I got married to the best husband ever. After marrying this most caring and wonderful man, we were certain that soon our love would blossom into a child. We were expectant, ready, waiting for it without fail. But I saw my period every month on the dot, and it broke my heart in ways I couldn’t imagine. Because more than getting married to my husband, I wanted to make him a father. I wanted to see him nurture our child in love. I wanted, I grieved to be a mother, so it broke me.

Whenever I went to the altar, I said a prayer. “God, remember me like you did for Hannah. God, do not let me be a broken vessel for my enemies. God, make me a mother.”

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Then we started visiting doctors. A year after we began trying to conceive, they checked me, probed me, used needles, asked lots of questions. Ones that didn’t feel public enough to share, but I did. Days, months later, I was diagnosed with PCOS, Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. They explained it is a common hormonal disorder, something about irregular periods and cysts, and that it often causes infertility. They gave me medications and a lot of assurances, saying it was not the end of the world, and so on and so forth.

We left that office, and when we returned home, for me it meant we had to do hard work. It meant healthy foods, running, praying, documenting my journey so I could testify when the time came. So, morning, evening, I was trying. Three years later, there was still no baby. Not even a miscarriage to give us hope. Nothing at all.

So we visited a different doctor. This one insisted on checking my husband’s sperm. We thought he simply wanted to waste our money because we were already informed our cause of infertility was my PCOS, and also there was a history of infertility in my family. After so much persuasion from the doctor, we finally did the test.

We were more than shocked to realise that my husband’s sperm count was low. Like, very low. The man was not shooting anything at all. While we were still trying to wrap our heads around the news, the doctor advised him to do a surgery called varicocele repair. We agreed. That day, while he lay in the bed, I prayed. I asked God to be the surgeon, to lead their hands and guide them.

But the surgery did not change anything.

And I watched him. I watched his world crumble. I stood silently by him because most times the best thing you can say is nothing. I could have thrown jabs at him, hurled insults, but I wasn’t going to do that to the man I love. When I talk about my husband and how good he is, I am not even exaggerating. When we initially thought the problem was only from me, he did not look at me with spite. He never threw insults at me for refusing to make him a father. He did not call my family names for having an infertile child. He didn’t threaten that he was going to go for a second wife. My husband held my hand through it all. He had never blamed me, not even after my PCOS diagnosis.

So we started trying everything. He tried all types of supplements we heard of, ones friends recommended, from Google, from TikTok. As long as there were good reviews, we were getting them. But nothing worked. Nothing.

I started researching about IVF. We did not earn much money, but by the grace of God we managed to save for it. Thankfully, it was a success. Right now we have two beautiful daughters who look so much like their Dad, and my heart is glad. Exactly what I wanted. Watching them love each other gives me a warmth I cannot explain.

Male infertility is real, but technology is quite advanced. They do a procedure called ICSI where they inject a single sperm directly into the egg. Even for people with no sperm at all in their semen, there is still hope. There are other procedures where they can draw sperm directly from the testicles.

You should know that our first child came after seven years of trying, then another one two years later. Both via IVF using the same batch of embryos that were fertilized and frozen.

My husband doesn’t drink or smoke, so we have no idea what caused the low sperm count. Whether family history, or previous lifestyles, we do not know.

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And accepting the diagnosis was not easy. When the doctor read it out and explained it, I turned to him. I saw the tears well up in his eyes. I know of a man’s ego, and in that moment I saw it crash. It was difficult for him. He could not sleep for days. Wouldn’t eat. Sometimes it even scared me, the stares at the walls, the conversations that went dry, the unwillingness to go about his day. Oh, it was tough. He kept saying he felt like he was not man enough. So for men, this issue is a tough one because it touches their core.

I stood with him and comforted him through it all. Now his girls mean the world to him.

There is hope for infertility in men. Just as there is hope for infertility in women.

—Chacha

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