Spooked by a little snip

Spooked by a little snip
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday September 8, 2012
Byline: Ros Thomas
Section: Opinion

The man of the house won’t get a vasectomy. He says he doesn’t have the balls.

I know he’s been traumatised because years ago in Queensland, not three days after his sister gave birth to her second baby, he took his brother-in-law to get the snip. For some reason, they decided to ride their bikes to the clinic. Only one of them managed to ride the whole way home.

Mention the idea of vasectomy and plenty of men will wave you away with a casual “Oh, it was nothing, really.” Plenty of others, however, will clutch their crotches as their eyes dart about in fear of the prospect. My better half is one of the scared stiffs. He maintains his body is a temple and it would be sacrilegious to interfere with perfection. (If you knew him you’d know how funny that is!)

The irony here is that I spent 13 years trying to get pregnant, and the past two years hyperventilating at the thought of accidentally falling pregnant. I am 44 after all. I’ve broached the subject quite a few times, thinking he’ll soften up. But it’s like suggesting to a prize-winning bull that he might like to lay his big swinging grass-grazers on the block just to put some cow in the back paddock at ease.

A bullock willingly giving up his bollocks? Snort!

 And therein lies the great conundrum of our modern, sexually liberated lives — what to do with our bits when we’ve finished using them — take pot luck, take drugs, tie them up or get the snip?

In Georgia, the Democrats (of all people) have introduced a Bill to make vasectomy illegal unless it was carried out to save a man from serious injury or death. (Or the constant nagging of his wife? No amendment for that.)

The Bill, now before the House of Representatives, reads: “It is patently unfair that men avoid the rewards of unwanted fatherhood by presuming that their judgment over such matters is more valid than the judgment of the General Assembly.”

The most remarkable thing about this Bill is that it was introduced by a woman. And that she’d like to impose the will of government over the will of adult men.

What is she talking about? “It’s unfair that men avoid the rewards of unwanted fatherhood?” Tell that to a teenage boy who has accidentally knocked up his girlfriend. What rewards? For either of them? While you’ve got to admire the kids who stand up to their responsibilities and join the hard grind of fatherhood, there are many more who vanish leaving yet another young girl dependent on family or the perpetual cycle of social welfare.

The Bill goes on: “If we legislate women’s bodies, it’s only fair that we legislate men’s. Why are you (men) under the skirts of women? I’m sure there are better places to be.”

I was always under the impression that birth control was supposed to be about giving men and women options, not taking them away. Certainly, I don’t think it’s my place to tell a man what to do with his body — I just hope he likes my suggestion for family planning.

I know what you’re thinking: Why doesn’t she deal with it? If she’s so worried about it, what’s she doing about it?

I’m afraid I’m doing nothing, because after years of fertility drugs and artificial hormones, not to mention my own (unpredictable) ones, I’d prefer not add oral contraceptives or invasive devices to the mix.

My body needs a rest after the rough ride of three children. And to be frank, it’s time he stepped up to the plate. He won’t be sent to an early grave by the chaos of more siblings. As one girlfriend pointed out “the snip” sounds almost comforting — like what you do with a loose thread. And hey! there’d be a whole lot more nookie in the middle of the month. How much more incentive does he need?

 A lot apparently. Perhaps the vas deferens between us is that he was once a cave man, genetically predetermined to spread his seed as far and wide as possible to ensure the survival of his species. And despite quite an effort at evolution, modern man is still not programmed for sexual precaution, nor to willingly give up his twig and berries to a bloke holding a scalpel.

Perhaps we should take a holiday to Cape Cod, Massachusetts. I read a urologist there is offering free pizza to anyone who gets a vasectomy in his clinic. I can almost guarantee my bloke would go for that — a one-stop shop for a super supreme (hold the salami) and sterilisation. That doctor sounds like he’d have the bedside manner to do the snip and then trot out a joke: “Well, we’re all done now and we managed to save your testicles. They’re under your pillow.”

I tell my long-standing lover all would not be lost in the surgery — he might end up the lucky one in 200,000 men for whom the procedure fails. Just ask the former school rector we know who got an unexpected delivery nine months and three weeks after his vasectomy. Being a new-fangled vicar, he declared himself ‘super sperm’ while his wife gestated surprise baby number four.

Birth control has always been the most fraught of subjects. Especially when it fails. I’m not looking forward to the day I have to discuss the subject with my teenagers. It will be a tough one to negotiate — will I be encouraging promiscuity if I give them the option of birth control or will I risk being negligent by not taking charge of the possibilities?

Of course, the issue of contraception carries just as much weight in a committed adult relationship. First and foremost, who is going to be responsible for it? Which brings me back to my dilemma. The man sitting next to me watching the footy maintains that fear is a non-negotiable reason to call a halt to any talk of snippage. Maybe it’s because he knows vasectomy didn’t start out as a lifestyle choice. In the early 1900s in Indiana, it was meted out to punish criminals, rapists and imbeciles. By the 1920s, however, it was thought to promote mental and physical rejuvenation and Sigmund Freud had one in his 60s, just to try it out. So did the poet W.B. Yeats. “It revived my creative power” wrote Yeats in 1937, at the respectable age of 69. Stupidly, I recounted this fact to the father of my children, who with some glee retorted, “Great! I’ll wait til I’m 69 then.” (That’ll be the last time he gets one of those.)

I fear there will be a lot more below-the-navel gazing in our house as I seek out new persuasions for vasectomy, and my potential recipient finds new ways to sidestep the issue. I’ll let you know if he capitulates and books in for the interruption of his fecundity. I’ve heard that time is a good anaesthetic for traumatic memory so I’ll do him a favour and get his bike out of the garage in readiness. I might even pump up the tyres for him and fix the tear in the seat. That should cushion the blow for the ride home.