An Irishman’s Diary “It’s irreversible.” That’s what everybody, from the doctor to the best friend, warned the Diary when he (regrettably, for the purpose of this article, the Diary must
remain irredeemably male) broached his intentions. “What if you change your mind in 20 years’ time?” asked the best friend. The Diary replied that if he felt such urges at that age he should be locked up for the good of mankind.
The local general practitioner listed all the alternatives, only one of which would have involved the Diary directly. The Diary was immovable about the irreversible. The GP referred him to a colleague who specialises in the matter.
The surgical procedure known as a vasectomy is, as all Diary readers know, named after the medieval Ruritanian princeling Vas the Impaler, whose subjects decided the time had come to take the law – among other things – into their own hands before any more of the village virgins were impaled.
History does not record how Vas reacted.
In a reversal of the usual order of things, a vasectomy eliminates the risk without reducing the pleasure.
In Ireland it has become the speciality of general practitioners, using local anaesthetics in their own consulting rooms, rather than being carried out by specialist surgeons. This is just as well since the VHI does not cover it, notwithstanding the obvious potential for reducing future claims.
The GP to whom the Diary was referred had several thousand snips to his credit. He had recently published an article in one of the learned medical journals, complete with diagrams detailed enough to enable anyone sufficiently determined to practise on themselves with the magazine in one hand and a scalpel in the other.
His surgery was in a homely terraced house in the inner suburbs. The front parlour had become the waiting room. Consultations were held in the dining room. And the surgery was carried out in what had been the kitchen.
In a preliminary consultation, he outlined the elements of the procedure, and the risks, drawbacks and possible side effects.
Sperm, it would appear, are among nature’s great survivalists. They breed unremittingly by the millions in each adult male, whether they are wanted or not, and lurk about in the hope of an opportunity. Surgery is no more effective than celibacy in stunting either their numbers or their optimism.
What it does is deny them the opportunity. First the doctor removes, with a scalpel, a little segment of each of the tubes through which they head for the outside world. Then, like the famous sausages, they are double-wrapped for double protection. He heat-seals the four severed ends with a gadget resembling an electric soldering iron. While romance may be the object of the procedure, there is none of the romance of high technology about it. Finally he puts a stitch in each of the incisions, cleans you off, and sends you on your way.
So that’s it? Not quite.
You may have thought that that was the end of all precautions, but there are still certain precautions to be taken. First, the survivalist qualities of sperm must be remembered. They lurk about for weeks in corners the scalpel couldn’t reach, and retain enough vitality to undo all that has been done.
Among the Diary’s vast acquaintanceship is a Catholic priest who became a father-to-be several weeks after he had had his entire prostate removed. Apparently the sight of the collar inhibited the surgeon from issuing the usual caution.
The doctor had more advice. Walk carefully and, if necessary, carry a stick. Go home by car and spend the night in front of the telly. Wear very tight underpants. Take a salt bath every day for a week. Don’t do any heavy lifting . . .
For the convenience of his clients, the doctor schedules all his vasectomies for Friday afternoons, giving those too shy to request sick leave two days to recover in privacy. He would not allow the Diary to make an appointment on the spot. Take a few days to think about it, was the advice. The Diary did, and was given an appointment for that Friday. One patient was leaving as the Diary arrived. Another was arriving as the Diary left, 26 relaxing minutes later.
One last chance
First there was one last consultation – one last chance to chicken out. Then the Diary removed his nether clothing, and entered the kitchen to meet the doctor who would be assisting. It was the first time the Diary had been introduced to a young woman after removing his trousers . . .
A casual tenor was retained, throughout, with much speculation as to why thin people feel much less pain than fat ones . . . Finally, he used about five yards of catgut to close each tiny incision and gave the Diary the plastic bottles and plain brown envelopes in which to send the samples to the laboratory.
Some countries are satisfied if the sperm have been reduced to a few thousand after three months. The Irish standard is absolute zero. Either our sperm are exceptionally hardy or it may be due to the unavailability of any means of dealing with unwanted pregnancy.
So judgment on the Diary’s future prospects now rests in the hands of the postal service.
To read the original article, see iti.ms/1Abi536
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