"Is there something wrong with us?" I ask my husband, RJ. He hoists himself onto the exam table, tissue-paper gown open at his back.
"Now, that's a loaded question if I ever heard one," he says. He shifts his weight in a vain attempt to get comfortable, then finally lies down. The white butcher paper stretched across the leather table crinkles under him. "Define wrong."
"I mean, are we missing the Brangelina gene, the I want enough kids for a soccer team gene?" I demand.
"Yeah," he replies, "we're also missing the Republican gene."
"I'm serious," I warn. But I'm not sure how serious I can be with him supine on an exam table, dressed in blue paper and black socks.
promotion
He's watching a cheesy music video on the LCD nailed into the ceiling. It's synthesized jazz, with animated music notes that dance to the beat. It's supposed to entertain you during the procedure. I plop myself down on the plastic chair reserved for people who aren't about to get a hole poked in their scrotum, or don't have a scrotum in the first place.
"I'm serious, too," RJ says. "Isn't that why we're here?" His composure amazes me, as usual. I'm still likely to cry in the car before a gyno exam. "Are you having second thoughts?" he asks.
"No, of course not. It's not that at all," I answer, turning to the tinted window behind me, drizzled with March rain. I can see out — cars lined bumper-to-bumper on the highway, convenience store, drive-through burger stand, check-cashing joint — but no one can see in. "I know we're doing the right thing. We've talked it to death, and it makes sense."
"Then what's the problem?"
"I guess I just feel like we're aliens because we want this.
I plop myself down on the plastic chair reserved for people who aren't about to get a hole poked in their scrotum.
There are people paying thousands of dollars to get pregnant — shooting up hormones, freezing eggs and who knows what else — and we're tossing it off like a dirty shirt."
"Now, that's what I'm talking about," he says, smirking. He props himself up on one side with an arm. "So what happens after you toss off your shirt?"
A firm knock on the door interrupts us, and within a few seconds Dr. Berry breezes into the exam room, smiling and shaking our hands briskly. He wastes no time and flips open RJ's chart. Scanning the information, he asks the inevitable question, the one we've already been asked so many times.
"Mr. and Mrs. Dietrich, I see you have one child. Are you quite sure you don't want to have any more children?" The doctor unveils his silver tray of thin sharp tools, wheeling himself around on a stool as he waits for our response.
"Yes, we're sure," RJ replies, looking calm. Okay, actually he's starting to look a little nervous as he eyes the various instruments on the tray, none of which look particularly benign. Dr. Berry goes over everything with us one more time. Have we read all the pre-procedure literature? Do we know that vasectomy reversals come with a low success rate and a giant price tag? Do we want to store sperm-cicles in case we change our minds someday? Yes, yes, no. So this is it. Our reproductive days are about to end — by choice.
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