Birds, Bees, & Petri Dishes

What every guy needs to know about reproductive medicine

An old buddy — we’ll call him “Jack,” ’cause on this subject he still thinks he might have something to be ashamed of (he doesn’t!) — phoned me a couple days ago to tell me he and his wife were about to begin fertility treatments. He wanted to know what I could tell him.

It was an intentionally vague, loaded question, and Jack knew it. That’s why he didn’t speak during the ensuing pregnant — no pun intended — pause while I contemplated what exactly he wanted to know.

He already knew the overview of my story: My wife and I underwent fertility treatments — mostly In-Vitro Fertilization, AKA “IVF” and a couple rounds of Intrauterine Insemination, better known as “IUI” — over a five-year period. If you don’t know how IVF, the most common and expensive of the two procedures, works, the layman’s version is would-be moms take hormones for anywhere from a couple days to a week to “enhance” their egg production. The souped up eggs are harvested, and the heartiest are placed in a Petri dish along with sperm from a male partner, or donor. If all goes well, eggs and sperm fertilize into embryos. One to several embryos are inserted in the woman’s uterus using Frankentools, and if all continues to go well, yada yada yada, 10 months later you have a baby…or eight. Or, after a month or two you become us.

In the most technical sense most of our treatments were successful. Egg and sperm coupled. Embryos were implanted. We conceived. Positive pregnancy tests. Big hugs all around. But every one of those pregnancies ended in early miscarriage for us, like less than eight weeks early. So, while our doctors may have been allowed to put a few in the win column for record-keeping purposes, our treatments did not really make us feel successful.

But that was all about the science. And if the doctors haven’t filled Jack and his wife in on the science already, they will. Of course, if his wife is anything like mine I’m certain that before the first consultation with doctors, she’d already read enough about the procedures online to lecture a medical school class and teach ’em a thing or two.

So I figured Jack wanted me to talk to him as a husband about the things that aren’t in the brochures or pre-treatment pep talks.

First, I told him that no matter how chauvinistic anyone tries to call this notion, he and his wife will approach their treatments differently. Even though the doctors will assure them both that the male is often the infertile partner, Jack will have to fight the urge to disregard that warning and think of “their” infertility as his wife’s problem. At every checkup and every follow-up appointment, and every phone-in for lab reports, he will have to fight the urge to think of infertility as a “bad egg” issue. How much he’s able to battle that urge will impact his attitude for the duration and determine how enthusiastically he participates. If he mistakenly thinks that he couldn’t possibly be infertile, he will eventually start thinking like a petulant child being dragged to the many, many, many doctor’s appointments.

Second, no matter how down to earth and grounded a team he and his wife are normally, once they begin their treatments they will become obsessed with keeping up with the Joneses. Suddenly, every couple they know who either recently had a child, or is about to, or is also trying to, will feel like a rival. If he’s like me (and we’ve known each other long enough for me to say he is!), he’ll insist at first that he’s not competing with anyone or anything but nature, and he’ll scold his wife (or at least want to) for draping their IVF successes or failures in a veil of how the Joneses fared. But if that first round doesn’t result in a baby or at least a pregnancy that makes it past the first trimester, he will find himself feeling just as competitive. And he and his wife will have to encourage one another to think of their lives in a Jones-free vacuum, because if they don’t encourage each other to temporarily forget that the Joneses exist, they will find themselves discouraged. And after the discouragement fades, they will feel guilty for thinking competitively. And this is not a time for guilt trips.

Third, the awkward moments will not be limited to Jack’s wife having to drop trou’ on demand and maintain silent dignity while a doctor uses a handheld ultrasound wand to probe inside her. He will face awkward moments too, like when early in the process the doctor says his sperm needs to be tested for volume and motility. But Jack won’t be able to make a sample in the privacy of his home and drop it off at the clinic in a Tupperware container. He’s going to be sent to the clinic’s “adult materials” den, where he’ll find a spotless clean bathroom (the “warmest” and most welcoming part of that den!), a beat up couch or recliner that Al Bundy might have enjoyed, a TV and VCR or DVD player, and stacks and stacks of porn. And he will find that even if he is NOT a consumer of pornography under normal circumstances, he will be so stressed out about the fact that on the other side of a thin wall is a lab tech watching the clock and awaiting the fresh sample that he’ll realize he needs “help.” And that stress will resign him to grabbing one of those magazines and trying his best to get things over with and get out of that dark room that is no doubt very, very clean but that looks like it’s probably sticky. If he is lucky, while he’s attempting to make things happen, the lab tech on the other side of that thin wall won’t be blasting guilt-inducing gospel music on her little radio, the way my lab tech did.

Fourth, as the process drags out over weeks, Jack will begin to feel a sense of anxiety that is more about wanting to see results, good results, than it is about fear. And this type of anxiety causes some men to go overboard in their desire to contribute to hearty embryos. I met more husbands in the clinic’s waiting room who had “tips” on how to get super sperm than any sane person should have to meet. I met guys who said they had been taking testosterone, because they wanted their sperm to be little Supermen. Fellas, please don’t do this. If you don’t believe me, ask your doctor. I met husbands who’d “heard” through the grapevine that drinking wild animal testicle tea would boost sperm. I didn’t try any of these things. Coffee and orange juice were fine by me. But the temporary insanity that grips some guys is real. It’s akin to cabin fever. So, if another man sidles your way and leans in to whisper like that guy at the track who heard a certain horse was eating special feed and was a lock to win that day, just smile and nod. But don’t go out and try any of the nuttiness he suggests.

Fifth, no matter how well or how poorly the process is going, the doctors will suggest you and your wife attend a support group. And I can’t emphasize enough that while the support group may be structured for couples, you may find yourself the only husband or male partner there because the other guys have bowed out for a variety of reasons — some good, some bogus. If, God forbid, your first round of IVF fails and months later you’re back for another cycle at the clinic, you’re likely to still be involved with that support group. By then you’ll have figured out that some of the other husbands spend support sessions at a nearby bar, where they try to talk sports, cars, and money, but inevitably end up comparing notes on how their wives are holding up and what they can do to be more helpful, and the spot on their wives’ buttocks that they’ve discovered is best to inject that needle full of thick, oily hormones. And they’ll discuss all of this while glancing enviously at the guys on the other end of the bar who actually are talking sports, cars, and money. In that moment you’ll realize that those other husbands have been unwittingly supporting one another. And it will make you realize that your presence at the other support group — the one your wife’s at — makes her comfortable. And even if you don’t say anything during the meeting, your simply being there and upright gives your wife a sense of confidence and pride to know that even though you’d rather be outside kicking a beehive without your EpiPen handy, you’re at that meeting for her.

Sixth, as the process drags on — especially if you’re on your second or third or fourth round of IVF treatments —your wife may become gloomy and antsy. It’ll be her version of the way you felt when you wanted to see results and were tempted to try that weird over-stressed husband’s recommendation of shark “junk” or rhino horn tea. The worst, most insulting thing you can do at this time is talk to her like you’re the coach and she’s an under-performing running back. She doesn’t need or want your rousing pep talk. She just wants you to listen and be enthusiastic about the process…and to tell her from time to time that it’s all good and will all work out. And you will need to be sincere, to believe every word you’re saying, because it’s about this time that you will start to feel bitterness if you’re not careful. You’ll start viewing doctors and nurses like car salesmen who won’t just let you leave without pitching you on yet another upgrade. Except in this case there’ll be no upgrades, no undercoating spray, no tinted windows or MP3 player. There’ll be a doctor who probably means well and is telling you he doesn’t see any reason you shouldn’t try again. And you’ll be torn. Part of you will say cut your losses and go home. Another part, the part shared with the lotto ticket buyer who feels like he should win because he’ll do good things with the money, will tell you to give it “one” more shot. And unless you’ve driven yourselves to the brink of poverty, sacrificing groceries, paid bills, and a roof over your heads, then neither choice is the wrong one.

Seventh, at all costs, maintain a sense of humor and try to fend off the fear. Fear, stress, and so on, are like weights around your neck — yours and hers. And if you choose to go through this process more than once, at some point you will both start to fear not failure but quitting. You’ll think you’re doing something wrong if you choose to stop. You’ll tell yourselves that maybe you don’t want to be parents badly enough. You’ll even try to chalk up the failures to Karma or some other spiritual element. But your mantra will need to be that Karma has nothing to do with it, and such treatments don’t always have a high rate of return. You will earn points from Karma for biting your tongue, grinning, and rubbing your wife’s back, when one of her “dear” friends with four kids mock-jokingly asks “When are you guys gonna make a baby, already?” Or you could earn even more points by encouraging her to tell those special frienemies to suck it. And you will remind her that if you all do decide to quit, it should be on your own terms, not because some insensitive jerk or jerkette wobbled your confidence.

My disclaimer to Jack: I’m no shrink or MD. But I am a husband who’s been there and done that. And these approaches and attitudes helped me keep my sanity throughout.

By the way, I hate to leave people hanging. So here’s the happy ending to my story: My wife and I have two lovely children now. Ironically, both were conceived the old-fashioned way, starting just a few months after we’d decided to quit stressing ourselves out and to break up for good with reproductive medicine and all its baggage. Go figure!

Thanks for reading. Please hit the green “recommend” button below if you liked it to make it easier for others to find. And thanks to the Culture Club Collection (also here Twitter and Facebook), Family Stories Collection, Infertility, Pregnancy Loss & Unexpected Challenges on the Path towards Parenthood, and Dad Stuff for posting this story. Follow author James Burnett on Twitter.