December 17, 2021.
Once again it is December and I am relegated to a couch after surgery. Apparently, I subconsciously choose December as the month for all my surgeries and recovery time. In December of 2019 I had to have surgery for a torn labrum in my shoulder. A serious injury I received by some combination of wear and tear from working in the coffee industry for 10 + years and some weight-lifting tweak that finally tore it. I had to go under general anesthesia for the surgery and was in a sling for three months. I couldn’t go snowboarding or biking or do yoga until March at the earliest. My plan for 2020 was to heal up from the surgery and get back in climbing and snowboarding shape. Cut back on drinking—or quit altogether—and finally lose some weight I’d let stay in stomach for far too long. Turns out none of all that mattered very much. March came and the ski resorts and climbing gyms closed. I did not quit drinking. I gained ten pounds over the next year. I stopped riding commuting by bike in the fall because I no longer had a job to commute to.
I guess I hate myself slightly less to know that I’ve more or less stayed the same weight for the last two years living under a pandemic. I’m honestly surprised I haven’t gained more weight with a pandemic and a new baby. I don’t tell a lot of people this but there’s still a big part of me that feels self-conscious about my body. I mean, I guess we all do. In 2021 I bought a mountain bike and given up the idea that I will ever become in climbing shape. And snowboarding is not exactly a quick activity to run off and do with a baby and toddler. I guess I could “run.” I guess I could also shove toothpicks under my toenails and kick a door, but neither of those sound very appealing to me right now.
Now it is December 2021 and I am recovering from a slightly smaller surgery—though right now it feels particularly painful. I got the ole’ snip snip, my tubes cut, i.e., a permanent male birth control procedure, i.e., a vasectomy, i.e., no more biological kids para moi. The doc punctured my scrotum with a hemostat and cut the tubes of my vas deferens. Once the last of my swimmers has exited me from “temporary storage” lower down in the tubes, my sperm will be absorbed by the membrane of my epididymis. Truly, the first 24 hours were painful. I mean, you feel like you underwent a legit surgical procedure event though you were awake and it takes less than fifteen minutes. The pain is still the sort of sharp, deep pain that painkillers are meant for. There’s also lot of swelling if you know what I mean. And bruising. I went through a lot of ice I guess is what I’m saying. Or as a friend so succinctly put it: it feels like you’ve got kicked in the nuts for two weeks. Is this TMI for a newsletter?
I had no problem with the procedure. I knew that it didn’t affect sexual functioning or testosterone or any of that stuff that makes one a “man.” I honestly find it surprising that only 5% of men choose to undergo this procedure, leaving the majority of the birth control onus on females. A lot of it is cultural, I think, but I’m not really sure. It was an interesting experience and I kind of even want to write an article about it one day—my doc even gave me his number in case I wanted to ask him any follow up questions.
The only thing I was a little bummed about regarding the procedure was that my little brother was coming into town and I wanted to go climbing at the gym with him—although now the idea of swinging or falling in a climbing harness does not sound like the grand old time it used to. This weekend I will head to my parent’s house for an early Christmas and get a couple days off as my mom and wife take care of me. In a strange way, I wish I’d undergone another big procedure. It’s the only time I feel comfortable letting other people do things for me and take care of me, the only time I feel no guilt for watching hours of TV and movies. It feels like giving up. Something I often fantasize about. It feels nice. And too short.