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Male Infertility, And Living On The Razor’s Edge Of Someone Else’s Joy
“My name is Ted, and my sperm is poor quality.”
I almost feel sometimes like I should walk into a room and just say that, because on some days it feels like the absolutely most defining characteristic of me and my 42 year-old, periodically-worthless existence.
To level set: I’m moreso the cause of the infertility in my marriage.
I’m 42. My wife is 34. She is definitely a strong person, but also consistently surrounded by people getting pregnant, some by accident, and constant messages about what is “supposed” to happen or what people “just do.” And we’re not there yet. It’s … hard. Does it tear apart relationships? Absolutely. So far, it hasn’t torn ours. But some days can be a razor’s edge, without question.
It puts both partners in a situation where they need to be “hope merchants” for the other: “It’s OK.” “It will happen.” “God’s plan.” “Timing.” It’s refreshing, but also challenging in its own right.
