It’s done. Somehow, I expected the aftermath to consist of more than just an inability to sit comfortably for a few days. Perhaps the sound of a heavy door slamming closed, or a howl as the wind gathered up around me, wrathful nature venting its rage toward me for cheating it. Instead, I just feel a little contemplative. A sense that, whatever the register on my emotional and intellectual gauges, the moment is a profound one. That, and my balls hurt.
I’d been considering this for a long time, and having put my sperm on death row about three months ago, the long awaited appointment finally rolled around. In all that time there were no second thoughts, just the curious feeling that there should be second thoughts. As if second thoughts were the done thing in this situation. A very English response, I shouldn’t wonder. And, up until the night before, I wasn’t even anxious about it. Then it hit me in one go, must have been saving it up. I wouldn’t call it panic, but the realisation that I was less than a day from having my scrotum sliced open certainly rang an alarm bell in my head. A very human response, I shouldn’t wonder.
However, my resolve was as steel, and I made my way to the clinic with a sense that mine was a righteous path. And If not a righteous path, then certainly a pragmatic one. I have a son; a wonderful, bright, shining star of a son. This is all I will ever need. I have played my part in the lineage of my insane family. I have given of my bountiful seed for the posterity of all mankind. Time to turn the faucet off, I think.
The doctor was an amiable, chatty, and welcoming sort of lunatic. After fulfilling his obligation to make it absolutely clear to me that the procedure was permanent, as if reading me my Miranda rights, he went on to explain that his method involved no scalpel. I felt a nanosecond of relief, shattered abruptly when he added that he would, instead, be using scissors. I couldn’t quite tell if he was joking or not. And since, during the procedure itself, I did not look down once, I still don’t know. I guess some things are best left in ignorance.
What followed was an exercise in the systematic dismantling of all male dignity. This was not a premeditated effort to that end, by any means. In fact, the doctor, nurse, and attending student (yes, an audience for the performance) were faultless, and went out of their way to make me feel as comfortable as possible. However, when you are laying on an operating table, bare from the waist down, a strange man tugging on parts of you that weren’t designed for tugging, while two strange women look on, I’m afraid dignity slinks quietly from the room and tells you it’ll meet you at home.
We made idle conversation during the procedure. I swapped dreadful puns with the doctor, commented on the ceiling tiles, refused the offer to look down, and did my best to ignore the pain as the anaesthetic needles went in, or the detached tugging sensations that followed, or the smell of my own burning flesh when the cauterising tool was used. Half way through I told him I’d changed my mind, and asked him to put things back. He took it in good humour. Not that I would have complained if he hadn’t. I was absolutely at this man’s mercy, after all.
And then it was over. I returned home to find my dignity waiting for me, as promised. The last few days have been uncomfortable, sometimes painful, but not unbearable. I am now a broken link in the chain of mankind’s continuation. If apocalypse strikes and I become the last man left alive, we’re basically fucked. However, I don’t feel the burden. One door closes and another one opens. At one point during the surgery, the doctor waved his cauterising tool at me and grinned like a mad scientist. ‘No point in having toys if you can’t play with them,’ he cackled. I smiled through the discomfort. ‘That’s why I’m having this operation.’
I thought it was witty at the time, considering the circumstances.
I’d been considering this for a long time, and having put my sperm on death row about three months ago, the long awaited appointment finally rolled around. In all that time there were no second thoughts, just the curious feeling that there should be second thoughts. As if second thoughts were the done thing in this situation. A very English response, I shouldn’t wonder. And, up until the night before, I wasn’t even anxious about it. Then it hit me in one go, must have been saving it up. I wouldn’t call it panic, but the realisation that I was less than a day from having my scrotum sliced open certainly rang an alarm bell in my head. A very human response, I shouldn’t wonder.
However, my resolve was as steel, and I made my way to the clinic with a sense that mine was a righteous path. And If not a righteous path, then certainly a pragmatic one. I have a son; a wonderful, bright, shining star of a son. This is all I will ever need. I have played my part in the lineage of my insane family. I have given of my bountiful seed for the posterity of all mankind. Time to turn the faucet off, I think.
The doctor was an amiable, chatty, and welcoming sort of lunatic. After fulfilling his obligation to make it absolutely clear to me that the procedure was permanent, as if reading me my Miranda rights, he went on to explain that his method involved no scalpel. I felt a nanosecond of relief, shattered abruptly when he added that he would, instead, be using scissors. I couldn’t quite tell if he was joking or not. And since, during the procedure itself, I did not look down once, I still don’t know. I guess some things are best left in ignorance.
What followed was an exercise in the systematic dismantling of all male dignity. This was not a premeditated effort to that end, by any means. In fact, the doctor, nurse, and attending student (yes, an audience for the performance) were faultless, and went out of their way to make me feel as comfortable as possible. However, when you are laying on an operating table, bare from the waist down, a strange man tugging on parts of you that weren’t designed for tugging, while two strange women look on, I’m afraid dignity slinks quietly from the room and tells you it’ll meet you at home.
We made idle conversation during the procedure. I swapped dreadful puns with the doctor, commented on the ceiling tiles, refused the offer to look down, and did my best to ignore the pain as the anaesthetic needles went in, or the detached tugging sensations that followed, or the smell of my own burning flesh when the cauterising tool was used. Half way through I told him I’d changed my mind, and asked him to put things back. He took it in good humour. Not that I would have complained if he hadn’t. I was absolutely at this man’s mercy, after all.
And then it was over. I returned home to find my dignity waiting for me, as promised. The last few days have been uncomfortable, sometimes painful, but not unbearable. I am now a broken link in the chain of mankind’s continuation. If apocalypse strikes and I become the last man left alive, we’re basically fucked. However, I don’t feel the burden. One door closes and another one opens. At one point during the surgery, the doctor waved his cauterising tool at me and grinned like a mad scientist. ‘No point in having toys if you can’t play with them,’ he cackled. I smiled through the discomfort. ‘That’s why I’m having this operation.’
I thought it was witty at the time, considering the circumstances.
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