The Silence of Infertility

Some posts are hard to write. Some are damn near impossible.

Writing about the pain of infertility is most certainly the latter.

My wife and I have been married for nearly six wonderful years. Things aren’t always easy. Besides the more widespread issues during these years, such as pandemics and wars, we’ve both had our fair share of personal demons to work our way through–illness, unemployment, child estrangement, and much more.

But one issue has remained a quiet background monster in our lives, causing us daily harm. I’ve been silent about it. It’s deeply personal, and I wouldn’t dare write about this without Devorah’s full approval and encouragement. And even with that, I find my fingers hitting the keyboard with more hesitancy than I’m used to.

Unexplained Infertility

For these six years we’ve dealt with unexplained infertility, a medical diagnosis that is basically the equivalent of “we have absolutely no idea why this is happening”.

Infertility is more painful than most could imagine.

Forget the fact that we live in a society that glorifies getting married and quickly starting a family as the ultimate life pattern, with no exceptions. Forget that every time we turn around there is yet another reminder of what others have been able to do that for unknown reasons we simply cannot.

Even if you take those two elements out of the equation, you have an endlessly painful reality that most simply cannot understand.

Dashed Hopes

Imagine a world where your greatest dream is right at your fingertips only to be dashed in an instant. Imagine that happening to you every month! You now have a small taste of what it means to inexplicably not be able to produce a child.

Hopes and dreams constantly crushed, and even if you want to, you can’t give up. The hope and optimism will always find their way back to rear their ugly heads and hurt you once again. There will be that small voice in the back of your mind that says, “You’re finally here. You’ve made it. You can now rejoice.” You will search for monthly signs that something is different. Am I craving something or do I have an aversion? Is my body acting differently than it normally does?

But yet again, the results are the same. Dreams vanishing. Hopes dashed and tears flowing.

That is infertility.

And sometimes the sorrow of infertility reaches new heights.

The Worst Words

About a year ago, during Channukah, the Jaffes had a miracle. Devorah pulled me aside and showed me my gift that year. A beautiful little testing strip that said our long and windy road had finally come to its end. She showed me and we embraced. We cried. All the pain and suffering was worth it to arrive at that one key moment we had waited for. That moment where our lives would finally reach some level of normality. Some level of contentment. At last, we could breathe.

Like is customary, we were fairly quiet about things. Obviously our relevant medical people knew, and we each confided in one friend, just so we could finally share our joy with others. And so we’d have others to lean on and talk to as we brave the early days of this process we were about to embark upon.

We were visiting the hospital for the first ultrasound. Our first opportunity to see the little smudge on the screen who would later be our adorable bundle of joy. Our source of pride we would pour all our love upon for the next several decades. We couldn’t possibly have been more excited.

And then the nurse nonchalantly said the most maddening words I’ve heard in my life. “There is no heartbeat. I am so sorry.”

The Fall From the Cliff

Everything went blank at that point.

The next several days were a blur. We were pushed around through medical facilities, visiting doctors to find out if there’s any possibility of an error, figuring out the next steps when you have a dead fetus just sitting inside your body.

None of it was pleasant. None of it felt warm and understanding.

Just blankness.

The world played a cruel joke on two people who really needed good news. Who really needed to have that giant turnaround in life.

Life is hard. Really hard. But when we thought that in nine months our family would be expanding, and Devorah and I would have that beautiful opportunity to raise a child together, to see an end finally come to nearly five years of hardship, we were on a cloud. We had been trying to climb the mountaintop for so long, and we were finally standing on the precipice, looking upon the world with joy. Knowing our moment had arrived at last.

And the drop from that cliff was like nothing I’d ever felt before. How can the universe be this thoughtless and unkind? What could we have possibly done to deserve such treatment?

But instead of climbing on a podium and screaming about what we endured, like just about everyone else experiencing infertility, we suffered in silence. We cried behind closed doors. I held friends’ babies and caught an ever-so-slight glance from my amazing wife that said, “Why couldn’t you be holding our baby? Why does everyone else get to have a child but us?”

Hope in Silence

It has been a long and hard year for everyone. And I could hardly claim it’s worse for us than for so many others. But it’s so easy to fade into the background. To not be heard when there are so many voices so much louder than your own.

We’re closing out 2024 with a lot to be grateful for. But so much of it feels empty without this one thing. This one enormous seemingly insurmountable wall that stands in our way.

I’m a practical person. I know there’s a whole lot of biology at play here. I know the right pieces of the puzzle need to line up at the right time, so we could have the miracle we so desperately need.

But it has yet to be our fortune.

And when life is this dark and complicated, it feels like the only options left are hope or despair. Let’s pray that the hope remains strong. And beg of the world to feel the magic of becoming parents together.

Your good wishes are welcome.

We need all the help we can get.