Andrew Miller: All things vasectomies, finding joy in having children and remembering an old friend

Things sneak up on us, you know?

Some are abstract, intangible concepts like age, and feelings. Grief bides its time in the shadows, but when the season turns it reappears like winter weeds. Neither unwelcome, nor necessarily unpleasant, just part of the natural cycle.

Some time ago, I had a sustained argument with my friend Andrew Olney — during his living years. We loved to argue and still do, in my head, when I feel the urge to send him a text about this or that nonsense.

The conflict came about when he let slip that I had undergone the snip — a vasectomy — to someone who rightfully should have received that information from me. I’m sure you can work out the category of person who might be unamused to hear that in passing from, say, the scaliest of your scaly mates.

I was more bemused than concerned about this flagrant breach of confidentiality, because it was not true.

He was not pranking, he was genuinely convinced that I had the procedure, and that I was either alarmingly forgetful, lying for some fruitless gain, or that we had undertaken a subtle shift into a parallel timeline.

Parenthetically, I recommend against looking up the Mandela Effect if you prefer to remain oriented in your reality. Though John Wilson’s kaleidoscopic documentary about multiverses is a fine digression down the rabbit hole, if you must.

“Prove it,” Olney demanded, pointing at my shorts.

“What do you have in mind?” I asked, “An independent report from a urologist? I’m not doing the jar thing — you can forget that.”

“There will be a scar somewhere,” he said, producing one of the many cheap LED headlamps he kept handy for DIY misadventures. “Show me.”

“Nope.”

“Come on, I sent you a pic when I set my Chinese undies on fire while angle grinding.”

He had burnt his inner thighs impressively, and would gleefully traumatise anyone not quick enough to look away.

“And when I got cement burns on my old fella.”

He really needed to wear more than Alibaba boxers when renovating.

“Look,” I said, “you’ve just mixed me up with someone else.”

Vasectomies, like weddings, divorces and diabetes tend to follow age cohorts.

The snip is the best long term reproductive control available for men who believe — always correctly — that the world has enough of their DNA running around in it already.

Carrying our sensitive testicles externally in a flimsy bag becomes for once an advantage, providing easy access for the plumber to remove a tiny length of pipework. The legendary sporting and aesthetic downsides are forgiven. There might even be a bit of couch time, if you feign sufficient discomfort.

In fulfilment of Olney’s premature prophecy, I recently had the procedure under local anaesthetic. I was home before you can say “how’s your father?” The only remaining requirement is the test in three months, to confirm my decaffeinated status.

Explicitly signing away your fertility closes a chapter. However unlikely it was that you would want to roll those dice again, it marks the end of a possibility. I would have liked some ceremony of gratitude and recognition — perhaps black gloves to place my tiny noodle-bits into a matchbox on cotton wool, for interment in the veggie garden. Olney would have been good for a few words.

Recently, some American politician inanely asserted that fertility is a prerequisite for holding an important stake in our future. Positive ideas, values and hope improve the world as much as any baby, however cute it may be for those who dote.

Having children was certainly the best, most indulgent way of fulfilling this short life — for me, and I know also for Olney, but it’s not for everyone. It is a great privilege and responsibility to help make some double-edged contribution to life, that’s all.

Hearing kids at play just makes it easier to find gratitude and hope amongst the weeds.