The Vasectomy Doctor

by Dr. Andrew Rynne

  The Vasectomy Doctor

  A Memoir

  DR ANDREW RYNNE

  MERCIER PRESS

  3B Oak House, Bessboro Rd

  Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

  www.mercierpress.ie

  http://twitter.com/IrishPublisher

  http://www.facebook.com/mercier.press

  © Andrew Rynne, 2012

  ISBN: 978 1 85635 483 7

  Epub ISBN: 978 1 85635 911 5

  Mobi ISBN: 978 1 85635 933 7

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Foreword

  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 experience. 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

  Point Blank Range

  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.

  Then slowly the gunman drops his rifle away from my face and directs it onto my lower abdomen. Now I have the impression that perhaps he does not intend to kill me. This is an impression that I may have to review in a few minutes’ time but just at this very moment I feel a fraction safer than I did seconds before. Now I try to push him away from me but somehow the instrument trolley comes between us and goes crashing to the floor. There are vasectomy instruments all over the place. Two vasectomy forceps, a haemostat, a scalpel handle with a number fifteen carbon steel surgical blade attached, a five cc syringe loaded with two per cent Xylocaine, surgical swabs and a galley pot filled with Hibitane. All these things are now scattered across the floor.

  Before I try to take him on again he pulls the trigger and the room is filled by a loud bang. He brings the bolt backwards and the empty shell flies out. He shoves the bolt forward again and locks it down. I felt nothing at all but there is blood running down the front of my right trouser leg. I have been hit, but exactly where I cannot say. Had it not been for all the blood and the loud crack of the rifle I would not have known that I had been shot. I say to my attacker: ‘You’ve shot me, you bastard’ and then I fall to the ground. He is over me still pointing the gun directly at my face. Now of course I know that the gun is loaded and this whole thing has taken on a more deathly dimension than ever.

  Suddenly I get up off the floor and am amazed to find that I have two good legs under me. So why did I fall? I do not know but it hardly matters. What matters now is that I have both legs under me and I had better start using them to good effect. I make a bolt for the door and am away up the corridor. As I reach the empty waiting-room there is a second bang as the gunman fires at me again. Since I felt nothing as the first bullet entered the top of my leg I could not know now if he has hit me again or not with his second shot. Being shot is a painless business. I hear myself roaring. I do not want to roar like this but it seems to me that my body has gone into autopilot and is doing things of its own accord. Outside a patient is coming in to see me. I grab her by the wrist and try to pull her along with me and tell her what’s going on and that there is a gunman in there with deadly intent. She falls to the ground and I stop to help her and the gunman is outside the surgery and barely ten feet away from us.

  Next an extraordinary thing happens. The man who nearly had a vasectomy, his trousers by now safely back on, walks up to the gunman and offers him a cigarette. The gunman accepts the cigarette and lights up. The man who nearly had a vasectomy is only trying to calm the situation down and to this day I am grateful to this man who I never met since. Now, for the second time I get the incorrect impression that the worst of the attack is over. It is not. With the cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth the gunman slides the bolt of his rifle forwards and backwards once again. I can see the empty shell arch its way to the ground glittering in the summer sunlight as it makes its way. Again the gunman lifts the rifle to his shoulder and fires right at my head. I know he has fired straight at my head because once again I am treated to a view directly down the barrel of his rifle. The tip of a branch of a leylandii bush parts company with the hedge one inch away from my left ear. It is time to get going again.

  As I run up the short driveway towards the street there is another bang. This is his fourth shot at me and the third time that he has missed. I take a sharp left and left again. Now I am running diagonally across an empty space at the back of St Ann’s where I once lived. He is after me and still shooting at me. I take a leaf out of the snipe’s flying manual and start running in a zigzag fashion making myself a difficult moving target for a rifleman. Soon I am out onto the main street of Clane and running in front of St Ann’s and around to the back of the house were I find my colleague Xavier Flanagan loading his golf clubs into the back of his car. Xavier wants to know what’s wrong with me because I look dreadful. When I tell him that I’ve been shot he finds it difficult to believe. But then he sees all the blood down my right trouser leg and has to agree with my self-diagnosis. At this stage I am absolutely knackered and need to sit down. Xavier props me up on a garden chair on the raised patio at the back of his house and the thought occurs to me that the gunman could round the corner at any second and there I’d be cocked up on a chair, a grand target for even a mediocre shot like old meaty fingers.

  What has happened in the meantime is that my attacker, unbeknownst to me of course, has taken himself into a field across from my surgery and threatened to shoot himself and anyone else who comes near him. About forty-five minutes after I have been shot Xavier lays me out in his car to drive me up to Clane Hospital. As we are passing the field where my attacker is I can see him out in the middle of the field sitting on the grass with the rifle across his knees surrounded by cattle. By this stage an enormous crowd has gathered and are viewing proceedings from whatever vantage point they can find. The army arrives complete with tear-gas canisters and the whole place takes on the appearance of a small battlefield.

  The x-rays at the hospital show that the bullet has lodged in my right hip joint and I will need surgery to get it out. All things considered my kind colleagues advise that I go to a bigger hospital to have the job done and I agree. I may have founded Clane Hospital but that does not mean that I was unaware of its limitations at the time. At midnight I was put to sleep in St James’ Hospital in Dublin and three hours later orthopaedic surgeon Garry Fenelon dislocates my hip joint and, with considerable difficulty, manages to get the bullet out. It now sits in a plastic envelope on the dresser at home here in the kitchen. I recover quickly. In four days’ time I am back in Clane Hospital for a few days respite before getting the stitches taken out. While there my friends Dick and Geraldine Warner send me in a pint of Guinness covered with cellophane. Seldom has a pint tasted so good. Another old friend of mine, Paddy McKenzie, sends me in a vintage Châteaux Margot; that also is a memorable experience.

  * * *

  My surgeon advised that on no account was I to go to Scotland for grouse shooting that year. In Scotland the grouse-shooting season opens on 12 August, the so-called ‘Glorious Twelfth’, and that was just one month after having my right hip dislocated to extract the bullet. But I felt fine and decided to ignore the good doctor’s advice and go to Angus anyway for our annual two days of walked-up grouse shooting on the heather-clad mountains over Balintore Castle. I’d been going there for years and I was damned if I was going to let recent happenings interrupt such a fine tradition.

  Gro
use are a fast flying bird slightly smaller that a hen pheasant and are native to the upland areas of Scotland and Ireland. Their staple diet is shoots of young heather, and to help them survive in good numbers it is necessary to burn off the heather in large patches to encourage new growth. But they also need older heather to provide them with shelter against the winds and the rains. We have very few native Irish grouse now in Ireland because nobody manages the moors where they might otherwise flourish. In Scotland on the other hand grouse-shooting is looked upon as a significant industry and all grouse moors are accordingly carefully keepered and managed.

  If you know about these things one glance at an upland grouse moor in Scotland will tell you to which estate it belongs. Each keeper has his own way of burning off heather in a pattern that is unique to him alone. Thus all these low, smooth mountains are tattooed with the heather burn marks characteristic of that shooting estate.

  The guns are arranged in a straight line across the moor and the dog-handlers follow some twenty yards behind. Every now and then the guns come onto a covey of grouse hidden in the long heather. A covey is a family or clutch of birds containing two adult parents and anything up to twelve mature offspring. They might all take to the air in one great flurry of activity or, more usually, they may get up in smaller groups of two and three. Once a bird has been shot down a whistle is blown and the line of guns stops moving forward. The dog-handlers unleash their retrievers and they go forward to try and retrieve the shot grouse. This sometimes can take ten or even fifteen minutes to achieve because at that time of year with all the heather pollen blowing around the place scent is poor and dead birds hard to pick up. But the code of practice whereby every shot bird must be picked up is not one lightly dismissed and it is a matter of honour that nothing gets left for a fox unless it is absolutely unavoidable.