The First Cut is the Deepest

Anonymous

A day that will be forever etched in my psyche is August 6, 1998, the day I got the 'snip'. At exactly ten thirty that morning I found myself taking a seat with my wife in a worryingly quiet waiting room alongside another eight condemned men. I tried to quell my rising panic by indulging myself in one of the many brochures left on the nearby coffee table, informing me how painless and easy the procedure was and how professional and caring the staffs were. But the only thing I was worried about was getting a surgeon with cold hands.

I had only had to wait for around ten minutes, (the longest ten minutes of my life) when my name was called out by the receptionist. With some assistance from my better half I managed to prise my fingernails from the arms of the chair and disengage my feet from around the chair legs, and made my way slowly out of the door, where I was to meet the man who was going to alter the way I walked for the next couple of weeks.

With an uncanny resemblance to the cartoon character, 'Professor Calculus' from 'Tintin'. The surgeon proffered his hand and gave a polite "hello". I took his clammy but warm hand, and mumbled "hello" back in a little boy's voice. He showed me into a small room with nothing in it apart from a surgical table, a trolley weighed down with an assortment of vicious looking medical instruments on it, a changing screen in one corner and several chairs in another. Please God, I thought, I hope no one's coming in to spectate.

Politely the 'nutty' Professor asked me to go behind the screen where I was to 'strip down to the waist'. (Why this sudden need for privacy, when a few minutes from now I would come out with all my manly bits fully on display, I couldn't work out, but I did as I was told anyway). Emerging shamefaced, I was told to 'hop on to the table'. Easier said than done. If I try clambering onto the table freestyle, with everything loose, I could end up having a nasty accident involving my Gentleman's sporran. Equally if I had held onto the problematic area one-handed and attempted to climb up, I could very easily have lost my balance and ended up on the floor. I decided to opt for the Ladyboy technique. This involved tucking everything between my thighs as best I could and rolling onto the table with as much decorum I could muster.

Having made it on the table in one piece, I physically flinched when the surgeon came towards me with a huge hypodermic needle. Like a fool I tugged up the sleeve of my shirt in preparation for an injection in my arm. With my eyes closed I failed to notice that the needle was actually heading much further south, towards my scrotum, plunging efficiently into, firstly my right testicle, and then my left. (I can't describe the pain I felt, I think I've blocked the memory from my mind, but I do still have the teeth marks on my right hand to remind me).

I was informed by this sadist that the anaesthetic "would take about five minutes to kick in". But what seemed like mere nanoseconds later he had scalpel in hand and was now carving my scrotum open like a Sunday roast. Again I had to wimp out and look away. The only sensation I could feel was a slight tugging, which I guessed were the tubes being pulled into a position to be severed. I heard two clear snips, from a pair of surgical scissors. (I hope they were scissors and not something he'd been using to prune his roses the weekend before).

As I lay there praying for time to pass quickly, a peculiar smell entered my nasal passages, like someone was having fry-up, I could distinctly make out a strong whiff of bacon. 'Professor Calculus' must have clocked me sniffing the air, as he casually informed me that the smell of burning was him "cauterizing the ends of the tubes, to prevent them from fusing back together".

A moment later he informed me with a look of glee on his face that "everything had gone well ". All he had to do now was put in a few stitches, and quickly got set to work with a large sewing needle (which I didn't think was necessary to show me), and started suturing my tattered bag with all the skill of a small kid in a trainer factory. "All done!" he said chirpily as he slapped something cold and smelly onto his handiwork to sterilize the wound.

A rush of air came out of my lungs as I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I thanked the Professor with the same kind of enthusiasm that a freed hostage reserves for his homicidal captor. I now felt I had a bond with this man, having come through such a harrowing experience together, like a kind of manly respect. (I don't think the Professor shared the same feelings though. So far he hasn't called, hasn't written, no e-mails, nothing.)

As I sat at home about four weeks later, when the pain that felt like Bruce Lee had been using my groin as target practise had gone, I wondered if it had been worth it all.

I came to the conclusion that, yes, it was worth it, not only would I now have more quality time with the children I already have, it also meant my Wife would never have to go through the experience of another difficult pregnancy which made the pain I felt pale into insignificance. I would even go as far as recommending this procedure to all men in my position. If a total wimp like me can go through it then any man can.