He was wrong. Through all his snipping and tugging, I felt my heart sinking into my stomach with the realization that my life was changing before my eyes, like watching the stock market in a frenzied fall or your child ride a bike into the path of an oncoming car. I smiled, pretended to laugh at his jokes, squeezed my wife's hand, and wondered what the hell I was doing.

As with many of life's momentous occasions, the procedure was somewhat anticlimactic. He was finished in about 10 minutes, assuring us that he had added an extra stitch or two to prevent any bleeding. He rattled off the short list of instructions for a quick recovery: wear boxer shorts; take it easy, no sex for five days; nothing strenuous.

Nothing strenuous. Was that to be my life's credo from now on? No strenuous sex. No demanding creativity. Careful when you push that lawn mower. Why don't you lie down and I'll fix you a margarita, hon.

My wife drove me home. I sat in the passenger seat of our minivan, fingering the empty plastic specimen container to be used four months hence to warrant that I was truly infertile. Buyer's regret overwhelmed me; I sank into the seat like a sack of groceries.

"How do you feel?" asked my wife.

"Great," I said, "and you?"

"Good."

Lying fools, both of us.

It's been a year now since V-day, and I feel as mixed as ever about the decision. I went through the essential grieving stages of denial and anger. But I'm still working on acceptance. Nothing has changed really. I'm as creative (or not creative) as before. My sex drive is the same. But somehow everything's not the same.

I don't have to worry about my wife's menstrual cycles, yet that feels like a loss, not a gain. And the loss of the potential to father more children lingers like a ghost.

I feel as if something inside my very soul has been taken apart and reassembled -- in proper order, to be sure, but like all reassemblies, it never feels quite the same. It's all psychological, they tell me. And perhaps it is. But that doesn't make it less real. Only more difficult to address.

I often forget about the vasectomy long enough to fool myself into thinking anything is possible again. And truly, everything I want in life is still possible. Make a film with that newfangled digital video gear, finally run a marathon, play a lot more music -- all more possible now that the specter of additional children has been banished.

But then, suddenly a vintage Mustang roars by, low-slung with gleaming rims and a satisfying growl that only comes from those ball-to-the-walls, cast-iron, eight-cylinder American engines they don't make anymore. I could go out tomorrow and buy one for about 10 grand, the same price of a vasectomy reversal. But I doubt I'll do either.

-- Eric J. Adams

Messy ending

A few years ago, my husband went back to school. After five years of working hard at his job and in school, and after a near breakup, he graduated. Two years later, he had not found a job in his new career and was depressed. His negative, critical, and dreary presence was so oppressive that I found myself dreading the moment he would walk through the door at the end of the day.

We had a 2-year-old daughter who was the center of my world, and for some reason he seemed incapable of being a tender, nurturing father. When she'd wake in the night, I was always the one who got up. When I'd ask him to help, he'd refuse. When I'd ask him to hold her and comfort her, he'd say, "She just cries no matter what I do."

He was angry about the way she had become the recipient of all my love, and I was furious with him for being so selfish.

Then I met up with an old friend at a party who said he'd always had a "thing" for me. He was warm, had a generous spirit and a big, hearty laugh. We kissed in the moonlight and it was electric. I was so overwhelmed by the power of my feelings that I asked my husband to leave, and when he said no, I insisted until he did. The new relationship deteriorated within a couple of months. He was a sensual person and I'd craved that quality, but he was also evasive and dishonest. After so many years with my straightforward husband, I'd forgotten how to be wary.

Meanwhile, my husband did not give up on me. He insisted that we were meant to be together; he promised he would change his approach to his life, to me, and to our daughter. I had a new appreciation for his integrity and his determination, and I was sure he sincerely wanted to change, but I wasn't sure he could. When I agreed to his coming back home, it was with reluctance. I was still sore from his negligence and selfishness. I decided to make the best of it, mostly because it would be better for my daughter to have her father living with us.

I'd like to wrap up this story neatly, but the messy truth is that it has taken me more than five years and another failed relationship to let myself really love my husband again. And I am so grateful to finally be here. My daughter is 9 and they adore each other. I'm amazed by how he loves us both, and that he didn't falter even when I had so little to give him.

I now know why I fell in love with him 14 years ago.

-- Anonymous

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We want to make you a part of this series. What is the state of your union? Did you find the one and never look back, or has finding lasting love been a marathon of trial and error? Did you have a fairy-tale wedding only to watch things crumble once the reception was over, or have you glided along in marital bliss since Day One? We want to hear your stories of joy, romance, heartbreak and pain. After all, partnership, as we all know, is a complex concoction of all of those things. (Please remember: Any writing submitted becomes the property of Salon if we publish it. We reserve the right to edit submissions and cannot reply to every writer. Interested contributors should send their stories to marriage@salon.com.)

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