I underwent a no-scalpel procedure three days ago. It was very quick and relatively painless.
While I was resting the next day though, I wrote up a little fictional story, along the lines of a "worst case" vasectomy experience. If your wife is pressuring you to get a vasectomy and you want an excuse to opt-out, I give you my permission to show her this "almost true" story
A Visit to Dr. Eunickmaker
With the nurse's shrill "Next!" still ringing in my ears, I cautiously followed her into an undersized but over-sterilized room. "G-Good morning," I stuttered, as the doctor lifted his head up from a folder balanced on his lap. He looked angry, or maybe just troubled. No, he was angry. "What a day," he muttered, to no one in particular. "Freezing rain and my wife left me." He took a sip from a coffee cup that smelled a lot like whisky, and, with a shaky finger, motioned at me to get up on the surgical table.
I lay down, trying to avert my eyes from the "interrogation-room-like" light above me. "Aren't you supposed to give me some Valium?" I asked. No one responded but, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the nurse thrust her hand towards me. "Hey, these are Flintstones vitamins!" I exclaimed. The doctor wheeled around to face her. "Damn it, Karen! I told you to take off the label. You had one job." She was flustered, but managed to speak clearly, in a collected voice. "I have lots of jobs, but only two hands." "Mental note," sputtered the doctor under his breath, "hire someone with an extra appendage."
I didn't see what happened next, but I heard a laser sound followed by an "oops!" "Oops what?", I yelled, and sat up abruptly, quick enough to see their faces switch from a semblance of panic to a "trying-really-hard-to-look-calm" look. "I may have snipped the wrong things," the doctor said solemnly, "but I'm sure I can solder them back on later. In the mean time, the laser is broken, so I'm going to have to continue with the scalpel." I don't remember much from that moment on, but I know there was blood. Lots of blood. Squirting in every direction. I'm talking about a scene that would stump even the most renowned blood spatter experts. I blacked out.
My eyes opened sluggishly. I had been cleaned up, though the walls hadn't. They would have made Charles Manson proud. My pants felt lighter. Too much lighter. I glanced down and saw a gaping hole where my family jewels had once hung. I took a menacing step towards the doctor, but he leaned back and blurted out, "sorry, but putting them back on was much more complicated then I had anticipated. Here you go." He placed a box in my hand. Blue with a yellow ribbon. "They're in here," he uttered weakly. I grudgingly closed my hand on the box and made a feeble attempt at humor; "I'm surprised you found a box big enough to fit them." The doctor just stared at me blankly, his thoughts already on his next victim, waiting outside.
I slumped my shoulders and walked out of the room. Just a shell of the man that I had been when I walked in. Scratch that, I was an emasculated, broken shell of the man I had been.