On an ordinary day in mid-January 2012, my wife and I walked into our local fertility clinic, expecting to leave with a prescription for Clomid and the green light to proceed. But things didn’t go as planned.
I had no idea that I was about to receive a life-altering diagnosis.
“So, Ciaran, we’ve analysed the sample you provided a few weeks ago, and unfortunately, there isn’t much we can do for you. Have you ever taken steroids?”
That sentence was like a cold knife to the heart. At first, I didn’t even register it. Instead, I felt oddly numb. My heart began racing, my palms grew clammy, and I felt myself slipping into an out-of-body experience. I was there in the room, but at the same time, I wasn’t. I can’t remember much about what happened immediately after that, but I do recall a brief and heated argument over steroid use.
It was a strange and abrupt turn of events, and it could have been handled very differently.
When the consultant realised, I was completely unaware of my condition, he changed his approach and started to explain why he’d been so blunt.
The results from my sperm analysis showed that I had an extremely low sperm count, poor morphology, and low mobility—essentially, my sperm count was nearly non-existent.
Further analysis confirmed the dire results—my sperm count was so low it was almost laughable to call it a count. The only silver lining was that, amidst the few misshapen, sideward-swimming sperm, there were some viable ones—though “a few” would have been the most accurate term.
Looking back, I can smile and joke about it now, but at the time, it took me a long, long time to process what had happened and how I felt. In fact, it’s only in hindsight that I can recognise my emotions as grief.
The journey of coming to terms with my infertility spanned 8–9 years, and the best way I can describe my initial feelings is grief—grieving for something I felt I had lost.
I’ve spent time researching grief and trying to understand what it truly means. Many theories describe it as a staged process that culminates in acceptance. One podcast that resonated deeply with me was The Science and Process of Healing from Grief by Dr. Andrew Huberman, a Stanford professor. He presents an interesting perspective, suggesting that grief can serve as a form of motivation rather than simply representing loss.
For me, the idea of grief as motivation resonates much more than viewing it as pure loss. When it came to my infertility, I often said I was mourning the loss of my unborn children. While that’s an understandable statement, when I reflect on it, I struggle to justify the sentiment. How can you mourn something you never had?
The feeling of grief hit me long before we ever experienced miscarriage. Over time, that grief evolved into guilt, which weighed heavily on me for years. But the initial grief stemmed solely from my diagnosis—not from any specific pregnancy loss. (That said, I do want to acknowledge the immense sense of loss I felt when Jennifer and I went through several miscarriages. It’s a topic I’ll address in the future, as miscarriage—like infertility—is an experience many men find difficult to talk about.)
So, the big question is: how do you deal with grief?
The truth is, everyone’s journey is different. Kübler-Ross’s (1969) five-stage model—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—is a solid framework, but grief doesn’t always follow a linear path. You may not experience every stage, or you might cycle through them in a unique way.
For me, the first step was acknowledging my emotions. Talking about how I felt marked the beginning of my healing process. I firmly believe that acknowledgment is key to acceptance.
It took years to process what I felt, but in the end, I believe the experience made me a better man, husband, and, ultimately, father.
So, don’t shy away from your emotions. Speak openly about them. Share your feelings with your partner. That’s how the road to acceptance begins.