My husband assures me that he "lacks the embarrassment gene".

So I don't think he will mind me telling you what happened when we attended a hospital appointment to discuss vasectomies.

We've been told by my cardiologist that it would be life-threatening for me to have another baby, so my husband has decided to have the snip.

He probably would have had it done anyway as he is happy to have fathered two children already and has no desire to witness childbirth again.

My heart condition has hastened this decision, so last Monday I joined him in seeing a specialist.

I wanted to offer him my support as he has accompanied me to every hospital appointment I've had recently. He has held my hand, listened carefully to the doctors' prognoses and has helped me through the most traumatic moments.

My intention was to do the same for him. The only trouble is, I lack the "sympathy gene". I'm ashamed to admit that in the past I have, almost without fail, found any ailment or medical condition of my husband's either very amusing or not worth kicking up a fuss about.

I've giggled helplessly when he has limped around the house with sciatica, I called him Pinocchio when his nose was bandaged after an operation to have polyps removed and I have never paid any attention to his wheezles and sneezles - except to complain when his phlegm once landed in my dinner.

My lack of compassion was something we had both temporarily forgotten when we began talking to the urologist. But it soon resurfaced.

When my husband winced at the idea of needles being stuck into his scrotum, I pointed out that it can't be anywhere near as painful as being in the final stages of labour.

When he looked distressed to hear that a very small minority of men suffer chronic discomfort afterwards, I reminded him that my body has been irreversibly damaged by having children.

When he asked if a qualified doctor would be carrying out the procedure I insensitively piped up with something about how the hospital cleaners would probably see to him after they had emptied the bins.

"Remind me not to let you come with me when I actually have it done," said my husband afterwards. "I'd rather suffer this alone than have you mocking me."

"I'm sorry," I said, guiltily. "I promise I won't laugh, even if the operation makes you walk like Groucho Marx."

I actually think my husband is very brave going for this. Most men would probably not want to put their most precious organ under the knife, regardless of whether or not they wanted more children.

The urologist told us there was a nine-month waiting list for those prepared to have a local anaesthetic, which would mean they could be in and out of surgery within half an hour.

Or they could opt for a general anaesthetic, but the waiting list for that was longer. I resisted the urge to make a cheap gag about there not being a vas deferens between these choices.

My husband, being the soldier that he is, has said he wants to be conscious throughout the procedure and, if possible, would rather watch what the doctors were doing to him. This is an obvious sign that he lacks another gene, although I'm not sure which one.

In the meantime, I have begun improving my bedside manner. Just call me matron.