Explaining to some how I need "elective surgery" makes me sound like I'm getting a boob job. But I carefully crafted that phrase for three reasons:
1. Surgery = I'm going through something very serious, so I hope you'll take it seriously too.
2. Elective = But I'm not dying from anything.
3. Elective Surgery = that phrase almost demands that you not ask what it is.
That being said, the surgery was earlier referenced in my online journal so I think it's safe to give an 'epilogue' among us friends.
As the consult for my vasectomy, the doctor told me that I should wait to have it done after the Lakefront Marathon. In turn, I rescheduled and got it done a week after. To be exact, it was last Friday.
I won't go into too many details. There is way too much information to pour over. I could probably write a short book on the experience. I will reflect on some observations.
It was a very short procedure, totaling about one hour.
Everyone was extremely kind and the doctor was very cool. They talked me through the whole thing and made it very comfortable.
He asked that I take two pills before I came. One pill was for fighting off infection and the other was valium. I'm not sure if the penicillin kicked in but the valium sure did. I kept laughing like I was in on a joke that wasn't really taking place. Jeni kept asking me, "What? What?" and giggling. She finally got it that the valium was making me silly.
When I walked into the surgical room, the bed was dressed and all the sterilized gowns in one pile. The nurses kept reminding me not to touch any of the green garments because they're sterilized. Mentioning once or twice is fine but when they tell you five times, you start to wonder if they are especially fixated on your dirty, dirty hands not touching their delicate things.
The room was like any examination room. That day, it was made up, clearly for a "Vas". It had a huge tampon like thing laying where my groin would lay. The lights were pinpointed at that location as well--small round white lights that were almost setting the stage for my extremities to put on a show.
White White White. Everything was white. Except for the sterile green clothes.
The nurse knocked and I allowed her into the room since I was stripped from the waist down and tucked under a sheet. The lights, though, were shining to where the show was about to unfold.
She told me that I would be shaved. I was not sure how much would be shaved. Now that we've put this behind us and I've had time to review their work, I see it was only the "beans" that were shaved. This puts the surrounding hair growth at a peculiar piece of the design. As she finished, she told me that she would call in the doctor.
He came in and talked me through everything. He started with my right side. This makes me think he's a lefty. When his discussion on how things were going got too visual, I asked him to change the subject. We talked about the last episode of the Office. We talked about the Brewers. We talked about his love life (ps, Susie: His girlfriend is moving to Madison soon, so now's your time to make your move). He went to the left side and things got more real. And he wanted to talk about how that "always seems to happen." I, again, asked to change the conversation.
I made no quarrel with what was happening and I suddenly became in control of what was happening. I tried to subside the anguish by singing to myself. Then I sang a little bit out loud as he made genuine visual examples, "We're making the incision..."
"Jo--June--Johnny." Captain Beefheart was there somewhere, "Harry Irene. Fell apart at the seams." But it came out in hums. Where's that valium? Where did it go? I was giggling on the drive here. What happened?
They finished. The doctor left and gave me a bag of goods and some instructions. The nurse told me to sit up slowly after she left. And she told me that after I got dressed, she'll come back in and talk to me.
I iced the crap out of my beans. There's supposed to be so much humor in it but there's something sad about it.
They attached a sling to the beans. It had a gauze pad that helped with the scarring.
Franny gets a book for just about every gift-giving holiday. We're those-types-of-parents who like to get educational gifts just as much as the action figures and play sets. About six years ago, we were in Williamsport for Christmas. Franny got the book "Don't Let Go". It's just about the sappiest twenty or so pages that tell the story of one father teaching his daughter how to ride a bike.
Near the end, the daughter tells her father "Don't let go!" But he has to let go in order to help learn to ride a two-wheeler.
I was lucky enough to see my father reading this book to my daughter before he passed away. He had trouble getting through parts of the book. He felt himself getting emotional and skipped over the parts that would make himself well up. While Franny sat on his lap, her acquaintance with this book was making her curious why he wasn't reading parts. She was completely still and looked to me in wonder why so many parts were being skipped.
Dad tried to bite his tongue and skip over the parts where the father had to let go of the little girl's bike. They eventually got through the book--probably quicker than Franny would have preferred.
He passed away four years ago.
I miss you Dad. Franny does too. Even if you skip reading the best parts of the books.
Every now and then, my wife takes off for business trips that last weeks at a time.
Currently, she's gone for ten days on business. It typically happens every year either this time or during the month of May. She's travels to the Far East. What she does, I have no idea. She could be building trains with vendors for all I know. Of course, if it were that easy to explain, then I would grasp it and I wouldn't have this mystery surrounding her trips. It has something to do with inspecting conditions & samples from vendors who manufacture their clothing.
In turn, I'm flying solo with the kids. It seems to be going fine. The anticipation of it usually bugs me more than anything else.
When she leaves, I can finally get to work helping the kids out. Homework, food and television are usually the primary colors of our daily rainbow. But it's incredibly tiring. I walk from task to task with these kids.
I get up shower, make lunch, make a pot of coffee, Ian wakes up, I give him milk, watch "Go, Diego, Go" then "Dora" three minutes later, then "Cars" five minutes later, then Franny wakes up. He sits with her and I go get him an outfit. Do you get the idea?
My responsiblities are packed in fairly tightly. I walk from one job to another. I believe that I get down time at about 8:00 or 8:30 when Ian's in bed and Franny's watching something like "How It's Made". I'm pretty pooped and work on my third beer and some dinner.
When I'm put to task like this, I think of two things: "I can't believe that single parents do this." and "I can't believe single parents aren't allowed to legally use marijuana." It's easy for me to effort through ten days of this hectic lifestyle, but hundreds of thousands do it with (what seems like) no end in sight.
We have to get out of the house. I need to make a grocery store run. I think we need more beer.