The pain of infertility

Jane Williams shares her personal experience and feelings about infertility.

“There is a problem here. There’s a good chance you will have difficulty having children.”

At the doctor’s words my heart sank to the pit of my stomach, fear gripped me and tears started to well up. It seemed so ironic that, in my teens, I had pontificated with my friends, “I don’t know if I want to have children.” How stupid it sounded now. I really, really did and now it might not happen.

I didn’t tell many people - I didn’t want to be another piece of ‘news’ on the grapevine. I decided that I wouldn’t tell anyone unless they wanted the information in order to pray for me and help me as I grieved.

Grief is real
Grief - now that’s interesting - I find not many people give me credit for experiencing grief. How can you grieve for something you’ve never had? I am grieving for something I’ve never had; for lost hopes and dreams.

I find that my grief is cyclical on a monthly basis - not surprisingly! Calendars and counting become a way of life, making sure you make love during the critical time - very romantic!

Shower parties - I’ve been to a few. Pre-infertility I didn’t have much fun there - too many mothers telling you their horrific birth stories with relish - seeking out the uninitiated! Post-infertility? Well, I only went to one for a very close friend who knows my situation. She was filled with incredulity at what I had to experience there, putting herself in my shoes for a moment. I don’t blame those who don’t know about me, as they wax lyrical about all things pre- and post-partum, but the silence of those who do know is hard to bear.

Isolation and pain
No-one invites me to shower parties any more. The word is out! Easier for them not to, than to have to hear me say, “No, I won’t be coming.” Interestingly, my feelings of isolation and reticence around them in other situations has also increased.

Actually, I really welcome people who are brave enough to ask me how it’s going. I do have a handful of friends who will. I do think they are brave because they don’t know if they’ll have me in floods of tears or not. However, it’s much braver for me (I think!) to bear this pain month in, month out than it is for them to - just once - risk reaching out to me.

Pregnancy announcements are hard. I have experienced at least two women who denied pregnancy when they were being sick, etc and then, at the magical three months, they announce it. Their prerogative of course, but for me it felt like betrayal. A good friend who was pregnant did it like this - she told me first and then wrote me a lovely letter expressing her sadness at my situation and her hopes and prayers for me. That was really appreciated.

At times it is difficult for me to feel excited at future plans for things happening at work or church - it just doesn’t seem as important as having a child.

From my side of the fence, I now feel I am much more empathic towards other people’s pain and to those who don’t fit the mould. Those who have left their twenties and are not married, those who are in their forties and have not had a longed-for child. For older people who cannot tell tales about their grandchildren. I stop and think now before I speak.

A male perspective
I think I felt gutted for all sorts of reasons, but mainly I felt guilty because the problem lay with me. It’s not easy to own up to a condition which is the butt of jokes in the locker room. Although I would like to have children, I don’t suffer in the same way as my wife does. To be honest, I don’t always know when the time of the month approaches. My body isn’t experiencing the same feelings of loss and emptiness. I think it is different for men, well for me anyway.

Infertility feels ‘unmanly’, like I think women feel ‘unwomanly’. At work I don’t feel that unusual, but in church getting married and having children are high on the agenda; we have a high regard for the family in Christian circles. It’s hard not to be part of it. I would say generally no-one talks to me about this. It’s just not something men do.

January 2003.