This is What Can Happen When a Vasectomy Backfires
We think we're in control until we're not.
I lay on the table in my surgical gown, legs wide apart, watching the male nurse happily shave me. Was I nervous? Oh yeah.
My daughter was born about a year prior, in 1988, four years after I left the ashram where I lived as a monk and followed an Indian guru. In 1984 I was thirty-three, dead broke, in debt, and had no idea how I would support myself.
I spent one-year cold-calling and selling telephone systems to small businesses. Then I moved on to retail, selling women's shoes for Macy's and men's shirts for Brook Brothers, both at the epic King of Prussia Mall in Pennsylvania. I applied for dozens of jobs. Nobody would touch me, so I made plans to sell vacuum cleaners door to door. Desperation.
Just before I started the vacuum thing, I got a job offer from a bank to teach sales training. Saved by the bell. I was on my way to the slippery slopes of corporate America.
I was married by this time, and my wife, Polly, and I talked about having kids at some point, but we were caught off guard when she got pregnant. I panicked — our heads were barely above water, fatherhood was knocking on my door, and I was overwhelmed with fear — I'm not ready for this. We won't have enough money.
I was a conflicted participant in my upcoming future until I cut the umbilical cord with a big pair of surgical sheers nine months later. I welcomed my daughter with open arms. She became the light of my life and, ever since that moment, has brought me so much joy and love.
But I sure wasn't ready for any more children.
Back to the surgery table.
Maybe they gave me some Valium. I really can't remember, but I doubt it. I do remember the needle filled with local anesthesia was the largest I'd ever seen, and it would be inserted not once but twice into my now clean-shaven . . . yes — those.
"You're going to feel a little pinch now." Ouch. Thanks for that.
Out came the snips, knives, surgical saws, and whatever else was needed to cut the vas deferens, the tubes that carry the sperm to the launch pad. I didn't pass out, perhaps because the doc and the nurse discussed their weekend plans and how the local football team was doing during the procedure.
I got a bad vibe from the whole thing.
After they finished slicing and dicing me, the doc said, "Just put some ice on it and rest. You might get some swelling for a few days but don't worry about it. You'll be fine."
A month later, I brought in my first sample.
"Well, Mr. Johnson — don't have unprotected sex yet. You've still got live sperm in your semen. This is quite normal. Please bring another sample in six weeks."
Great. I'll do that. More samples. Same results. I repeated this for the next nine months. My wife, Polly, and I were having difficulty in the marriage, given that I had just gotten snipped, and she wanted another child. We found two therapists, a husband and wife, and had a few joint sessions. Then we split off. My therapist started to unpack my cluttered psyche:
"How is your relationship with your father?"
"Terrible," I replied.
"Okay. Let's start there."
We worked on repairing the relationship. I journaled about my father and then wrote letters to him. He and I started communicating again — a little.
Meanwhile, I produced semen samples loaded up with live bullets. After nine months, I brought in one last sample. It tested positive. The failure rate of vasectomies is .2 %, which means that one or two out of 1,000 procedures are unsuccessful. Looks like my crack medical team possibly botched the job somehow.
Now that I was a father, I began to see my own Dad through new eyes. He may have been an aggressive, over-controlling, womanizing, perfectionistic racist, but he was also a charming, successful, intelligent guy doing the best he could with the tools he had.
So, I opened the door to forgiveness and the possibility of reconciliation. I had learned a lot from him and figured I could keep the good stuff — the value of hard work, storytelling, humor, persistence, and problem-solving — and eliminate the bad stuff. I began to feel a bit more prepared to be a better parent.
The wheels were turning in my head now. I thought about how I tried not to have another child and the odds of a vasectomy failing. My career was blossoming, and money was less of a concern. My daughter was two years old and the cutest thing in the world. I imagined her with a sibling playing in the backyard.
And, most of all, I felt this overwhelming message from the Universe — you can try to screw with me, but I've got other plans for you. It could not have been more apparent — I had to give up resisting what was not in my control, stop fighting what aren't my battles, and pay more attention to the whispers of my soul. Accept what is and trust the Universe.
I spoke with Polly and said I was ready. Let's have another kid. She was thrilled.
My son was born nine months later. Call it what you want. Coincidence. Serendipity. Good luck. Bad luck. Destiny. It certainly was a blessing for me. Holding this tiny baby boy in my arms when he was born that, at one time, I didn’t want was mind-blowing.
My botched vasectomy and subsequent birth of my son was the most significant wake-up call of my forty-year-old life. I realized I was not in complete control of anything. There's something way bigger than me in this life, of which I'm a small part.
My job? Accept what is. Let go of fear. Live in the present moment and trust the Universe/God/The Higher Power can do what it wants. I've tried to live by these principles for the last thirty years. I haven't always been successful, but I remind myself I am not alone in times of doubt.
I am loved and blessed, and God is watching out for me.
My son is now thirty-two. He and my daughter grew up as playmates, friends, and tennis practice partners, and their friendship remains strong today. They're kind, loving, and good humans. I can't tell you how often I have thanked God and the Universe for intervening in my fear-based plan to eliminate the possibility that my son would be born. He and I have always had a great relationship —we never got on opposite sides of the fence. We played in bands, rafted down white-water rivers, and spent hours on the tennis court together.
I’m a very, very fortunate man with tears in my eyes as I type this.
Two kids were just right for Polly and me. Shortly after his birth, I got another vasectomy. Different doc. This guy said, "Don't worry, pal, I'm going to fix you for good." It worked this time. Thank f*@k.
