A husband’s perspective on the long journey of infertility

By Jesse Du

The following are a series of short journal entries during a two-and-a-half-year period of infertility. My wife and I hope it brings comfort to all those who are longing, waiting, suffering, and hoping.

Saturday, October 6, 2018 - Month 11 - Kona, HI

I was pumped. We spent a good amount of money for a night snorkeling tour with manta rays on our second night in Hawaii. We arrived early and were the first ones there. We grabbed snacks, changed into swim clothes, and waited eagerly for everyone to come so we could hop on the boat and be on our way.

They told us what we could be expecting, how the manta rays feed at this time, how they can be up to ten feet long and can come in families. After fully preparing us for what to expect and how to appreciate them, we finally put on our gear, hopped off the boat, looked down, and waited.

And waited.

A few fish passed by but no signs of manta rays. Our lights highlighted the sandy ground, some kelp, and random debris. It was difficult to breathe, slightly cold, but I couldn’t move and risk missing that moment.

It never came. After an hour in the water, staring at the barren ocean floor, we were called back.

“I’ve been guiding these excursions for years, and I can count on one hand how many times this has happened to me. What are the odds?”

What are the odds? It was a question we knew all too well. Our Hawaii vacation, nearly a year into trying, was laced with this bitter reminder that our barrenness was on the wrong side of statistics. Twenty percent of couples can get pregnant in their first month, ninety percent in the first year. Why not us?

We were told in many different ways that God can do the impossible or he defies statistics. While I appreciated these sentiments, they left me with painful confusion. Why was he withholding something good?

The next day, while snorkeling at a local beach, we stumbled upon a couple sea turtles elegantly chewing on seagrass. I nearly choked. They soared through the shallow reefs with control, patience, and beauty while Deborah and I flailed about trying to catch up to them. I was childishly giddy for the rest of the day and planned for our next beach to find more sea turtles.

They were no ten-foot manta rays, but they were gentle, quiet, reverent reminders that wonder can be found even the day after disappointment.

Tuesday, June 4, 2019 - Month 19 – Home, NY

Deborah’s sister stopped by to give us a children’s book called Wish, by Matthew Cordell.

Like most children’s books, it’s easy to tell what it’s about just from its cover. But I was not prepared for what I would experience when I read it.

With each passing page, with the precision of choice, simple words—I was cut like a knife. I closed the book, turned off the lights, leaned against Deborah’s shoulder, and wept.

For over a year and a half, I had been staying busy so that my emotions wouldn’t catch up. When Deborah cried, I had to stay strong. If one thing didn’t work, we moved on to the next. If one month failed, I pushed us forward in the calendar. What about this doctor? What about that procedure? I had a game plan for every scenario and was running through them until I was confronted with this book.

Suddenly I found myself reading to a child that I didn't know but missed so painfully. I had never built up the courage to speak directly into the child-sized void in my heart, but that night I saw how deep it was. How is it possible to love someone you’ve never seen? To miss someone you haven’t met? To mourn for someone you haven’t lost? This was the painful tension of being in the waiting.

I closed my dry, weary eyes.
I added one more wish into the void.
And then I uttered the first words I've ever spoken to our child:
"I miss you so much it hurts."

August 17, 2019 - Month 21 - San Luis Obispo, CA

I love photography. It’s more than art; it’s the ability to beautifully preserve reality.

When I pulled up this photo from our friend’s wedding to edit, I was shocked. I started to cry.

If I squint really hard, I could almost believe this was Deborah, running into the sunset with her children—but then my mind would catch up:

These were not our kids.
Deborah was not a mother.

And I was pulled out of the hazy, countryside dream and back into reality—the true, grim reality that we were inexplicably childless. But how does she look so convincing playing the part?

How does she hold babies that aren’t hers, and they stop crying? How can she play and earn the trust of toddlers that she barely knows? And how could God place in us an innate, holy desire, and not proceed to fulfill it?

I didn’t want to know the answers. I just wanted to sit in the sorrow and feel justified in my sadness. I wanted to shut the mouths of friends and family who gave words of hope without knowing how risky it was to believe them. I wanted God to admit he’d made a mistake.

But if I can’t get any of that God, please: just no more good dreams. Nightmares I can handle. But dreams?

Don’t make me wake up and live in a reality worse than my dreams.

Friday, September 27, 2019 - Month 22 - Northwell Fertility Clinic, NY

The air smelled sterile. It was a bright and modern clinic with a waiting room filled with trying couples. I was there for moral support, but the nurses probably couldn’t tell who needed it more.

We just finished preparation for our IVF. After a failed IUI, we opted to go for the more expensive but more hopeful procedure. Statistically, this was our best shot, and we could only afford this once (it typically costs $15,000 to $20,000). It involved Deborah taking a lot of large pills, stabbing herself thirty times with shots to the stomach, tons of bruising, hormone-induced mood swings, and daily visits to the clinic. I could only hold her hand through all of it.

But after fourteen days of that, we were here—about to discover how many eggs her body produced. As we were waiting for her to be put under IV sedation, she looked at me.

“Can you take a picture? I want to remember this moment; maybe we can show the baby sometime.”

I quickly scanned her surroundings, hesitated, then lifted my phone to frame the image.
The hanging curtain seemed straight from a ’90s beachside home.
Deborah’s oversized gown draped over her bruises like a messy bed sheet.
A papery blue explosion covered her long brown hair.

Her lips broke into a smile. I took the shot.

She looked beautiful.

February 3, 2020 - Month 28 – Hansol Nutrition Center, NY

“What do you mean you don’t want to go to our IUI?”

“I just don’t want to go. These are hard for me to go to…”

“Deborah, I know that what you go through is so much more compared to me, but… isn’t this the best shot we can take now? Or did you want to take a break?”

“It’s just that… For me, it’s more than just the physical pain. It’s putting myself through the rollercoaster of hoping and losing a baby again. It’s like… scheduling heartbreak.”

I’ve learned some things while waiting.

I’ve learned how to navigate casual “So, have you thought about having kids?” questions while hiding my irritation.

I’ve learned how to wake up in the night whenever Deborah goes to the bathroom around day twenty eight of her cycle.

I’ve learned how to cry discreetly in public restaurants.

I’ve learned that with unexplained infertility, statistics like IVF success rates don’t necessarily apply.

And during a random Monday dinner, I learned how painful it is to schedule a procedure you expect to fail. I told myself I would do whatever it takes to have a family, but was making Deborah go through physical and emotional trauma worth it?

Why is this a decision that I have to make?

I looked at Deborah, dreadfully aware of how terrifying it is to lead someone I love to a place that they didn’t want to go.

“Then… I’ll hope for the both of us.”

Photo credits: Jesse Du