

The smiley in the “P” struck me as the funniest thing I’d seen in a while, and I giggled. He raised his eyebrows. I pointed.

“The smiley in the ‘P’,” I said.

“Percocet makes you smile.”

“That it does.”

He finished up and sent me to the front to pay my co-pay and make my appointment. I never did ask if the VCR was ever used for tapes of a different sort.