The V-Word

Apparently, the last functioning remnant of my masculinity has been deemed a threat and is now being slated for destruction.

Jill and I agreed that I should get a vasectomy. That sentence is disingenuous. I’m just protecting my ego by writing that.

Jill agreed that I should get a vasectomy. She agreed with herself. I had no say. She told me her decision as I was rubbing her feet. I almost spilled my PSL.

“Get fixed.”

“But I’m not broken.”

So I checked in with my sister in law because she’s the one who makes all the decisions for her husband who had a vasectomy.

“Will I still be awesome?”

“Just go to your doc, get a referral, go for a consultation, and THEN they’ll schedule your procedure.”

“That’s a lot of work.”

“Not for a man.”

That night as I was rubbing Jill’s feet during “Wine Wednesday.” I told her that it would be a lot of work. “It’s a lot of work to get a vasectomy.”

“Just shut up.”

“Let’s just do this: I’ll call up the animal welfare place and tell them I need my dog neutered and then I’ll show up in a dog costume.”

“For you, we’d have to say ‘we need our dog spayed.'”

“I’ll bet it’ll be a lot cheaper too.”

“All I want to hear is rubbing.”

I called my doc and tried to schedule my appointment. They weren’t there and I left a message and I’m sure they’re all listening to it and laughing at the way my voice sounds like a less-confident Kermit the Frog.

When they do get back to me, I’ll have to take time off work, wait in a waiting room for 45 minutes and then wait in an exam room for another 20 minutes before the doctor will come into the room and write the name of another doctor on a piece of paper and charge me $20 for the pleasure. And he’ll do it all while never opening his eyes. I go to a doctor who never opens his eyes. He’ll face me and talk and move about, but his eyes never open. I could rob him and he’d never be able to identify me.

“Well, he sounds like a less-confident Kermit the Frog, officer.”

But it has to be done. And then I will have to put ice on myself. Ice all on my business. And not lift anything heavy for a few days. Which won’t be easy. Because lifting heavy things gives me a rush. Makes me feel alive.

Oh, you just watered that big plant in that big-ass planter? Well step aside. I’m about to rock that plant’s world. I know it’s heavy and there’s no need to move it anywhere! I’m sure it’s damn heavy. I’m sure it’s fine right where it is! But a boring life where heavy things stay put just ain’t for me! I can’t live that buttoned up existence where heavy things are just doomed to never be lifted from flat surfaces. Someone’s gotta shake things up around here. Hi, I’m Jeff Terry, I’m that someone.

So while I wait for the sperm executioner to get back to me with the scheduled genocide, I’m left to make my peace with my piece. Here’s a poem I wrote to help me cope:


FIXED: An Ode to My Load.

You swam for your life.

Against hate.

Against fear.

Against my better judgment.

You swam with no arms or legs.

Into a resevoir tip.

Into a sock.

Into certain death in dark places.



The lava in my man volcano.

The frothy eruption from my man-geyser.

You were a force of nature.



You lived a short, fast, explosive life.

Most of the time we were rooting against you.

Most of the time you were reviled.

Though, admittedly, we are hugging and raising three of you.

But we want no more.

I say “no more.”


You swam against the odds

just for a chance to be,

but now we’re closing your swim club.

And I am unloaded.

Filled with emptiness.


By being broken,

I am fixed.


  1. Best thing I ever did, man. Seriously. I was back to work lifting heavy things in 2 days. That was 17 years ago and I’ve never once regretted it.

    • jeffandjill

      10/28/2014 at 11:30 am

      That’s encouraging. I wish I would have gone right after our third one was conceived.

  2. Your completely missing the point where you are medically ordered to masturbate like 8 times a day for a couple of weeks. What man doesn’t want that?

  3. My ex-wife wanted to have a third child (because we were apparently not broke, sleepless and contentious enough) and I wanted to stop at two. I accidently scheduled the procedure on her birthday initially (the date should have rung a bell – problem 8,754 of our marriage). I was sane enough to reschedule, but she still was not thrilled with me doing it. Really the definition of elective surgery as we barely ever had sex again. But my current squeeze – aka Cassandra – is very grateful I came fully fixed.

    Procedure is easy, and recovery pretty easy but your Ode is still a fitting tribute!

    Tip – don’t bring your post-op “sample” in an oversized Tupperware because you misplaced the tube they provided. Trust me, the derision from the nurse will be epic.

    • jeffandjill

      10/28/2014 at 1:26 pm

      Thanks for demystifying the procedure for me. And I foresee MUCH derision from any and all nurses that I encounter. For issues that may or may not have anything to do with the size of my Tupperware.

  4. You won’t regret it. The sex is way better after. Without the constant fear of pregnancy, it’s just so much more relaxed and can be more spontaneous….and frequent. You’ll definitely wish you’d done it sooner. Cheers!

    • jeffandjill

      10/28/2014 at 2:20 pm

      You know what, now I’m PISSED that my parents bought me a circumcision when they could have gotten me a vasectomy! Wait, that’s oversharing! Wait this is a blog and oversharing is my job! Wait, if I had the vasectomy instead of the circumcision, then I wouldn’t have the three most incredible kids who I love with all of my heart! Wait, I’m supposed to be working!

  5. You’ll never look at a bag of frozen peas the same way again…Then again, neither will our babysitter who I greeted at the door holding same bag of comfort to my area needing comfort !!!

  6. Someday you will write something that I won’t have a comment for that is as long as what you’ve written. But today is not that day.

    I have a friend who had a vasectomy, and was supposed to go back to be “checked” and forgot and forgot, and when he went, they said, “We don’t know how to tell you this, but it didn’t ‘take.'” He called his wife who said, “Shit–I thought I had the flu.”

    And it really had just “grown back,” which apparently is rare, but does happen.

    So he went and had it done AGAIN. And was supposed to go back to be “checked” and forgot and forgot, and when he went, they said, “We don’t know how to tell you this, but it didn’t ‘take.’ Again.” He called his wife who said, “Shit–I thought I had the flu. Fine, screw you starfish man, I’m taking care of this.”

    They have five kids. She had a tubal. The end.

    Moral: Get checked before YOU end up as a family of seven.

    • jeffandjill

      10/29/2014 at 11:19 am

      THAT is hilarious and possibly another blog post. Can you work drunk chipmunks into it? Never cut yourself short. Not here. Not ever.

      • I’m not sure I could work in any drunk chipmunks, but the story is longer, because they actually showed him the smoke from the cauterization (have fun, Jeff!) and then when it grew back twice they wanted to study him, because his situation might be helpful to men who wanted to actually reverse a vasectomy for some reason (he declined).

        Maybe I could find a way to have a stoned raccoon play a role. I’ll see.

        • jeffandjill

          10/29/2014 at 12:14 pm

          A raccoon wouldn’t get stoned. But a possum totally would. I could a raccoon do some coke though, before getting up on its hind legs and screaming “I WILL FUCKING CUT YOU! DO NOT DOUBT ME!”

          That possum though, just hanging. Whenever confronted, he just takes the pacifist route. It’ll all be all right. Until that raccoon cuts him.

  7. You should now write a song called “Ice All On My Business.” That just screams 1990’s throw-back hit.

    • jeffandjill

      10/29/2014 at 1:15 pm

      Ice all on my biz-nas,
      Like a super junk Christmas,
      Girl, it’s special and you should know
      that there ain’t no snowmen in my snow.

  8. This was not the V word I was expecting, but how refreshing! Uh…but not the liquid spray kind of refreshing. Your poetry spews forth with raw humanity and sterility. A thing of spewty.

    • jeffandjill

      10/30/2014 at 9:19 am

      Shakespeare WISHES he had thought up “spewty.” What Twelfth Night or A Midsummer’s Night Dream could have been . . .

  9. I just got done done this summer. Here is what I wrote if you are interested:

    Probably the best vasectomy blog posting ever wrote. Like poetry but without skill, rhythm, or rhyme.

    • jeffandjill

      11/15/2014 at 8:51 pm

      Loads of good insights on your post. Did they ever clarify what you were supposed to shave? I’m assuming it’s just the ballsish region and not the front lawn.

      • They didn’t tell me just to do the sac until they saw what I’d done and wondered why the heck I did that. Good times!

  10. After the operation, the first dilemma came with the instructions to bring in a semen sample after ten (I think) ejaculations. If I showed up the next day, was that bragging? If it took six months, was that pitiful? Finally I settled on a sensible period of time, deposited the sample in the sample cup, put the cup and lab slip in a paper bag, and drove to the clinic. Standing in line waiting to leave my sample, I looked in the bag to discover that the cap had come off the cup and the contents were all over the inside of the bag, including the lab slip. Trash the bag and start again. Got new cup and lab slip– now needed to get a second sample but in a hospital bathroom rather than the privacy of my home bathroom. Moral of the story– make sure the container holding the sample is closed tightly.

    • jeffandjill

      02/11/2015 at 9:29 am

      So many horror stories of poorly closed lids. I’ll be sure to bring in a well-contained sample. And when I hand it off, I’ll be slightly out of breath and wipe sweat from my brow and stand there with eyebrows raised like Huh? You know what just happened! Yeah you do. Then I’ll say real loud “FRESH FROM THE BULL!” and high-five the nearest person.

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