Member-only story
Under The Knife
The only time I’ve been in hospital on my own account
The decision to have a vasectomy was, to me, the obvious one. We were in our late 20s, early 30s. My stepdaughter was five, our son a rambunctious toddler approaching his first birthday at ramming speed! Anne had been on the pill for years before having Jen, and was now using the coil, but didn’t really like it. Time for something more permanent, and since male sterilisation is easier and quicker than female, a vasectomy made sense.
Anne’s dad, still with us at the time, said to Anne: “You don’t want to bother with that! Just grab a couple of blue bricks and wait until Tony steps out of the shower. Whack, done!”
“That,” I observed plaintively, “could be quite painful!”
“That’s true.” Jim allowed. “Anne, be careful to keep your fingers out of the way!”
So I made the appointment and we went for a talk with the consultant. They insisted we both go, which Anne was annoyed about to start with: “I’m not having the operation!” They then irritated her further by consistently asking for her opinion on the matter. When it became clear that she would have to sign a consent form, she went ballistic!
“Why do you want me to sign this? It’s Tony’s body and he has a right to do whatever he wants with it! You wouldn’t…
