With your Roastmaster, Dr. Dream Crusher.
As some of you may know, Mr. PB and I will attempt to start a family shortly after our honeymoon. The catch (cause isn’t there always)? He had a vasectomy four years ago, right before we met. So we have just had our first consultation with Mr. PB’s original vasectomizer (that’s not a word but you’ll notice I do enjoy making them up) to get schooled on exactly what will be involved in the impending “unsnip”.
While Mr. PB filled out paperwork (“Trouble Urinating? No. Enlarged Prostate? No. Erectile Dysfunction? Emphatic No”), I took amused note that we were the youngest people there by at least 30 years. I suppose trips to the urologist’s office are typically followed by trips to the nearest early bird special.
Mr. PB’s name was called and we were placed in an exam room. Five awkward minutes passed (because really, what do you talk about when your big, strong husband-to-be is looking decidedly small on a paper-covered exam table?), and I most certainly did not take pictures (who does that? Not me. Nope).
The hallowed one in the white coat finally made his entrance just as I was shoving my phone under the back cover of People magazine (with which I was not taking pictures). I then promptly ushered myself out (it’s policies like this and closed bathroom doors that keep my sex life firmly and passionately intact) so that Dr. Dream Crusher could digitally violate my poor, unsuspecting fiancé. As I stood outside the door practicing my This-Isn’t-Awkward-at-All face, I attempted to allay my guilt at surrendering Mr. PB to The Snapping Rubber Glove of Doom by running through all of the possible indignities in which this little adventure would eventually land me.
I’m facing down dozens of rubber gloves and various other foreign objects shoved in very uncomfortable places. The score shall be evened, Mr. PB…
The door opened and I peeked cautiously inside. Confident the coast was clear, I reclaimed my table-side seat and bestowed upon Mr. PB the biggest, saddest “I’m so sorry that just happened to you” eyes I could muster. Dr. Dream Crusher allowed this moment between us, and then cleared his throat and began.
He told us that the good news was as followed: that the vasectomy was only 4 years old, so the odds of success were ever in our favor (Katniss for the win). Also on that list was my age. He said that I was young and should have no problems. Imagine that. One gynecologist’s dried up old maid is a cross-town urologist’s blossoming garden of fertility.
Weighing heavy on the bad news list: the cost. $8,000 give or take, all out of pocket. Also, Dr. Dream Crusher insisted on performing the procedure under general anesthesia. That is a deal breaker. Many reversal specialists perform this under twilight sedation, which is much more cost-effective, and most importantly, safer. Leaving Mr. PB alone on an exam table with a urologist and a box of white latex gloves is one thing. Putting his life in danger for the purpose of sperm retrieval is quite another. The other nugget of unwelcome news was that Dr. Dream Crusher discovered something called a varicocele (a concentration of varicose veins) behind the left testicle. He assured us that it’s wildly common in men. Women get varicose veins in their legs, and men get them… not in their legs. He then asked Mr. PB if he had ever caused a pregnancy. After we all laughed at his “Not to my knowledge” reply and obvious corresponding jokes appertaining, Dr. Dream Crusher dropped the steaming pile of bad news:
“Based on the information here, I can’t recommend a vasectomy reversal as your best option. A varicocele is a collection of veins, which are normally harmless. However, that can often lead to increased heat in a heat-sensitive area. That increased blood flow can cause heat damage, and thus, hinder sperm motility and counts. A significant percentage of male factor infertility cases are attributed to the presence of a varicocele. You may want to consider aspiration and insemination, or IVF. I don’t do it but I have a colleague who does.”
In plain terms this means that even if we invest the money and subject Mr. PB to the horror that is a scalpel to the balls, we may be right back where we started due to an unforeseen sperm roast.
*The doctor ran out of lollipops so I took Mr. PB straight to the local movie theater to see the latest blockbuster boy movie instead.
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