The below was first posted on my personal FB page on August 15, 2023.
“So, are you thinking about having kids?”
I didn’t mind this question during the first year or two of our marriage. It makes sense that people would be curious, and it tends to be the way life goes once a young couple gets married. Even so, the question does hit me harder these days than it did before.
Albert and I started trying around three years ago. I had known bits and pieces about the journey that’s involved in trying to get pregnant, but I was quite unprepared for the heartbreak that I ended up encountering time and again on this first leg of what would be our long roller coaster of a journey. A big reason I was so unprepared was the fact that I had never really dreamed of having children. My thoughts on having children had always been similar to my thoughts on finding a boyfriend and eventually getting married: if it happens, it happens. There was also a big part of me that doubted that I would be a good mother. Broken family. PTSD. Anger issues. Not exactly the recipe for World’s Best Mom if you ask me. Maybe I was better off without kids, and maybe I was doing the world a favor by not polluting it with a bunch of mini Anns.
Well, you can imagine my surprise when I found myself becoming quite emotional while trying to get pregnant.
There is just no way I can describe the waves of anxiety and pain you ride when you’re trying for kids. Counting down the days on your ovulation app; holding back on everything from coffee to sushi because you just never know what’s going to happen and you’d rather die than risk your unborn child’s health in any way shape or form; diving into go mode when you reach peak fertility; becoming best friends with your thermometer and feeling that wash of relief and hope each time you confirm that you’ve ovulated; all the hours you spend researching every pregnancy sign under the sun and hating the fact that all early signs of pregnancy are identical to early signs of your period coming; the days when you dare to dream that there’s a little peanut growing inside of you, a little peanut that is one part your beloved husband and another part you; imagining all the cute ways you’ll surprise your husband with that positive test.
There was one cycle in particular during which I was so convinced that we had succeeded. That was the first time I started calling my invisible baby “Peanut.” I didn’t tell Albert. I didn’t tell anyone. I just dared to feel happy that it was Peanut and me. When I found out that I actually wasn’t pregnant, I was devastated. Peanut had never been real. I had been delusional. My Peanut … my little Peanut had never even existed. I caught myself off-guard when I started crying in the bathroom. Since when had I wanted kids this much? But after finding out that my Peanut wasn’t real, I faced the fact that deep down, maybe I actually wanted kids. Maybe I wanted a family.
But no matter what we did and no matter how perfectly we did everything, we just wouldn’t get pregnant. I guess it’s weird to say that a part of me wasn’t surprised, even if I was devastated. You see, I had long held on to a somewhat superstitious belief that I was infertile. After going through so many years of emotional and physical trauma and abuse, I felt that there was just no way I could get pregnant that easily. Trauma like that always leaves deep scars, and as a woman, I was convinced that my fertility had been hit.
So, after around two years of trying on and off, we finally decided to see a doctor. I had absolutely dreaded this leg of the journey. All the phone calls, the visits to hospitals, the labs, the procedures, scheduling everything when I didn’t even want to schedule it to begin with, dealing with the emotional aftereffects of every conversation, appointment, and result, the time I’d have to take off from work, the hundreds and thousands of dollars we’d have to spend. (Most insurance policies across the board don’t cover fertility services. Even if they do provide coverage, the most you’ll get – and that’s only if you’re really lucky – is 50%. Keep in mind that most phone calls and visits can be well over a hundred dollars, if not hundreds, and procedures cost thousands.)
Surprisingly, though, it was the wait before the storm that was more nerve-wracking. Once we were actually in the storm, there was a certain calm that I felt from simply getting things done and over with. Don’t get me wrong. It was all just as excruciating as I had expected. But anticipating the torture did at least prepare me for it. I was also very blessed to have a cheerful, level-headed husband every step of the way. I was also blessed to meet a small community of fellow women at church who were going through their own set of pregnancy struggles. I was triple blessed to have parents who don’t give two craps if I ever have children. My mom, who raised me as a single mom, is just happy that I have a great husband. My dad is just happy that I’m alive and well and not a drug addict after all the crazy things our family has been through. I know I wouldn’t have gotten through the months of medical whirlwinds as well as I did had it not been for the support I had from these loved ones whom God placed in my life.
Months passed and after countless vials full of blood, many phone calls and emails, and a procedure during which a catheter was shoved up into my fallopian tubes and I experienced an extreme pain that many women equate to their worst labor pains, and more, we finally got an answer.
It wasn’t me. It was Albert.
That’s right. After years of being convinced that I was the one who would be infertile, it turned out that my beloved husband, who has always wanted kids and who is the best and kindest man I have ever known, my dear husband has a rare medical condition that affects 1% of the male population and makes him infertile. He’s otherwise healthy as a horse, which made the result all the more shocking. After all, Albert can run laps around me any day of the week. But it’s Albert who can’t have kids, not me. There’s nothing wrong with my fertility whatsoever.
Maybe it shouldn’t have been so surprising. After all, I’ve heard that there’s roughly a 40% chance that the cause of infertility in couples lies solely with the man. But I was still very surprised by the diagnosis just because of how healthy Albert is and how unhealthy (both mentally and physically) I am. A lot of the time, I simply feel numb or indifferent to the diagnosis. I’m not proud to say that there were times I struggled with resentment toward Albert too, though. I hate this selfish part of myself and repented each time I faced this ugly bitterness. After all, how awful would it be if I had been the infertile one and Albert blamed me for our childlessness? But here I was, committing the same sin against him. I’m grateful for the forgiveness I have in Christ and a husband who believes in Him. But anyway….
Most of the time, though, I feel thankful for the diagnosis. Thankful that it’s him and not me. I know that sounds selfish, but the thing is, Albert is honestly perfectly fine emotionally-speaking with his diagnosis. He just naturally accepts these kinds of things cooly and calmly. But me … if it had been me, I never would have forgiven myself. I know that’s wrong. After all, infertility isn’t something you choose. It’s simply a medical condition. You’re either fertile or you’re not, and a vast majority of the time, there’s no rhyme or reason for it and there was no way to stop it from happening. Plus, I would never, ever blame any of my girlfriends if they found out that they were infertile. But I confess that I still would have blamed myself because Albert has always wanted to have children, and I would have hated the fact that it would have been me and my weak, wretched body that couldn’t give him this one thing he’s always wanted. And for that reason, if we had to be infertile at the end of the day, I’m glad it was Albert, and not me. At least I don’t have to live with the weight of it.
There’s only so much more treatment that is available to us at this point, and we are planning to see them out to the bitter end. But in all likelihood, by the end of this month, we will be done with all our options, and we are fully expecting to be told that there are no solutions and that we will never be able to have children of our own. In fact, the doctors have told us that even with the remaining treatment, we only have a 4% to 10% chance that there will be any success. But we will still endure to the end, even if it’s simply for the peace of mind we can have in old age when we look back on this chapter of our lives.
I went back and forth quite a bit, wondering if I should write about our infertility and post it so publicly. There’s a reason many couples don’t talk about their fertility issues. And that’s because, as Matthew McMcConaughey once said, “If there’s one thing people are sure to be, it’s people!”
People are cruel in their pride and even in their ignorance. I’ve felt it so many times even before our infertility journey began. For example, I’ve been told that I still have PTSD because I lack faith in God. In extension to that, people, both within and outside of the church, commonly believe that trauma-related mental health issues are equivalent to simply feeling sad or agitated. Also take for example how fellow victims of romantic/domestic abuse are gaslighted every day by society and told that they are the problem because they were “stupid.” I can’t tell you the amount of times people have looked down on me or scolded me for being an angry person when all that anger in my heart was born from years of injustice and abuse. I can’t tell you the amount of times people refused to believe me whenever I told them that the injustices and abuse were real, that I did nothing to deserve these things. People don’t believe that my sadness and my anger are simply proof of my humanity because they don’t believe that the things I’ve gone through could possibly have been that bad, that painful, that horrifying, that evil. People at all levels of society have a knee-jerk reaction seemingly built into them so that they downplay, sneer at, doubt, or scold the weak, the weary, the people in the margins, the wretched.
My sadness and my anger hold hands and comfort one another within me because so few people on the outside try to understand what the hell my husband and I are going through before opening their mouths about our infertility. Some of things that are said are said with good intentions, and though it still hurts all the same, at least it’s easier to forgive those instances. But a majority of the time, people are – to put it bluntly – simply talking out of their asses.
A few examples of things I’ve been told include:
- “Having kids isn’t that great anyway. It’s so much trouble and worry in the long run.” (Then why did YOU have kids? And if they’re not that great, why do you still care so much about them? Why don’t you just give them away? It’ll save you a lot of trouble, after all. Have more fun with your life. Give away your kids.)
- “You can always adopt.” (If there’s no difference in how you have kids, then why didn’t YOU adopt your firstborn? Or your secondborn? Or your third? Yeah, it’s not that simple of a decision when YOU have to make it, is it?)
- “Miracles are possible! You just have to stay positive. Good vibes only! You have to believe!” (Thank you for bothering to check in on me and my husband to see how we’re doing from time to time. Thank you for keeping up with our medical treatments and trying to educate yourself on how hard we are trying and how discouraging the cold, hard facts of medical data can be. Thank you for realizing that we are not being cynical but that we are being realistic. After all, a broken arm can’t be miraculously willed into healing. Oh, wait. You didn’t do any of that, did you? You’re just feeling your own good vibes because you lack the empathy to weep with those who weep.)
- “Miracles are possible! Just look at *insert some Biblical figure who miraculously got pregnant, usually Sarah.* Have more faith!” (Yeah, well, Samson received superhuman strength through prayer, and Elijah was fed by ravens when he was hungry. Next time you can’t haul the couch out of the house while moving, think of Samson. I mean, come on. Who needs friends to help you move a couch up into the Uhaul? And when you’re hungry, you can count on the ravens! You don’t need me to treat you to a meal. Ravens, man. Ravens! Sarcasm aside, I have no idea why Christians so easily forget the truth of the Gospel, which is that we live in a broken, sad world where broken, sad things happen. Miracles can happen, yes, but they’re called “miracles” and not “everyday occurrences” for a reason. For some things, there is no hope to be had in this life but only in the next. So please stop trying to force-feed me such a hard, unlikely hope. I’m broken enough as it is.)
Obviously, the insensitive comments don’t end there, but you get the picture. I already know that there will be several people who skim this heartfelt essay of mine and simply use it to judge me for “ranting” about my problems or to point out some insensitive, dumb thing. But I’m not writing for them. I wrote out these examples because I also know that at least one person out there will take my words to heart, and though they don’t understand everything completely, they’ll at least try to be kind and compassionate with their words and actions when they eventually meet another couple going through infertility. “A bruised reed he will not break.” (Isaiah 42:3) Circumstances often bend a bruised reed, but in my experience, only people ultimately make it snap. I hope you won’t do that to all those bruised and weeping reeds out there.
The month is coming to a close and with it, our infertility journey. Yeah, sure, miracles are possible. But, again, there is a much, much higher chance that these remaining procedures will be our last and that this chapter of our lives will close with a sad ending. But if there’s anything I’ve witnessed in life, it’s that God can and does bring great good out of great evil.
The good I’ve received so far is my husband’s supportiveness, good spirits, and thankful attitude. He’s the one who’s infertile, but he’s the one who’s always finding solid reasons to be thankful for what we have. I’ve also received support and wisdom from other women who have gone through similar struggles. Looking back on our journey, I realize how rare it is to be blessed with several people who can relate to what I’m going through. There are far more couples out there who go through the trials of infertility totally on their own and only receive a barrage of insensitive comments whenever they open up to those around them. And who knows? Maybe a decade or two from now, I’ll look back and have some semblance of understanding as to why all this might have happened.
In the meantime, I’ll just have to try my best to stay afloat, even if it’s for my husband’s sake. And I’ll keep reminding myself that there is hope in this life and especially in the next.
“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.” (Revelation 21:4)
