Male infertility and IVF: “Being told my sperm wasn’t working was like a punch in the gut”

(approx 7 minute read)

Three miscarriages (or the hated term ‘chemical pregnancy’), multiple wanks on demand into a pot and almost £70k spent – X gives a warts and all account of his eight-year male infertility and IVF journey.

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The World Health Organisation predicts roughly one in six worldwide experience fertility issues. I guarantee you, if you look around your friendship group, there will be multiple people struggling to conceive. I’m one of the one in six. 

And that’s not easy to admit or talk about.

I met my partner when I was 30 and knew instantly I’d fallen in love with her. We quickly knew we wanted kids.

Three years in we decided to start trying. We informally started trying, not too much thought, just sex with a little more purpose.

One year in and sex had become much more structured. Y (we’re calling my partner Y) had subtly started changing the times we were having sex. It was designated windows of time – I’m talking hours – on specific days. 

I was under pressure to perform and perform well, but there were plenty of occasions where I just couldn’t get it up, or I got it up, but it didn’t last. I found it too much pressure. It felt shit. Sex on demand might sound great, but the reality is very different. Performance anxiety was real. 

With no sign of pregnancy, we took our first trip to the doctors. 

To get IVF on the NHS you need to prove you’ve been trying for two years, how often you are having sex, when you are doing it. I don’t feel good about it but we lied. We’d only been trying for 12-18 months but we were in our mid-thirties and we weren’t getting any younger.

The first step is to test to find out where the problem is. Until that point, I’d never really considered who was to blame (blame is such an awful word here but it’s an inevitable emotion, unfortunately) for the fertility issues. I hadn’t assigned blame to either of us, however, Y was convinced it was her. Perhaps that’s a male ego thing. She had listed all the things that could be wrong.

Then the news came that I was the problem. “It wouldn’t be a miracle,” the doctor said, “but it’s almost certain you won’t be able to conceive naturally.” So much for simply stopping cycling, wearing loose boxers and drinking more water…. 

I was devastated. Crushed. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Hard. I’ve never felt like I’m a stereotypically masculine bloke but being told your sperm isn’t working felt very emasculating.

When you find out one person is to blame for not being able to conceive, it massively changes the complexion of your relationship. I felt, and still do today, massive guilt. It was all my fault, even though it was just one of those things. 

In the following years of our IVF journey, we had numerous conversations where I apologised for being the person Y fell in love with, and that it would have been easier for her if she’d not met me.

Then the IVF started and that again puts massive stress on a relationship – financially, mentally, and physically. Every part of your relationship is forced to the edge, and sometimes over it. 

We started our first round with the NHS. We got one shot with the NHS (depending on which borough you live in, some get more). If it fails, that would be it. 

So, it began…There are three main stages in IVF. The first stage is about using medication to boost the woman’s supply of eggs before harvesting them. The second stage is around fertilisation where the sperm is introduced, and you cross your fingers that the eggs turn into embryos. The final stage is to insert those embryos into the woman and again, keep fingers crossed that they implant and grow (step by step guide by the NHS here).

Daily injections, and medication, followed by more injections or medication for Y. I quickly learned IVF is incredibly invasive for women.

For me, I simply went and sat in a darkened room and had a wank into a pot with some shit porn.

It didn’t seem fair, I was the problem yet Y was the one being poked and prodded every single day. 

For our NHS attempt, it always felt a bit like a conveyor belt basic experience. For instance, when it came time to harvest the eggs ready for fertilisation, Y would go under general anaesthetic to have the eggs removed. The eggs would then be presented to me in a mini ‘fridge’, I’d jump in the car, plug the ‘fridge’ into the cigarette socket as that powered it and kept the eggs at the right temperature. I then had 45 minutes to get across London and hand them over to the doctors otherwise the eggs might be damaged. Then into a room and do my thing. The ultimate pressure wank. One nurse even offered to come and assist one time if I was struggling (to be clear, not a sexual offer, but a practical one involving prostate stimulation). 

Once fertilised, I remember going into the transfer room and they’d ranked the quality of embryos from A all the way down the alphabet. Our only viable embryo was considered poor so we had to take a chance on it. Needless to say, it didn’t work. Our one NHS shot was done. Yet another sucker punch to the gut.

We decided to go private. I wouldn’t say the private world is a dark world but there’s so many clinics of varying costs all offering slightly different things. It gave me a real snake oil salesman feeling. Our experience was that the more you paid, the more bespoke the medical journey was.

The cycle for Y of early morning trips to the hospitals before work; blood tests, injections, medications, and more medication seemed to last weeks for every round of IVF we went through. And for me, another wank into another pot. You’d think private hospitals would have better quality porn. Not so. 

I did everything I could to support Y – I’d do most of the injections. I remember one time Y was at her Christmas party and we knew she needed an injection that evening, but nobody at work knew. We called the bar in advance and agreed I’d come through the back door, go into a private room and administer the jab. Then Y would go back to the Christmas party. 

It was a relentless schedule.

For every one of the four rounds of private IVF treatments we went through, we successfully got to the embryo transfer phase, this time with excellent embryos.  

Then it was a waiting game as we held our breath that the embryos would stick and grow. They told us not to take a pregnancy test until around two weeks after the fertilised eggs were transferred back into Y. I remember at that time it felt like every cupboard was full to the brim with pregnancy tests. 

Y then began the daily pregnancy tests. She did them on her own. I’m not sure why, perhaps she didn’t want to get my hopes up. 

Each time Y was pregnant. The line would appear, and we’d be thrilled, but then over the course of a few weeks the line would fade. We had miscarried. More total devastation. For me the guilt got stronger each time.

We then had to decide if we were to go through it again – and if so, do we go back to the same clinic or try another? It’s hugely expensive – like a black hole of money. In total, we spent nearly £70,000 on our four rounds of IVF. I’m well aware many people wouldn’t be able to afford even one round of IVF. 

One final thing before I get on to the good news (this story does end well). 

If you think friends are trying or even just at the stage of life where kids might be on the cards, don’t ask. People would innocently ask us if we were thinking about having kids – each time it was like a slap in the face. That innocent question can put you into a spin for days. And for those times when a friend or family member gets pregnant, we aren’t jealous or angry at you, but it is impossibly hard seeing it.

Seven years in – and having added a dog to our unit as some sort of emotional support – I received a phone call at work from Y. “It’s only the size of a sesame seed,” she said. “It’s small, but it is there.” 

I can’t really put into words the emotion I felt. 

In the early years there were moments of complete emotional overwhelm, but I then quickly went into practical fix mode. A common mode for blokes, I think. I knew I had all these emotions, it’s like I could see them away from my body, but I didn’t know what they were or how to deal with them. 

On hearing the incredible news there was an utter outpouring. 

When the IVF process turns into a pregnancy, it’s all about monitoring and protecting the baby. Weekly scans which I’d record in full on my phone. We’d then spend hours watching them back repeatedly. Y also bled for most of the pregnancy so that kept the drama going and anxiety high for nine more months. 

During the pregnancy, Y’s dad got cancer and we weren’t sure he’d meet his grandson. Our child was born on Y’s dad’s birthday – he then passed away two months later in the middle of our first COVID lockdown. 

We’re now four years post birth and every minute of pain and heartache was worth it. I’m (healthily) obsessed with my boy and talk about him relentlessly to anyone who will listen. 

Perhaps one of the craziest things about this whole eight-year experience is that I didn’t share any of it with anyone (apart from Y and immediate family). 

Which is why I’m sharing this now. 

By sharing this story I hope it might provide some comfort to know that there are other infertile blokes out there struggling with shame, guilt and sadness. 

Remember that statistic, one in six.