Today I was discussing Vasectomies with The General. The General is a certified child-hater, and wants to ensure that he does not procreate with his child bride. He's nervous about the procedure because a) some guy is going to palm his 'nads and b) he wants to know where the sperm goes once your junk has been disconnected.
"What happens to the sperm? Where do they go?" he asks. I say I think your body absorbs them, but he's not happy with this answer. "You had the snip, what happens to your eggs?" Again, I say that they get absorbed, but he just gives me that look.
So I say, "Well, every month I store the egg, and then once a year I poot out a really big one," I smile. "I try to save it for Easter."
He accepts this, but still wants to know about his sperms. So I roll my eyes and go, "They're going to put a zipper in your scrotum, and once a month you have to empty out all the dead sperms. Kind of like emptying a vacuum cleaner bag."
He likes this answer, but wants to know how they'll attach it. I suggest staples, which he does not like, but then concede that they'll probably use dissolvable stitches. "That's what I had with both my cesareans," I say. "Maybe if you're lucky, you'll get a pressure bandage like the one I had."
The General says he does not want to hear this story, but nearly every day I have to hear either about how big his willie is, or how he wants to have his testicles removed and replaced with glass eyes. Turnabout is fair play, so I tell him this:
The day after my second ceserean, the nice intern who helped the OB in the OR the day before came to check me out. She pulls back the sheet, pulls up the hospital gown, and says, "Oh dear...I'm so sorry. Oh, no!"
If you ever find yourself in a postoperative situation and a physician is looking at what's been done to you and says something like this, grab the nearest heavy object you can get your hands on and beat yourself unconcious.
It seems that the evil OR rent-a-nurses had used this pressure bandage on my incision that resembles that puffy Rubbermaid no-skid shelf liner stuff, but has Krazy Gloo on one side.
The intern says that they ask the nurses not to use it, but they do anyway. "I'm going to have to pull it off, and it's going to hurt." She grabs a corner, braces one foot against the bottom of the bed, and pulls. And pulls, and pulls, and pulls. I held on to the bed rail and tried very politely not to pass out. I did not hit her, nor did I yell at her, because a ) I was in much pain and just could not be buggered, and b) she was so nice and didn't LIE to me the way physicians do when they're about to inflict excruciating pain upon you ('you may feel some pressure'). Plus she ran right off and got me a big old handfull of Percocet, and at that time I was nice and polite to anyone who would bring me pain pills, please and thank you.
The up-side of this is that it took care of the post-pregnancy wax I so desperately needed. The General has declared a moratorium on my birth stories, but if I have to hear about his 'nads then I get to tell birthin' stories. Tomorrow I think I'll explain lochia to him.