So on Friday, Mr. A got the old snipperoo.
The week leading up to his surgery was a solid week of jokes about his genitals. I think at one point I may even have made up a little song. Do you know how hard it is to find rhymes for scrotum and testicles?
We were expecting the worst. Whenever we mentioned that Mr. A was going to get snipped, there was a resounding chorus of sympathy. Men couldn’t seem to help but share one of the following: A) Stories about how they would NEVER agree to let someone cut open their balls, B) Stories of how a friend of a friend of a friend had a vasectomy and their penis rotted off, or C) Tales of their own snippage and the suffering that followed.
As for Mr. A’s surgery, I am unimpressed. I dropped him off at 6:45, came home to drop M off at school at 7:50 and picked Mr. A up by 8:30. They gave him some decent drugs and after I went to procure an “anti fungal athletic supporter*, Mr. A really didn’t seem that uncomfortable. The suffering certainly didn’t hinder his ability to spend two entire days and nights playing with the playstation he borrowed from a friend.
It isn’t that I really wanted him to suffer, exactly, but it really doesn’t seem fair that he got off so easy.
I have managed almost all aspects of the pain in the ass that is modern birth control since I was 17 and that includes 12 years of this relationship . Suffering that included discussing birth control with my mom while I was in high school, taking pills that made me sick/break out/gain weight, carrying around a diaphragm and spermicide and having to remember to use it, 100% of the blame when our birth control failed ONCE in all those years, an IUD that makes me bleed like a stuck pig once a month, etc.
I also trudged through the indignities and discomforts of 9.5 months of pregnancy. I won’t go through them all, but I even got stretchmarks on my CALVES for crying out loud. My CALVES. And my sideburns grew in so thick I looked like a short, fat, hairy MAN. No one tells you about that when they talk about “glowing” pregnant women. The only glowing I did was when my face was red from living in a neverending hot flash that lasted two months.
So far, Mr. A’s surgery looks more pleasant than the first week of pregnancy was for me, not to mention the following 4o after that (Need I mention that M was born a solid week overdue? One of the worst weeks of my entire life.)
Anyway, he lived and so far, his package hasn’t fallen off from gangrene. Hopefully, the surgery on his sperms (as M called it) will be a success and I can wash my hands of birth control for the rest of my life.
Halle-freaking-llujah!
(*Seriously, Antifungal was written in enormous font on the packaging. The thought of fungal athletic supporters haunted me throughout the rest of my trip to Target.)
