There’s little doubt that my wife suffered from post-partum depression. Hell, I even think she suffered from pre-partum depression. But it was after giving birth to our second child that things really went downhill. I remember one day in particular when she was suffering more than usual, overwhelmed by the task of taking care of two babies—not to mention a husband—and she shouted something apocalyptic about the consequences of having another baby. Images of Lorena Bobbitt standing over her husband with a knife came to mind, and I decided to flee next door to my neighbors’ until things calmed down a bit.

 

I often referred to my neighbor as “my gynecologist,” although he wasn’t really my gynecologist. He was a doctor from Colombia who was finishing up his residency in Guadalajara, and he basically took care of all my family’s immediate medical needs. He and his wife were also our compadres, and knew my wife and me as well as anybody else in the world. When I explained what our latest fight was about, and that my wife was considering having her tubes tied, he explained to me that there was another option. Vasectomies were becoming more popular these days, not only because of the low cost and simplicity of the procedure, but also because they tended to be less damaging than tubal ligations, and because they were also oftentimes reversible.

Like my wife, I wasn’t in a big hurry to have any more kids either, and it occurred to me that offering to have a vasectomy would be a nice gesture and might tone down the craziness a bit. I am also prone to impulsiveness and rash decisions, and I had already made an appointment with my gynecologist to go down to the Hospital Civil to take care of business.

As expected, my wife was indeed grateful for my decision, and supported me wholeheartedly. Her attitude changed dramatically, and for some reason I believed that by going under the knife, everything would be better. I justified the operation even further because at the end of the day, the whole thing was only going to cost me 30 pesos, about three dollars in that day and age.

My strawberry blonde hair and fair complexion drew a lot of attention everywhere I went in Mexico, but seemed to be even more of a novelty in the community hospital. There appeared to be more participants than usual in the procedure room, and my gynecologist joked about the nurses wanting to see if I were a “real” redhead. A local anesthetic was administered, so I was fully conscious as the operation began. True to my nature, I was making jokes with the nurses who appeared to be there as spectators more than anything else, and my compadre joined in, admonishing them for voyeurism. I’ll admit I felt a little flattered.

At one point it occurred to me to sit up and take a look at what was going on, which I immediately regretted. The urologist had made a small incision in my scrotum and removed a tangle of ducts and filaments that looked something like the rice noodles found inside a fresh spring roll. Despite feeling nothing, the realization of what was being done to me caused me to feel faint, and I immediately lay back down, my demeanor changing from that of jokester to that of patient on the operating table. Flattery immediately changed to shame, and the urologist noted my discomfort, asking if everything were okay which, of course, it wasn’t.

I was prescribed some pain pills, and the doctor recommended “icing the affected area,” but even several hours after the surgery, I still couldn’t feel a thing. I was at home sitting on the couch when the pain kicked-in, and it literally felt like a kick in the gonads. Like all men, I had been subject to more than a few nut-crackers in my time, but now I felt like I’d been kicked in the balls by a Kung Fu fighter who had mastered the kick that keeps on kicking. If I had had any idea of how much my vasectomy would have hurt, I’m not sure I would have been man enough to go through with it.

Contrary to popular belief, and despite the fact that you can buy antibiotics over-the-counter, Mexican pain medication isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The throbbing was always there, and even a combination of ice, pain pills and tequila wasn’t enough to take the edge off it. I had to wear two pair of underwear: one to support my damaged testicles, bruised black-and-blue from the “minor” procedure, and another to support the ice pack I had to use 24-7. I took about a month before the pain finally subsided, and even then, the memory caused me to cringe every time I thought of it.

And despite my heroic gesture toward my wife and all my good intentions, the operation was in vain. Her depression continued, and our marriage eventually fell apart, leaving me half the man I had been before.

The last thing I ever expected was to get a divorce, and when I found myself back in the dating pool, I felt I was at a disadvantage. One woman even mentioned that my inability to reproduce was one of the reasons she didn’t see a future with me. But, instead of looking into the other reasons, the old rashness returned, and I decided to do something about it before it was too late. Oftentimes, vasectomies are reversible, and I decided to go back under the knife as a heroic gesture to my newfound love. Once again, if I knew then what I knew now…

Needless to say, regardless of my vaso-vasectomy and all the pain and suffering involved, I remain single today. Apparently the “other” reasons were enough to thwart my efforts at building a life with her. I remember announcing to her proudly what I had done for her, and she replied that she hoped I had done it for me, because she never asked me to do anything. I don’t even know if it worked or not, because, in spite of the operation, I never bothered to get tested. I suppose I figured I’d just wait and see if I ever fell in love again, and if the subject ever came up…

 

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