It Has Taken Me a Week to Write About This

Last Friday Lili and I took my husband to the medical center to have a "little procedure."  This procedure will ensure that Lili is the last Carson girly to spring from our loins.  I've done my mourning, but honestly after the post-birth experience I had with Lili, I knew I was finished.  George states, for all of you trembling, scalpel-fearing dudes out there, that it would be "nuts" (pun possibly intended) for me to have a surgical tubal ligation.  The procedure for a man is much simpler and carries almost no risks, while tubal ligation carries a very slim chance of significant health issues.  It should be a no-brainer, and for the record, my body has been through enough with carrying, giving birth to, and feeding these wonderful children.

That being said, since it was such a simple procedure, Lili and I actually sat in the room with George while the extremely jovial Doctor Pheninger did his thing.  Dr. P apparently really enjoys his job.  He told us this many times.  He also related a series of cheeky anecdotes while he clipped and snipped.  I did not want to watch and kept my attention focused on the top half of my husband.  I was seriously hoping, however, that Dr. P was watching as he jabbered on about how exciting he finds seminiferous tubules to be.  At one point I felt a wave of  panic as I saw smoke billowing out of George's nether regions.  (I later found out that this was normal since there was some sort of cauterizing involved in the process.  Can we just not talk about it?)

All in all, the entire event took about ten or fifteen minutes, and George says he felt only a minor amount of discomfort.  Done and dusted.  On the way home, the Valium that he took beforehand started to kick in, and George insisted that I stop by Burger King to feed his munchies.  George was given the instructions by his doctor to go home and immediately lie down with his feed up and apply ice to the "area."  I have learned that George becomes light-heartedly defiant while under the influence of controlled substances.  Upon returning home he decided that dancing in the kitchen seemed much more appealing than following doctor's orders.  "Come here and dance with me, " he purred as he knocked his hips from side to side and  made bicycling movements with his clenched fists, "We don't dance enough!"

It took some effort to get him to abandon his dance party of one and lie down.  I prepared a gallon-sized Ziploc bag full of ice for him and helped stuff it down his pants.  "That's a LOT of ice," he hiccuped, "You flatter me."  Funny guy.  I decided the the best way to get him to rest was to leave him without an audience.  Ten minutes later he was asleep, and he pretty much slept for the rest of the weekend.  I am not sure what was in that tablet he took, but George had no trouble, after his initial rebellion, taking it easy for the rest of the weekend.

So that's it.  All done.  In a few months we'll be carefree kids.  Totally carefree.  That's the way it works.

Happy weekend to all.