Tomorrow I'm getting a vasectomy, or so I hope. If America's terrible insurance has done anything, it's made getting the actual procedure a piece of cake.
Here is where the confusion comes in and why we need a single-payer system yesterday. I chose this clinic because Aetna's website shows that the doctor is in their network, but Aetna's customer service person, who's a million miles away physically and languagy, says the doctor works for a clinic that's not in the network. SO, if the doctor bills me, I'm covered. If the clinic bills me, I'm not. The only upside I can see about that is that, when the kids misbehave, I could tell them that they drove me to pay a thousand dollars to get stabbed in the balls.
But what I'd like to start here is a tutorial on how to get a vasectomy. I don't know dick yet (boom!) but as I learn I'll share with you. All I've got is my insurance issue, the day-of protocol, and how not to handle the initial phone call to the clinic.
I liked this clinic's dorky ads.
The call to the clinic was tough for me. Yes, I know, my wife had three humans emerge from her groin so this is but a small penance for playing a role in the most horrific thing I've ever seen. But back to my small problem: calling a stranger to talk about my testicles. I know, not a big deal, but I have a crazy imagination. When we first got married respectable elders would ask about children and I wanted to shout STOP ASKING US ABOUT SEX. And I envisioned the act with them there with a clipboard and an instructional projector and those physician forehead lamps. Same thing when someone says they have tummy issues or whatever they ate "didn't sit well." I see everything that implies. I'm like the albino love child of Richard Prior and Dionne Warwick: I have visions and they're dirty.
So, being the 12 year old that I am, I stared at my iPhone for a long time before hitting the green button and realizing there was no turning back. The receptionist answered with a minimal amount of verbiage leaving me to sit in the newly availed silence. "Hello?" she pried the gap with the hope she could hang up and move on with her day.
"Hi...yeah..." I began, trying to sound really chill about the situation. "I'M CALLING ABOUT MY BALLS!" I heard when I explained that I needed to schedule a vasectomy. And then silence again.
"Um...yes?" she inquired and I wondered if I really said the balls thing.
"That's really all I rehearsed," I explained to someone who should know that it's weird, it's all weird. It shouldn't be weird but it is you bastard Puritan ancestors.
After what could be heard as a massive eye roll, she explained the things that I'll explain to you.
Get your insurance right or, as the Denver Urology Clinic website explains, prepare to pay $840.
Arrange a ride to and from the clinic. I had so many people volunteer and I think it's because we're all 12 year olds and want to see someone try to function with damaged junk.
Wash yourself. I was a little indignant about that request. Really? Of course. I want to make sure everything is represented well.
You can shave or the doctor will shave you. Actually can't remember if this doctor shaves so I may be shaving in the morning. My wife has opted out. No friends have volunteered.
Wear a jock strap or snug underwear with loose-fitting sweats or pants.
You're not going to want to get up for a couple of days.
No heavy lifting for 7 days. (Those last two are already lifestyle choices)
You're going to want sacks of cold things you can wrap in a towel and hold to your nethers.
You can't shower for a few days.
You're going to need to ejaculate a bunch.
So, yeah, a lot of this is totally doable. I didn't include the part where they numb your groin and scalpel their way into your baby maker. That's where they detour the thoroughfare (vas deferens) that sperm takes from testicles to your urethra (which reminds me of 1989 and asking this really cool kid who got laid a lot how someone's supposed to know if you're going to ejaculate or pee. He said, "Oh...you'll know." And I stared out the window wondering if I really would.)
But honestly, I don't know that much yet. I may grow up and become a man (in this ironic way) or simply get tripped up and delayed by insurance. Either way, women rock. No, really, just give it up to the stronger of the sexes so if you get weak at the sight of a blade at least you've conceded as much before blacking out.
My final product makes sure I follow through.