While it wasn’t the first time I had encountered unusual sights, I certainly never expected a day at my father’s work to be so memorable. My dad often brought home slides from his urology practice, which were sometimes, well, less than appropriate for family viewing. These slides would pop up unexpectedly during our family presentations, causing me to squirm in my seat between more wholesome images of our annual family ski trips.
At that time, I aspired to be a doctor, just like my dad. I admired his importance in the medical field—even if I had zero interest in specializing in urology. Despite my father’s focus on male anatomy, I preferred to tell my classmates about his work with kidneys, which sounded much more respectable. In the ’80s, urology lacked the glamor of other surgical specialties, and often, when people asked about my father’s profession, I would mumble my answer so quickly that they assumed I said “neurologist.” I never corrected them because being the daughter of a “dick doctor” had its share of embarrassment. My mother would always remind me that it could be worse—we could be a proctologist’s family.
Despite the awkwardness, my father was my hero. He left for work before we woke up and returned long after dinner was over. During her rare visits, my grandmother would exclaim, “The King is home!” when he returned from a long day at the hospital.
One evening, he surprised me by offering to take me to work. “Would I miss school?” I feigned concern.
“It’s just one day, and you’ll learn something,” he said with a wink.
The following Monday, I woke up before everyone else and joined him for a quick breakfast. He had chosen a kidney transplant for my observation that day—a wholesome choice, I thought.
At the hospital, I hurried to keep up with my dad, who moved at lightning speed through the sterile hallways. The walls transitioned from beige to blue, signaling we were approaching the operating room, and my excitement peaked.
Inside the OR, the bright lights illuminated a small, pink area of flesh. I stood on tiptoe, straining to see as my father and his team performed the surgery. I had expected a dramatic show of blood and guts, but instead, it was surprisingly uneventful. Just as I was beginning to think I’d have to embellish my story for my friends, my father and his residents left the room, leaving me alone.
As the nurses cleaned up, I watched curiously. They turned off the lights and moved equipment aside, revealing the patient beneath the sheets. My eyes widened when I noticed the unexpected sight between his legs. The head nurse, a robust woman, wheeled over a cart and began preparing the area. To my astonishment, she started tenderizing the man’s groin as if it were a piece of meat. I was sure that if he were awake, he would have been in shock at the treatment.
When my father returned, he quickly whisked me away to lunch in the cafeteria, realizing he had forgotten all about the vasectomy.
Once home, I recounted my day to my family in excruciating detail, but no one cared about the kidney part—everyone wanted to hear about the “action.” Even my mother struggled to keep a straight face while scolding my dad for the day’s events. Slowly, I started to appreciate the humor in my father’s work, even if the embarrassment of being the daughter of a urologist lingered.
My father worked long hours, and we rarely saw him outside of mealtimes. He didn’t often engage with us kids, but he knew how to keep us entertained. We’d laugh over ridiculous names, like “Harry Butz,” and as we grew older, he shared his outrageous urology stories, many of which I still retell today.
As a child, I sometimes wished my father had a more conventional job, like a banker or an insurance agent, someone who wouldn’t share tales of erectile dysfunction at the dinner table. Yet, looking back, I recognize how dull our meals would have been without his unique perspective. I’m grateful that he taught me to embrace the humor in life, even when it comes to sensitive topics. It can be tricky to navigate discussions about anatomy, but thanks to him, I learned to do so with grace.
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