Ode to a Vasectomy



It all started with two pink lines. 26 and crying the happiest tears of my life at 4:00am in a hotel bathroom in Mexico.


I romanticized and blissfully loved every moment of pregnancy, beyond words. Every milestone, every movement, every heartbeat and sonogram.


I remember thinking I was born for pregnancy. I could do this over and over again, without question.


And then came a labor that was nothing like I’d planned. 2 weeks late, forced via induction.


Two failed epidurals. A room rapidly filling with nurses.


Hemorrhaging and undetected placenta accreta. Foreign phrases like “blood transfusion” and “hysterectomy” quickly thrown around as possible next steps.


My confusion and my mother’s tears. A foggy and difficult recovery.


Next deliveries needing to be scheduled in an operating room with high risk for immediate hysterectomy after. PTSD.


The newborn days, the struggle to bond immediately. The 24 hour cluster feedings, the recurring mastitis.


The sleepless nights. The endless crying (from me or her? It’s all a blur.).


OCD, new anxiety, postpartum depression. The beautiful and the brutal moments that often times felt like mere survival.


All the best and most difficult experiences of my life. Every moment so worth it for her.


And for us, she is enough. We are enough.



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