Infertility

and how to strengthen your relationship

One of the many things we take for granted in life, is being able to have children. I mean, why should we not? If there’s anything that Indians get trolled about, its our large families. After all, we are the most populous country with 1.4 billion people.

But our national general fertility rate has dropped in the last 10 years. We’re living longer, but not making enough babies. While it is partly because we don’t want to, it’s also because we are struggling, despite wanting to.

It’s age, stress, hormonal imbalances, pollutants (smoking, drinking, drugs, etc.), poor diet and lifestyles. Firstly, it’s not easy to fix any of these with a switch, and secondly, even if you did try, you can never be sure if it’ll help you 100%.

With all this uncertainty and added trouble to conception, there are also couples who start convincing themselves and everybody else around that they don’t want to have kids, and operating from this lack mentality doesn’t help, if they really do want them.

One thing I do know is that even though many couples struggle with infertility, not enough people are actually talking about it.

What makes it especially hard for us to talk about it is the very fact that as a country or as a race, we never seemed to have any problems with procreation. So, there’s a certain shame attached to admitting that you might be struggling.

Actually, it’s not just shame, it’s also grief. Grief of losing something that you never thought you could’ve lost. We don’t know how to process it, we don’t see a point in discussing it with anyone.

But what makes it extra isolating is that most couples don’t even talk to each other enough about it, they don’t know how to support each other through this period, making them feel like they’re not in it together. These days, an increasing number of couples are going through this, mostly alone. But they don’t need to.

This isn’t an India specific problem, but it is an issue Indians barely speak about.

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I want to share an essay, one that I think any and every couple who is dealing with infertility must read, because it’s important to realise that you are not alone.

I’ve always wanted to have two or more children. May be because I grew up with a sibling. I never for once thought that I’d have any trouble bearing multiple children. After all, both my husband and I come from large families.

Couple of years into our marriage, my husband and I tried to have a baby. After a year of failed attempts, we abandoned all efforts by convincing ourselves that we were young and there was time. We decided to focus our careers instead.

A few years later, out of the blue, our first child was born. When she turned two, we felt prepared to welcome another child into our lives. We started trying again.

But we failed, month after month for about a year. It wasn’t anything new for us. My husband, being an only child himself, wasn’t too keen on having another child, especially if it was going to be this much “trouble”. So we avoided getting help, but we continued to keep trying anyway.

Months passed, and then years. Every month, I dreaded the days leading up to my period. I hated the uncertainty through 3 out of 4 weeks every month. I used to “feel pregnant” only to learn that I’m not.

At the first sight of blood, I would be gutted. My husband would feel disappointed too but we rarely spoke about it. I don’t know why. I guess I prefer crying in the shower by myself.

I used to feel disgusted at my malfunctioning body. I would be up late into the night googling like a crazy person trying to hack our odds of conception.

This happened not once, not twice, but every month for three whole years.

I had gone through a lot in this time including losing 20lbs of my previous pregnancy weight, being on and off diets, working out and not, being on and off depression meds and therapy, and leaving a job to take on a less stressful career. I had simulated every possible environment to aid conception.

But I kept failing, over and over again.

Every time I heard about someone having a child, I started hating my body even more. It became impossible for me to feel any joy at the news of childbirth, and I began feeling sick of myself.

It wasn’t even about a baby anymore. It was a battle between me and my body. My husband had also let me believe that it was all because I was stressing out about having a baby unlike our first time, which is why we weren’t conceiving.

Random relatives would keep suggesting that we try for another child, as if we weren’t already. At some point, I got so tired of listening to them that I’d start discussing our failed attempts only to make them feel awkward for having asked.

When I spoke to my mother about this, at first, she didn’t want to engage with me. May be it was awkward for her too? But I was desperate to talk to someone about what was going on with me because I felt so alone.

People don’t talk about infertility, let alone secondary infertility which is supposed to be a first world problem right? Anyway, when I held my mum hostage to the conversation, she told me that I was focussing too much on the results.

Actually, she didn’t get it, she never had any trouble conceiving when she was younger. She’d had multiple abortions from being too fertile. So she made me feel like I was kicking up a fuss about nothing.

I started feeling more alone in this battle.

Sometimes, when I got very upset, my husband would say that we could visit a doctor if “I wanted” but he never took the initiative to get an appointment.

It started to feel like MY problem alone. So I decided to fix it myself.

I set up an appointment with a fertility specialist and dragged my husband along. When we arrived in the clinic, I was amazed to see how full the clinic was, given that I’d barely found any Indian accounts of infertility on the internet, and here they all were, hiding in their quiet shame, in the middle of a raging pandemic,?

My husband and I met the doctor, and she asked us to get a bunch of tests. The results of my tests were normal, my husband’s less so. Yet, the doctor wanted me to do another test to check if my uterus was fertile and in good shape.

The doctor inspected the uterus, my mortal enemy of three whole years. She announced that everything looked absolutely “NORMAL”.

What?!

Wow.

I mean, just wow.

I was angry at my uterus for years, over nothing?!

Wow.

I felt so immensely liberated. I could stop hating my body finally, and our relationship could get back to how it always used to be. Wow. 

Then the doctor started listing down a couple of more tests for me, including an invasive procedure, to rule out any other possible defects with my body. She then listed possible solutions including hormone injections, IUI and IVF, all of them involving more physiological intervention with my body.

Then she asked when I’d like to begin my treatment.

Wait, what were even treating me for if nothing was broken?!

I thought it was bizarre that she didn’t take the time out to explain my husband’s test results, let alone suggest any treatments for him.

What she didn’t realise is that I already had a PhD in treating infertility from the three years of crazy googling. So, I butted in and asked if we could start by fixing my husband’s issues first?

She said there wasn’t much “proven” that could be done about it, so she wanted to overcompensate for that through my treatment.

But, I was done overcompensating for him, so I insisted that we start with him. She reluctantly scribbled a prescription with some tablets for him and asked us to return in a month. I felt more clarity and in control than ever before.

Yet, I felt angry that despite the battle between me and my body had ended, the world would continue to subject it to judgement, shame and treatment. My three year obsession with coercing my body into submission vanished in an instant.

I wasn’t sure if I still wanted a baby, but I surely wanted to share this story.

So, I am writing this for myself - the me of the last three years, who was scared, angry and alone. I am writing this for other women who may be feeling the same way as I did. I want you to know that you are not alone.

I am also writing this for the husbands whose accounts of grief I never once read. I want you to know that you become a dad (in the making) not when the child pops out, but the moment you choose to have a child, whether it is conceived or not.

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Recently, a friend told me that he and his wife have been trying for a baby for nearly a year, but they haven’t succeeded yet. He’s disappointed by that.

He mentioned that things have been a little rocky with his wife because their levels of disappointment are different, and that’s making his wife feel like he isn’t being emotionally supportive.

I was thinking about what he said, and I think it’s true that men and women experience and express disappointment and grief in different ways, and they may not always be able to empathise with each other.

But in this particular case, since it’s a “joint project”, women aren’t unreasonable in expecting men to double down on the emotional support, even if men don’t feel overly hurt by the loss or feel need the need to express.

After all, women are taking on more than their fair share of physical responsibility (not even by choice) to produce a child, even if those attempts fail.

While it may be strange to feel emotionally invested in this unfertilised egg in another human being’s body, and I totally understand that. But I’ll still say - suck it up, its YOUR child (in the making), not your neighbours.

If you don’t know how to be supportive, it’s fairly easy to try and do that today - read up, there’s a hell of a lot about this by women on the internet, talk to your female friends, ask your partner what she needs, listen and do what you need to, in order to be a better dad (in the making), and an even better partner.

It’ll make a lot of difference to your relationship. I promise.