It is Enough

Regret and Vasectomy Reversal and Putting your partner first

When Rob and I are newly married, someone gives us some advice. They say that in a healthy marriage, you need to put your spouse before your children. Your spouse is your number one, they say. You have to love your spouse more than you love your children.

The advice doesn’t register. Sure sure twenty-two year old Anna thinks. I don’t really understand it. In what instance does this apply to me? Never, I think.

***

I have a bag of pregnancy tests in my bathroom cabinet underneath the sink. They’re the cheapie ones, the strip-kind you have to dip into a dixie cup of urine. They supposedly detect early, or so it says on the bag, but everyone knows they don’t detect as early as the twenty dollar plastic tests at Walgreens. Still, it was like fifteen bucks for a bag of 100, so.

I don’t need pregnancy tests anymore. I have no reason to take a pregnancy test.

Sperm Count: Zero is what the vasectomy results read.

Still, I pee in a paper cup and dip the strip in. A negative result immediately surfaces, and I stare at it. Maybe if I stare long enough—squint really hard— it will change. It doesn’t change.

I wrap it up and stuff it deep into the diaper trash can where no one will ever find it, find the evidence of a stupid, futile hope.

Is there a word for a woman who takes pregnancy tests after her husband’s vasectomy? Is there a word for this kind of regret?

***

I make excuses. I make up reasons. I talk about it to all my friends. I blog about it.

I’m just sad.

I’m just grieving the end of a season.

I’m starting a new chapter and I’m afraid of change.

It has to do with my identity, that’s all.

Act III! My word for the year! Yay I’m so excited!

I’m grieving.

But I think I’m lying to myself.

I mean, all of that is true. Yes.

But also…I just want another baby.

***

Rob does not want another baby.

He feels complete, satisfied, content. Why ruin a good thing?

Reversing the vasectomy, he says, would be opening the door to unpredictably, probable heartache, certain hardship.

We talk in circles. We talk for hours. In September, in October, in November, in December, in January. We talk.

I want him to want this.

He doesn’t.

***

When we lose Isla, two pregnancies before Tommy, it’s messy. There’s so much blood. After it’s over, in the early morning hours after no sleep, I curl up in bed and cry and Rob cleans up. The puddles on the bathroom floor, the drips on the beige carpet, the two loads of sheets and towels. Rob sits next to me and, with baby wipes, he cleans up the dried strips of red on my inner thighs, gently and tenderly wiping them away in silence.

Another loss happens. More blood.

And then, pregnant again and Rob white knuckles my first trimester with Tommy. We make it to the second trimester, then the third, and then meet him on a snowy March evening. There’s a lot of blood again, but this time it’s different. The nurses and doctors clean up the mess this time and Rob stays by side, holding my hand. We hold Tommy when it’s over and wonder at the mystery of it all. He’s a gift and we know it.

***

Rob thinks it’s greedy to want more.

“Tommy was a gift, “ he says, “We prayed for one more. We got one more. It feels wrong to want more than this.”

We continue to talk in circles.

“I can’t go through that again,” Rob says, referring to the miscarriages, “I just can’t.”

***

I talk to different trusted friends about it.

One friend questions why we got the vasectomy in the first place. It’s a gentle rebuke, a gentle accusation. Why something so permanent, and so quickly?

She’s so right.

I want to say, “I was sure because Rob was sure.”

I want to say, “It felt right because Rob told me it was right.”

Instead, I say, “Yeah, I know. I made a big mistake.”

***

At one point in our talking circles, Rob apologizes for persuading me into the vasectomy.

It feels good to have it acknowledged.

***

People live with regret all the time, don’t they? It doesn’t kill you. I can live with this. Can’t I?

***

Is it so wrong to open the door to possible heartache when the end result might be more joy? Is it so wrong to be greedy for more happiness?

But I know I’m being selfish. I know I’m putting my desires before Rob’s.

***

I’m reading a book about divorce. It’s a beautiful memoir, really well written. The kind of stunning book that makes me want to write. But I don’t like the main character, the writer. She comes across so…selfish.

She hurts someone else in the name of her own happiness. And while it’s perfectly acceptable in our society in 2025, the selfish nature of it still puts me off.

Meanwhile I read a blog post—something random I come across—that posits that women ought to seek to build up the self in rejection of the Christian message. The Christian message of “deny yourself” works for men, the post says, not women. Women need to do the opposite. I feel tension bubble up within me as I read the piece. Not true! I want to shout. The Gospel, I know, is for everyone. Men and Women alike. We are all called to love others, to love God. And sometimes that has to look like selflessness, no matter what gender you are.

***

I wrestle with God.

Is it so wrong to want this?

Why can’t Rob change his mind? Why do I have to be the one to give this up?

What do we do, God? How do we go forward from here?

For a while, I hear absolutely nothing.

But when I actually listen—

It is enough.

It is enough. It is enough. It is enough. What does that even mean? It is enough. What I’ve been given is enough. Is that what it means?

I want to pick it apart, to tear it up into tiny pieces, to reject it entirely. Instead, I sit with it.

***

Rob says he will reverse the vasectomy, but he has absolutely no peace about it. He is deeply troubled.

I remember the advice we got all those years ago—putting your spouse before your children.

Now I understand. Rob is my number one. I have to put him first.

In the end, I tell him not to go through with the reversal. I can live with the regret. I can.

I tell him that if he ever changes his mind, he is to tell me.

I can live with regret. I can be sad. That’s okay. I’ll be okay. I can throw out the pregnancy tests. (I’ll try).

In the meantime, I will hug my three boys, my three precious gifts, even closer. It is enough.