The Vasectomy Doctor

 

The Vasectomy Doctor

A Memoir

DR ANDREW RYNNE

First of all I should thank my editor at Mercier Press, Mary Feehan, for her courage and conviction in running with this effort of mine. Then my wife, Joan, for her forbearance and patience with me throughout – living with a writer is not easy. Thanks to my friend, Victor Egan, whose idea it was in the very first instance that I write this book. Thanks too to my old friend, Ronnie Drew, for writing such an honest foreword, and to another old friend, Dick Warner, who agreed to launch the book for me. I need to thank Joan Mulroy, my secretary of more years that either of us care to admit, for going through the book correcting the hundreds of misspellings that I managed to make and that the word-processor lets through. Another friend who needs to be acknowledged is Bryan Fox who was, as always, generous with his sound legal advice. Finally there are my son, Lorcan, and daughter, Caoilfhionn, who hovered in the background and worried for their mother's sensitivities. I hope those worries have proved groundless.

Dr Andrew Rynne

http://www.vasectomy-ireland.com

Storytelling is, I have no doubt, an activity which is practised and enjoyed to a greater or lesser degree throughout the world. In Ireland it seems to be a national pastime and I can assure you, from my personal experience, that everybody in Ireland has stories to relate. On most days if you're out there knocking around you can encounter at least some people either telling or aching to tell their tales. Over a period of many years I have listened to and enjoyed all sorts of stories, some great, some good, some bad and some that were
really awful, but overall I have been greatly enriched by the experi
ence. I look forward to being further enriched by reading Andy's memoir.

I have known him for many years. I can't remember exactly when we met; it must have been sometime in the early 1960s, but you must take into account that there was a lot of euphoria ‘flowing' around that time. This was a period when Irish music and song was being celebrated in Dublin. While there was in England and America what was called the ‘Folk Revival', what was happening in Ireland was what I suppose could be termed a resurgence. Traditional music had never died out and even in Dublin there were two traditional music clubs, the ‘Pipers Club' in Thomas Street, and another in Church Street, which had an official name but I can't remember what it was, we jackeens called it the ‘Fiddlers Club', a name which may have appeared very irreverent to some of its members.

In other places like the ‘Coffee Kitchen' in Molesworth Street, ‘O'Donoghues' pub in Merrion Row and many places besides, Irish music was being played and Irish songs were being sung, along with songs from many other parts of the world. Luke Kelly had just returned from England and brought with him many songs we had not heard before, songs written by Ewan McColl which in many cases carried a strong social comment. Johnny Moynihan could be heard singing songs from all corners of Ireland. Songs of Dublin were being unearthed by people like Frank Harte and others, all greatly helped by Colm O'Lochlainn's books of ‘Street Ballads'.

There was a great excitement in the air at that time with new people constantly arriving at the various venues to sing and exchange songs; it was not an elitist circle by any means, all were very welcome.

Andy Rynne was a part of all this and was respected as a fine singer and whistle player. I still enjoy his company when we meet at parties and other get-togethers. He, for his part, maintains his enthusiasm and willingness to perform at the drop of a hat. Andy Rynne who, because of his integrity, and his ability to pay attention, observe and to take note of the many interesting incidents, nuances and experiences within his own life and in those lives being lived around him, is well qualified to tell his story or present his memoir.

Well done Andy.

Ronnie Drew

August 2005

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To my wife Joan

CHAPTER 1

Thursday afternoon, 12 July 1990, was no different from most others. I was working my way through a short list of vasectomies and seeing a few general practice patients in between. My secretary, Joan Mulroy, was sitting at the reception desk outside in the waiting-room. I had just given my patient a local anaesthetic into the side of his scrotum and around his
vas deferens
on both sides. So far so good. Vasectomy is a tricky operation requiring maximum concentration. This was my twenty-something thousandth vasectomy and I quipped with my client that I was getting the hang of doing them and that I had it all down to a fine art. This doctor–patient banter has evolved over the years and is designed specifically for vasectomies to put the man at ease. Some doctors refer to this as ‘talk anaesthetic' and it is of the utmost importance. After all, the area being operated on is one that all men instinctively protect with their hands as they walk across a pitch-dark room for fear that they may bump into the sofa. And now it is being laid bare and ever so gently and skilfully assaulted with syringe and fine needle, scalpel and forceps. I have the greatest admiration and respect for the courage and trust of all men who present themselves for vasectomy. A quiet babble of reassurance is essential. In addition to this, nowadays a large flat screen hangs from the ceiling above the patient's head onto which beautiful images of Irish scenery, rivers and streams, forests and mountains are projected from a DVD player. But in 1990 flat screens and DVDs were yet to be invented.

An upsetting noise was coming from the waiting-room up the corridor, but I wasn't too alarmed. I thought it might have been a child getting sick and maybe being rushed to the toilet down the hall or something like that. This kind of thing happens all the time in general practice. But the kerfuffle was no sick child. Within seconds and without any warning the door behind me bursts open. By the time I swing around to see what is happening the barrel of a .22 rifle is coming into the room, quickly followed by a short dark man with his right index finger on the trigger and the stock of the gun held firmly to his right shoulder. He is wearing a black woolly pudding-bowl hat and black gloves. The trigger guard has been taken off the gun and the gun is pointing directly at my head. The gun has a magazine clipped in place but at this stage I cannot say if it is loaded or not. This cannot be happening, this cannot be for real. Is this some kind of bizarre kissogram or something? Is this someone's idea of a joke?

But it is no kissogram and it certainly is no joke. This is deadly serious and my little surgery is suddenly filled with a lethal air of menace. I am getting a hideous sense of finality here. Time seems to stop. The gunman moves around to my right. He never takes his meaty finger off the trigger nor does he ever stop bearing down the sights straight at my head. I get the impression that he has been practising this at home. The patient for vasectomy, whose scrotum and its contents I had only a minute beforehand anaesthetised, gets off the operating table, pulls his pants back on and leaves the room quickly. I am now alone with my tormentor. He mutters something incoherent like: ‘You ruined my life eight years ago so I am going to take yours now.' Then he comes straight at me and holds the muzzle of his rifle two inches away from my lower forehead, straight between my eyes. Now I am looking directly down the barrel and I can see the rifling or screw worm its way back into the gun. The barrel moves ever so slightly with his breathing. Otherwise he is rock steady and holds the gun in that position for what seems to me to be an eternity.

That screwing grove going back down the barrel is designed to make the bullet spin as it charges its way from breech to muzzle. By the time the bullet leaves the rifle it will be spinning like a dentist's drill at 1,000 revolutions per second. Spinning like that it will leave the muzzle at about 1,200 feet per second or 800 miles per hour – faster than the speed of sound. All the meaty finger inside the glove has to do now is exert five pounds of pressure on the trigger. This may sound like a lot but in fact it is nothing. A gloved finger does not properly sense how much pressure it is exerting on the trigger. I have misfired guns through the use of gloves more often than I care to admit. The situation I am now in is lethally precarious. Death will only come nearer once more in my lifetime and that is when it will take me off with it. Old meaty finger here could easily make a mistake. But whether by mistake or by design it hardly matters. The entrance wound between my eyes would be neat, tiny and bloodless. The exit wound at the back of my head would be hen's egg-sized and hideous.