Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go

Thanks for getting me through my vasectomy, George Michael.

So many bad puns I could make trying to tell this story. I’ll do my best to refrain. I’ve fathered as many kids as I intend to, so… here we are. It’s a choice for everyone to make themselves, and it was the right one for me. If you’re considering getting a vasectomy, I’m happy to talk about the experience and my reasoning with you.

I was a little nervous going into last week, and it didn’t help that the office gave me the wrong address for the procedure – I showed up close to Ohio State campus on Wednesday all ready to go, only to be told that this was the day my doc was up at the New Albany office, about a 40-minute drive away. This was about 15 minutes before my procedure was supposed to start.

The receptionist looked pretty surprised.

“Um, if you leave right now you can probably get there in time…”

I told her I’d been dropped off, and she rescheduled me for Friday afternoon. Believe me, I’m thankful it was two more days instead of two months, but the additional wait wasn’t fun.

I triple-checked the location Friday morning, got dropped off and prepped with no complications, then realized I forgot my ear buds. The nurse assisting the doctor offered to play something over the room’s computer speakers, thankfully.

I wasn’t sure they would dig the full-volume Tool medley I’d planned to withdraw into, so I asked for some George Michael instead. The four women on the other side of the blue C-section sheet blocking my view said they didn’t care, and they got down to business.

I don’t know if the doctor intentionally synced the anesthetic needle to the beat of “Careless Whisper,” but I was too busy digging my fingernails into my palms to ask. That was by far the worst part, if you’re considering the procedure – it felt like they were going at me with a staple gun, as George crooned that I was never gonna dance again. It was not a good time. I cherish that sax solo, dammit, it better not be ruined for me.

The nurse claimed the playlist was random, but refraining from awkward jokes during “Father Figure” was pretty difficult. I mean, abstaining from bad jokes in general wasn’t an easy task, I figured they already get plenty of those. But come on. Put your tiny hand in mine?

They finished quicker than I expected, taking probably less time than getting a cavity filled at the dentist. Everything had been successful and routine, the doc assured me. And when the bongo drums at the beginning of “Freedom! ‘90” kicked in, I chose to believe it was coincidence. But I swear the nurse was snickering on her way out the door.

Looking back, there are all kinds of George Michael songs that could have made things more awkward, so I’ll consider myself lucky.

Just bring your own headphones if you go in for a vasectomy, I guess, is what I’m trying to convey here.

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