Whole Life Times: You, Out of the Gene Pool!

November 2005 | Feature

You, Out of the Gene Pool!

One snip eases your anxiety and your conscience

by Bill Penrose

“Every sperm is sacred. Every sperm is great. If a sperm is wasted, God gets quite irate.”
–Monty Python, The Meaning of Life

“If we really want an effective male birth control pill, we’d talk to a beer company about making a contraceptive microbrew.”
–Anna, single and sassy K Street viewer

Gentlemen in committed relationships, free of child-rearing urges: What if there were a 99.9 percent guaranteed, alcohol-, forgetfulness- and awkwardness-proof birth control method that would allow you and your partner to enjoy making love for the rest of your lives without worrying about pregnancy? Wouldn’t you want her to look into it?

There is… and she wants you to look into it.

For obvious reasons, the burden of birth control often falls to women. Some women may resent that responsibility, given how much of the labor falls to them. If you get snipped, she’s off the hook, and off the pill with its myriad side effects.

Don’t wait for the chimerical male birth control pill, perpetually years from the market, perhaps due in part to potential side effects.

Worried about needles, knives or cauterizing instruments near what a vasectomy clinic in LA (vasectomy.com) calls “this important and sensitive area of the body?” Get over it. Ever had your cervix examined, or a C-section, or even a contraction? Be grateful for that Y chromosome; next time around you might not be so lucky.

During the birth of our second child, as the anesthesiologist was trying to insert an epidural mid-contraction, he told my wife snippily, “Would you mind holding still?” You’d think a man who reduces pain for a living would be more sensitive.

Not too long afterward, my wife, having had enough of contractions and the pill, expressed strong interest in my seeking a permanent form of birth control. Since at the time I was only 36, her doctor suggested that we wait till I was 40 and then explore the option. By then I’d had plenty of time to think about it.

On some level, thoughtful men know our part in conception is fairly trivial. According to the “Genus” edition of Trivial Pursuit®, a “spermologer” is one who collects trivia. Really makes you feel important, huh? But at 300 to 500 million sperm per healthy male ejaculation, the odds are astronomical against any individual swimmer hoping to hook up with a cute egg.

And you wonder why guys are so competitive.

As my 40th birthday approached, I got to thinking. Did I really want to remove myself from the gene pool forever? Possibly I’m biased, but our two children are smart, funny, open-minded, loving, beautiful—exactly the kind of person the world needs more of. And both God and Harvey Danger know that stupid people are breeding. Shouldn’t we keep pace?

My wife and I share a simple reproductive philosophy: Replace yourselves, and then stop. Please, for the sake of the planet, stop. Americans make up less than 5 percent of the world’s population and consume more than 25 percent of its energy, 43 percent of its gasoline. How many more voracious little greenhouse gasbags can we afford, on the planet or in our family?

At the time, I worked for a leading Internet commerce company that proudly offered minimal salaries and benefits. But in another indicator that the health insurance system is biased against women, I learned that vasectomy—while not inexpensive (except compared to childbirth)—was completely covered. The bean counters know: preventing conception forever saves money.

Knowing the cost was covered, I found a urologist who uses needle-free numbing and a no-scalpel technique that sounded comforting. The reading material said about 1 percent of men—no doubt the troglodytes who equate potency with power—experience some sexual problems. Surely I wouldn’t be in that devolved segment. I have experienced some minor post-vasectomy dysfunction, but I’d blame that less on the aftermath of sterility than on manager-induced testicular damage. Performance reviews can be brutal.

In a nice bit of irony, my vasectomy fell on Father’s Day weekend. The entire procedure took about 15 minutes. Shaving my scrotum in the tub beforehand was novel. The doctor said I did a fine job, but I bet he tells that to all the boys. The numbing spray and one day with an ice pack eased any discomfort (not everyone is so lucky), and the tiny incision healed in a few days. Two months later, I was certifiably sterile.

This decision wasn’t made without second thoughts, most too grim (plane crashes) or self-delusional for print. Besides the intellectual belief in population control and my wife’s urging, what clinched it for me was the thought of bringing up another child at my age: months of sleepless nights, years of diaper service, looking like grandpa at graduation.

How does it feel? Given my wife was on the pill for years, I can’t say being sterile has boosted my sense of liberation all that much; it didn’t need much boosting. But my vasectomy lifted a huge weight off her, and that’s been good for both of us.

Sure, part of this is rationalizing a choice I’ve already made. The Genghis Khan wannabe in me still wants to inseminate almost every healthy-looking female of reproductive age, to populate the world in my image. Being seedless hasn’t diminished my biological urge—I’m not sure anything would.

But for your partner’s sake and the common good, think about nipping that urge, bud.

Freelance writer Bill Penrose may have had second thoughts, but he knows better than to put them in print

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