While it wasn’t the first time I had encountered the male anatomy, the memories of my father’s accidental slides featuring mangled body parts left a lasting impression. During our family slide shows, these images would pop up unexpectedly, much like grotesque jack-in-the-boxes amid our cheerful ski trip memories.
At that point in my life, I aspired to be a doctor, just like my dad. I yearned to be as significant as he was, even if our career paths diverged. I understood that he specialized in urology, but I preferred to highlight his work with kidneys when explaining his profession to my classmates. In the pre-Viagra 1980s, urology lacked the prestige of other surgical fields, and I sometimes answered inquiries about my father’s job so quickly and quietly that people often misheard and assumed I said “neurologist.” I rarely corrected them. Being the daughter of a “dick doctor” often caused me embarrassment—though my mother would remind me that it could be worse; we could have been a proctologist’s family instead. In the hierarchy of medical professions, proctology was at the very bottom.
Nevertheless, my father was a hero in my eyes. He left for work before we headed to school and returned long after dinner was over. During biannual visits, my grandmother would cheerfully declare, “The King is home,” whenever he returned from a long day saving lives.
One rare evening when he arrived early enough to join us for dinner, he asked if I wanted to accompany him to work to observe a surgery. “Will I miss school?” I inquired, pretending to be concerned for my education. “Just one day, and you might learn something at the hospital,” he replied, winking.
The following week, on a Monday—his designated surgery day—I awoke before everyone else and shared a quick breakfast of Ancient Grains with my father. He had wisely chosen a kidney transplant for my observation that day.
At the hospital, I sprinted through the corridors to keep up with my father, who never slowed down. The white linoleum floors squeaked beneath my shoes, and I often had to skip along to keep pace. We passed through numerous double doors, and the hallway eventually transformed from tan to blue, signaling our approach to the operating room. My heart raced with excitement.
Inside the operating room, the bright, hot lights surrounded us as we formed a semicircle around a small, pink square of flesh. My feet grew weary from standing on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the gloved hands expertly maneuvering through a bloody incision. My father occasionally looked up to meet my gaze with a smile.
The surgery was over sooner than I had anticipated. I had hoped for a more dramatic scene—the kind of blood and guts that would make for an incredible story—but instead, it felt more monotonous than a Sunday sermon. I was sure I would have a captivating tale to share with my friends, but I began to worry I might need to embellish the details to make it sound exciting. When my father and his residents stepped out for a moment, I remained where I was.
The nurses moved with purpose, as if wrapping up after a theatrical performance. They switched off the lights, pushed equipment aside, and removed the blue drapes, revealing the backside of a small man. I had momentarily forgotten there was a living person beneath those sheets. He appeared lifeless to me. The head nurse, a robust Greek woman, wheeled a cart toward me, and I braced myself for a reprimand for staring. Instead, she began to apply Betadine to the man’s groin, smothering it generously. Then, to my astonishment, she began to slap his testicles around as if tenderizing meat. From my limited experience with my brothers, I knew that would have been painful had the man been conscious. He groaned and turned his head slightly, but she continued her work with the enthusiasm of a chef. When my father returned, his expression revealed he had completely forgotten about the vasectomy, and he swiftly whisked me out of the room for lunch in the cafeteria.
Once we returned home, I recounted my day in vivid detail to my mother and younger brothers. No one seemed interested in the kidney transplant; everyone was more intrigued by the story of the man’s anatomy—even my mother, who attempted to suppress her laughter to scold my father properly. Though I was still grappling with the embarrassment of having a “dick doctor” for a dad, I began to recognize the comedic aspects of his profession.
My father worked long hours, and we rarely saw him beyond the tuft of salt-and-pepper hair peeking over the evening newspaper. He may not have known much about children—that was my mother’s domain—but he knew how to entertain us. During family dinners, we would brainstorm silly names, with “Harry Butz” being a crowd favorite. As we grew older, he shared his gory urology tales, many of which I still recount today.
There were times in my youth when I wished my father had a more conventional job—perhaps as a banker or an insurance salesman with regular hours, like my friends’ dads, who didn’t discuss erectile dysfunction at the dinner table. Yet, as I reflect on those memories, I realize how dull our family dinners would have been without his unique stories. I am grateful to him for teaching me to embrace laughter even in the face of awkward subjects. Admittedly, it can be a challenge to navigate the humor surrounding anatomy, especially during intimate moments, but I have certainly learned to approach them with care.
In summary, this unusual Take Your Daughter to Work Day opened my eyes to the complexities of my father’s profession and taught me the importance of humor in even the most delicate situations. If you’re interested in learning more about home insemination, check out this excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination from Healthline. For those interested in at-home options, consider exploring Cryobaby’s Insemination Kit or check out Infused Oils for expert insights on the topic.