It wasn’t my first encounter with male anatomy, not really. My dad had a habit of leaving behind slides of various “unfortunate incidents” from his urology practice in the carousel he borrowed for family slide shows. Those images would pop up unexpectedly, much to my mortification, sandwiched between snapshots of our annual ski trips.
At that time, I dreamed of becoming a doctor like my father, yearning for the level of importance he seemed to possess—even if I wasn’t keen on following in his specialty. I was aware of his focus on male genitalia, but I preferred to emphasize his work with kidneys when discussing his profession with classmates. Back in the pre-Viagra ’80s, urology didn’t carry the same prestige as other surgical fields.
When asked about my dad’s job, I often mumbled so quickly that people assumed I’d said “neurologist,” a mistake I never bothered to correct. The title of “dick doctor” was a little embarrassing for me, but my mom always said it could be worse—we could have been a proctologist’s family. In the hierarchy of undignified medical professions, proctology was definitely at the bottom.
Despite this, my dad was my hero. He left for work before we were even awake and returned home long after the dinner dishes were cleared away. Whenever my paternal grandmother visited, she’d exclaim, “The King is home!” upon his arrival, making it feel like a royal event.
One evening, my dad surprised us by coming home early and asked if I wanted to accompany him to watch a surgery. “Would I have to skip school?” I asked, pretending to care about my education. “It’s just one day, and you’ll learn something at the hospital,” he winked.
The following Monday, which happened to be his surgery day, I woke up long before the rest of the family and shared a hasty breakfast of Ancient Grains with him. He planned to let me observe a kidney transplant—quite a wholesome choice for my first hospital experience.
As we navigated the hospital’s corridors, I jogged to keep up with my dad’s brisk pace. The fluorescent lights buzzed above us, and I barely managed to keep my Hush Puppies from squeaking too loudly. Finally, we arrived at the operating room, and I felt a mix of excitement and dread wash over me.
Inside, the room was filled with bright lights, and we gathered around a small, pink square of flesh. I stood on my tiptoes, trying to glimpse the delicate movements of gloved hands working within the surgical site. But to my disappointment, the surgery was less thrilling than I had imagined. I anticipated a scene out of a horror movie, but it was more akin to watching paint dry.
Then, as the procedure wrapped up, I found myself alone in the room. The nurses moved about, clearing up after the operation, and suddenly, I was struck by the stark reality of the situation. Just beneath the blue sheets lay a man—a real person. I had forgotten about that aspect entirely.
As a nurse wheeled a cart my way, I assumed I was about to be reprimanded for gawking. Instead, she began prepping the area with Betadine and, to my shock, started moving the man’s, um, anatomy around as if she were tenderizing meat. I could hardly suppress a gasp. When my father returned, his expression was priceless; it was clear he had completely forgotten about the vasectomy taking place. We quickly left for lunch in the cafeteria.
Back home, I excitedly relayed my day’s events to my mom and younger siblings. Naturally, everyone was more interested in the details about the man’s anatomy than the kidney transplant itself—even my mother, who tried to stifle her laughter to scold my dad properly.
Growing up, I sometimes wished my father had a more conventional job—like a banker or an insurance agent—someone who didn’t bring up erectile dysfunction during dinner. But now, I see how dull those dinners would have been. I am thankful to him for teaching me to find humor in awkward topics. While it can still be a challenge to navigate conversations involving anatomy, I’ve learned to approach them with a sense of humor.
If you’re curious about more insights into family planning or home insemination, check out this helpful resource or consider exploring what makes a successful IUI. And for those looking for tools to assist in the journey, this site has you covered.
Summary
This article recounts a humorous and somewhat embarrassing “Take Your Daughter to Work Day” experience, highlighting the unique challenges and comedic moments that arise when your father is a urologist. While initially mortified by his profession, the author learns to embrace the humor found in the most delicate subjects, ultimately appreciating the lessons of laughter and resilience instilled by her father.