The nurse wasted no time getting to work. Next to the exam table was a whole tray of instruments. We walked into a room with an exam table covered in sterile paper.
Because this is a procedure that most men-and I say “most” since there’s always a chance that a vasectomy won’t stick-only have once in their lives, and men are not great about sharing details, I am here to share with the readers of the intrawebs, in the most non-medical, non-technical, unofficial terms and possibly out-of-sequence events, since I’ve witnessed only one vasectomy in my 35 years of life, what goes down (pun intended) during a vasectomy. I closed my laptop and followed my husband and the nurse into the procedure room.
My mother sees blood and runs (literally runs), so she she ran across the street to the neighbors and called 911, and I, at five years old, wrapped my father’s hands up while we waited for the ambulance. True story: my father stuck his hand in a lawnmower when I was merely five years old, chopping off two of his fingers. I get called to extract splinters, look at festering wounds, pop blisters, and examine oddities and growths. I’m the one who takes out stitches so that family members can avoid going back to the doctor to get them removed. There are times when I think I missed my calling in the medical profession. Now, dear reader, is the time when I should explain that I love this kind of stuff. I looked at the male nurse that was there to get everything ready and responded, “I can’t go back there.” To which the nurse replied, “Of course you can.” Laptop open, I glanced up at my husband and was about to open my mouth with a “good luck!” when he responded, “Brooke, come on,” motioning for me to follow him.
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