A little bit high right now...

Nothing illegal, a pain medication I was prescribed yesterday after a minor surgery. I have been considering this procedure for a few years now, my relationship with Amber is a solid one, and my own personal life views helped in making a pretty marked decision. I got a vasectomy. I'm sharing openly now, and on my blog because I know my closer friends do check this out, and it is a larger forum than a Facebook post.

The procedure was supposed to go down Friday the 13th, April, I thought that was ominous and humorous, but thanks to someone at work already having the day off, I had to reschedule for May 11th. One day before my Mother's birthday, and two days before Mother's Day. Some might say, you're too young or are you sure you won't want kids someday? I'm not ashamed to say, I'm simply not a fan of babies. My desperate need for a semblance of control makes dealing with untamed animals, technology I haven't learned, and babies excruciatingly infuriating. I love children, those kids that have started speaking and have a bit of self-sufficiency, about three and up I suppose. So missing out on diapers, and burp rags, and guessing at what this particular cry might mean, is fine by me. Plus, I have a kid. A daughter whom I love very much. She may not be my own flesh and blood, she may not even call me "Dad," but my relationship with the ANT is probably the greatest experience of my life, second only to the family dynamic I share with her and her Mother.

The AmberLynn and I have discussed numerous times that our own, individual genetic histories are a crap shoot leaning on the high risk side. The ANT has Cystic Fibrosis, a trait the AmberLynn carries one half of. I do not know if I have that. I also know nothing about my paternal family. However, I do know that there are heart issues in my maternal family, and the both of us share a slew of psychological maladies (who doesn't these days? but past family examples make our cases sufficient to consider).

A large part of my consideration is also the way I was brought up. And where today is my Mother's birthday and, again, tomorrow is Mother's Day, it is my Father, my Dad, that I look up to as a paragon of family relationships. He adopted me after marrying my Mother when I was four. He's been there for me in more ways than I'm even aware (considering age and at times distance where I simply was not aware of his courage and love). I'm his only child. He's joked there may be a child of his out there somewhere, but whatever truth there may be to trysts and affairs, he's been my Dad for all these years. So looking at the ANT and knowing she barely, if at all, remembers a time before my presence, I'm fine with going without a child of flesh and blood, for this child whom I love, a child raised with love, is just as great.

Sentiment out of the way.

Having your balls eviscerated while you're awake is not a procedure I would openly suggest one trying. I was terrified of the procedure itself (not the decision) for the month plus I had to look forward to it. I had been given a Valium to take before the surgery, and I even took two of my own anxiety pills the day of to try and make sure I didn't go full on panic mode and will myself to have a Cronenberg body horror waking nightmare (also, reading about Unit 731 the day before the procedure wasn't a good idea). They barely helped.

The first shot was, as the doctor put it (and rightly), the worst part. "A pinch and a burn," he said as I felt like Ben Stiller in the bathroom scene of There's Something About Mary. Sharp pain, very sharp, the nerves firing bringing their own heat, I never felt the "burn." After that it was odd, irritating pressure sensations. He would say pinch and burn a few more times but I couldn't "feel" those thankfully. After that first shot, adrenaline surged all the calming drugs out of me. My plan had been to be so high I would hopefully fall asleep, listening to Pink Floyd on random on my thick DJ headphones. I don't remember what songs played, but concentrating on them, sticking to their lyrics in my head, hearing him in that muffled far away sound giving me the play by play, helped to get me through a relatively quick and, I hate to admit it, painless procedure.

I'd say things are worse right now because of the inevitable dull ache I have going on. A jockstrap, a wad of toilet paper (to keep everything in its place), a bag full of reusable ice cubes, and a regimen of ibuprofen and loritabs (I'm spacing them out, don't worry) are kinda killing my weekend. I can get up and walk, though I sort of waddle, I've peed a few times, I have eaten, but since about 5:30 yesterday, it's mostly been taking it very easy. Swelling thankfully hasn't been too terrible yet, not that I've noticed anyway, I'm not exactly staring at my junk or taking time-lapse photos (though I did think about it, and you all can count yourselves lucky I didn't live feed the procedure, because the AmberLynn thought that would have been cool).

In this day and age, I think it's okay to say no to babies. The world's got enough humans running on her face. But from a personal opinion of the procedure itself, and the point of this entry, meditate on it seriously. Consider your options. A guy can (theoretically) make a baby from puberty to his death bed, but if a kid is not in your planned future, what I've gone through in the last two days isn't as bad as I was afraid of.

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