Percentages

I'm in the one percent. And I'm not happy about it.

On the Friday before Thanksgiving, I went in for my long overdue vasectomy procedure. I had put it off for a couple of years (which is why we have 4 kids instead of 3), but finally got up the courage to get it done. I talked with friends who told me it was no big deal. I went to the urologist's office to hear how the procedure works and what would happen afterwards. And as I drove myself to the office that morning, I was calm, cool and collected.

That was at 8:00am. By the time 3:00pm rolled around, I was anything but.

I was in the one percent that has complications. In my case, a cut/broken/burst blood vessel that filled any and all available space within that area with blood. For close to two weeks now I've been miserable, in pain, and generally useless. Now I just have to wait for my body to reabsorb all of that excess fluid build up.

One percent.

My son Tanner had his first birthday just a couple of days after my procedure. He's an even more astounding percentage. My wife was (faithfully) on the birth control pill when Tanner was conceived. That puts him in the "less than one percent" range; closer to one half of one-percent, as the pill has an effective rate of somewhere around 99.5%.

Half of one percent.

Before Tanner was born, the doctors ordered tests, and we were told that there was a one in 50 chance (that works out to 2%) that he might be born with Down's Syndrome, or a similar genetic disorder. That was scary news to hear. Really scary.

Two percent.

So many of life's monumental events hinge on which side of the percentages you fall. And the question most grapple with is who to blame: luck, fate or providence?