Having a baby is the most natural thing a couple can do. Typically it involves a “favorite activity,” which then results in having a baby . . . at least, that’s how it is for most couples. We aren’t most couples. Shelton, 30, and I, 29, are in a club whose members have to fight a battle with infertility: in our case male factor infertility.
I met Shelton during our freshman year at the University of Oklahoma when we were both working at Old Navy. After a year and a half of just being friends, we started dating on New Year’s Day 2001. I can remember some of our earliest conversations being about having kids. Somehow while studying at IHOP our discussions would often stray that direction.
We married on August 10, 2002, but didn’t start trying for a baby until two years later. We started out where most couples do—you know, in the bedroom. I also charted my ovulation. I’d pray silently each time, hoping it would work. I later learned that Shelton did the same. But another month would pass, and the telltale sign that I wasn’t pregnant would appear. In the back of my mind, I knew something wasn’t right.
With a few years of marriage under our belts, we began getting the inevitable “When are you two having kids?” question from family, friends, and strangers. No matter who asked, it was crushing, but I never showed it. I’d playfully respond that we were working on it or that we just weren’t ready.
After 18 months of trying, I finally spoke to my doctor. During a routine visit I mentioned how long we’d been trying, and by the way he raised his eyebrows I knew something wasn’t right. He told me to start recording my basal body temperature (BBT) each morning.
It was during this time that we got a call that my husband’s brother was expecting his first child. I couldn’t even muster the enthusiasm they needed to hear because I was so crushed. I thought it wasn’t fair; we were older and we’d tried longer. It was the first of many pregnancies I’d watch from the sidelines.
After four months of tracking BBT we returned to the doctor in December 2005 to review the temperature charts. I braced for the worst, but it only took him 30 seconds to glance at the data and tell me I was fine and my cycles looked perfect. I breathed a sigh of relief, but I was also confused. What now? It was time for Shelton to give a sperm sample.
I was at work when the doctor called. In a somber tone he let me know that the people at the lab wondered if this was a post-vasectomy sperm sample because there were no sperm. None.
Frozen in my chair, I couldn’t remember anything the doctor said after that. I left work immediately and drove home, blinded by tears and howling the entire way. Shelton was already home from work, and I contemplated how I was supposed to tell him the news. In fact, when I told him he had no reaction. He sort of shrugged and went back to sleep. I knew it wasn’t that he didn’t care; I realized he didn’t know what to make of it, and had to come to grips with the gravity of it all.
The doctor referred us to a urologist, and Shelton made an appointment for a sonogram that would reveal he had no vas deferens—the tube that transports sperm from the testicles. He was still producing sperm, but it simply had no way out.
At first we assumed all hope was lost. Just a few days after Christmas, we sat in the dark house without a single light on and cried. We held hands, we hugged, we didn’t speak. This was our routine for several days. Then one night I flipped on the lights and announced that this was it; we were finished feeling sorry for ourselves. We’d just have to figure out what our options were and do the best we could.
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