First Urologist Visit: November 14, 2019
Tic-Tacs. . .
In a darker time,
a different me allowed myself
to call them by that name
in part due to the beautiful sound they’d make
as they bounced about their plastic bounds
like loose bullets at the bottom of a box,
begging to be chambered and shot into my mouth
but mostly because
like their namesake,
there’s no such thing as too many
& you can’t have only one.
they go by a more mature name: Ativan.
The label from the pharmacy will read: Lorazepam.
They’re being prescribed to me
as an integral part of my vasectomy.
The doctor says they’ll ease the tension;
when taken as prescribed,
they will prevent my balls from withdrawing themselves,
making it easier for him
to find and extract the vas deferens
& I get that, because I know
when taken for fun,
benzos have the ability
to melt the brain down like plastic,
press it into a record
play it for the world
and let an imaginary hand
randomly lift the needle.
When the vinyl spins
absent of sound,
you can drive for hours
with your hair caught in a closed window
and not have a fucking clue
before you come to and realize
you’re white-knuckling the steering wheel;
the car’s in the driveway,
the engine’s been running
for god knows how long
& you haven’t moved an inch at all.
In large enough quantity,
days deconstruct into dreams
the memory cannot conjure at will
and for those with a mind like mine
such memorably forgettable things
are cherished. I see how this will work;
how my balls will feel better
believing that this is just another
misplaced puzzle piece of a life
I cannot look back on to laugh at;
how I may finally have to explain why
sometimes, I laugh and cry in my sleep.
We get through the formalities,
the doctor and I
& he finally gets to asking me why,
at such a young age,
I want to stop having children.
I feed him some bullshit
and the state of the world;
how explaining Neo-Nazism
to two toddlers
is enough for one lifetime.
What I neglect to mention
is that this appointment marks
two months of my being sober.
I’m barely 31.
For 17 years of that not a night went by
that I didn’t have to put together the next morning.
For 10 of those 17 I’ve been a partner;
for 6 of those 10 I’ve been a parent,
and 60 days ago I woke on an empty bed
in clothes I did not remember.
On my phone
a picture of me
swimming in a sea of vomit
& four sentence fragments:
This. Has. To. Stop.
I neglect to mention how, on that day, I gave up
chasing lost puzzle pieces of dreams
& promised to never let anyone down, again;
how that starts right here, with him,
from being able to make anyone else, ever
feel that ashamed of me again.
He tells me it could take up to a year
before I am completely sterile
& all I can manage to ask him
is how much longer will I have to wait
until I’m fixed.