It's always the quiet ones.....

When I was a lot younger, my girlfriend at that time came home one day and told me something that I will (and can not) ever forget. In her class, they had a final project where they needed to write something very meaningful and profound about a life experience. During the final week of the semester  they would have to share their story in front of their class on the day they turned in their paper. And while most the stories shared were about struggles with money, neglected relationships, regretful paths, and such, there was one unassuming and (as told by my girlfriend at the time) quiet girl whom surprised everyone. When it was that girl's turn to present and tell her story, no one, not even the teacher knew what was coming. She approached the front of the class clutching a worn teddy bear under her left arm, and with the support of the professor on the right. She said, and I quote (from the words of my girlfriend at the time):

"I grew up in what seemed to be a normal family. My parents were always supportive, involved in the community, and were very hard working. In particular, I adored my father. But on April 2, 1993 I walked into my house and heard some commotion in my brother's room. When I opened the door, I saw my father raping my brother......"

Of course, the story went on and there were other details, but that is the meat of the story. That story has always shocked, impressed and inspired me with how much courage she must've had to share this story, and how she had grown to accept what had happened.  Without knowing her, I feel that in some way, that event, like most traumatic and momentous events, changed her and, furthermore, become part of her. I guess I feel that way too about being an azoospermic......about being infertile.....and about everything my wife has had to go through because of my condition. It is very much a part of me, one that I will have to live with, continue to grow through, and (eventually) learn to share with those around me.  And someday, perhaps, I too can exercise the level of acceptance and courage with which that girl displayed in front of (what I can only assume was) a classroom filled with young, sometimes judgmental, and somewhat immature group of young students whom realized (some for the first time) that the look and power of valor, audaciousness, and heroism can manifest itself at any time and in any form. Even in the form of a quiet, unassuming girl, clutching a teddy bear.

Dreams are relative, misunderstandings are absolute

I can remember about a half dozen times in which I explained my infertility diagnosis as well as the complications that come with it (i.e. low testosterone, depression, etc.) to friends and family members. I think while most were concerned and genuinely cared, the gravity and depth of the disorder never really hit them. After all, it wasn't like I was dying or anything. At least not on the outside.

Even as I the words for this blog I can hear children screaming in my condominium community as they play, their echoes resonating as they run and chatter in the courtyard of our community park just outside my window. Playing, having fun, seeing my friends - it was quite literally the only thing I cared about when I was young. I was never really a great student and, as such, never received good grades. Not until much later in my life (at least much later than most people) did I start really focusing on my future. That is, with the exception of one thing I always knew I wanted in my future: having children and relishing the joys of having a family.

At one point in my life, my father (and possibly the rest of my family) worried very much about the outcome of my future. Would I get a decent job? Who would I grow up to be a responsible person and what kind of job could I get? Admittedly, I always thought I would be an average worker, making average wages, with an average drive. But I knew that I always wanted to become a father. A father that would take time to play with his kids, to listen to their problems, and a father that would, above all, be proud to come home to a family where his mediocrity would be washed away by the faces of his family. And while I know this vision is naive, immature, and likely unrealistic, its just what I said it was in the beginning of the post: it was a dream.

One of my favorite shows every produced was "Band of Brothers," an HBO series which aired during the early 2000's. I remember in the beginning of those shows they would show the actual soldiers depicted in the series tell a story about what they saw and experienced. I can remember one story where one of the veterans spoke about several young men in his town committing suicide because they couldn't serve in the military. I remember thinking how extreme that sounded. But looking back now, I  guess I can understand now how dreams can be a relative thing and how I misunderstood the significance of what they were saying. A desire and a sense of purpose which you can innately feel,  for which you strive for can be an unbearable reality to face when someone or something makes reaching such a dream impossible. And that sense of purpose and innate desire can be hard for people on the outside to understand, especially nowadays where people are so busy with their own lives and problems. Understanding the gravity and depth of someone's lifelong desire takes time, and honest consideration, something that is genuinely rare to find even amongst the people that love you the most (of course I'm guilty of this myself when it comes to the people closest to me).

Upon googling "infertility depression childlessness" I remember how hits I got related to psychological disorders associated with an infertile diagnosis. There were many hundreds of links I read, and I even remember reading cases of individuals whom committed suicide at the thought of not being able to bear children.  The truth is, being infertile and wanting to have biological children has the same magnitude of a cancer diagnosis for those that want children (and most of us do, certainly those that read this blog).    And while those that suffer from cancer or have lost a person close to them receive the comfort, devotion, sympathy and, importantly, time from their loved ones - those with an infertility diagnosis quietly and desperately seek some understanding.  The sight of a pregnant women, the countless commercials which depict families, father's and mother's days, movies which outline the love between children and their parents, co-workers talking about their kids, seeing your relative's families......everywhere you look there seems to be a reminder of what will never be. At times, it seems as if the rest of the fortunate and fertile world thumbs their nose at you. But they're not, they're just living their life and celebrating one of the best joys of living: having children. And the resulting guilt that comes with trying to be as happy for your friends, family, co-workers and everyone else whom you want to celebrate life with. But inside, at least for me, I can feel a deep sadness that engulfs me at times, where I can barely get a grip on life.  Its part depression, but it's also part progression - in the sense the sadness is very much a part of me and who I am and I am learning to recognize it. Not what I envisioned, but for better or worse, my infertility is part of my life that I have to deal with.  I'm not sure where this part of my life will take me, and I'm definitely scared and feel alone most of the time, but I know its a part of my life that I have to accept and a path in my life that I have to take. One that my wife has chosen courageously to take with me, and one that I wish more of the people in my life could one day understand.