Tomorrow’s the big day. I’ve been looking forward to this for some time. Early Friday morning, coincidentally my 30th birthday, I will be having my vas ectomied — lay-speak for a vasectomy.
I’m absolutely certain about my decision to become sterile. I can’t recall a time I’ve ever said to myself: “I wish I had a son or daughter” or “I can’t wait to have kids.” I will not be storing any semen, so I expect the value of existing stock to rise considerably.
However, as the hours tick by I find myself becoming more apprehensive. It’s the pain of the procedure that I am concerned about. At the dentist, I always need to have two shots of carbocaine, else I’ll feel everything. I’ll be sure to let the anesthesiologist know I may require more than most people, but having never had surgery before, I do not have any idea how much I’ll actually need.
I feel like my heart is beating a little faster, and I’m doing that can’t-figure-out-what-to-do-with-my-hands thing. The word “jitters” has never seemed so descriptive.