"Two years ago, I was told my husband had no sperm. This is what I wish I could say out loud."

I’ve never been stereotypically ‘maternal’. I don’t  ‘ooh and aah’ at babies and I certainly don’t get ‘clucky’ after spending an afternoon with pram wheeling mothers whose topic of conversation rarely deviates from what (insert baby name here) did at 1am, 4am, 8am, 12pm, 3pm, 6pm and 9pm the previous day and night.

In fact, I was quite the opposite. Having worked with children in previous jobs, I was very happy to hand them back and send them packing with their parents in the afternoon. Cute, quiet and well behaved? Sure I could give this ‘parent’ thing a go. Screaming, acting out, throwing a tantrum? Uh… no thanks, I’ll pass.

I guess I always thought I would end up having children at some point, but never really felt quite ready to trade in our spontaneous dinner dates, lazy weekend sleep-ins and care free lifestyle. Besides, we have our fur baby.

Listen to beloved performer Mary Coustas talk about her own fertility issues. (Post continues after audio.):

I really only started trying because I was in my 30s and thought it the responsible thing to do. I figured it was time to put my ‘big girl’ pants on. If I was being asked on a daily basis when I was having kids by my friends, family and the old lady at the news agency alike – it’s probably something that I ought to be doing, right?

And so it began. Tracking my period, ovulation, vitamins, peeing on sticks, Chinese herbs, acupuncture, scheduling sex (hey baby, quick! I think my tubes are releasing eggs right about now) lying with my legs up the wall, zinc-ifying the hubby’s diet. At first it was kind of fun. It was a challenge and I’m always up for a challenge. When I want something, I work for it, then I get it. How hard could this baby making be?

Fucking hard.

12 months had passed and nada, zip, zilch. Turns out just because I wanted this didn’t mean I was going to get it.

It was around this time that a new acupuncturist that I started seeing asked me why my husband hadn’t been tested yet. I, like 99 per cent of the population assumed that the issue was mine (the woman) and I (the woman) needed to fix it. She looked at me squarely, “It takes two people to make a baby, go and get him tested.”

So I did. And since my man is a legend, he didn’t ask any questions or take this personally. (Since this experience, I have heard of so many boyfriends and husbands that actually take offence at this and, outrageously, refuse to do it.)

So, he does the test, we don’t think much of it.

I’ll never forget the afternoon he walked up the steps after his appointment. I think I made some stupid comment like, “So babe, how amazing are your boys?  Do you have super sperm?”

Him: “I don’t have any.”

Me: “I’m sorry, what now?”

Him:  “I don’t have any sperm.”

Me: “You mean it’s low?”

Him: “No, I mean I have none. The test came back as ZERO.”

Me: (ever the optimist) “Well that can’t be right. They’ve obviously made a mistake. Get another test.”

And that’s when I cracked.

Because at that moment my rock, my everything, the man who, with one kiss on the forehead could make all my troubles melt away, slid down the wall and landed with a thud on his butt and said,  “I’m a failure of a husband.”

And I couldn’t make this go away.

We tested again. But two weeks later the result was still the same. He had no sperm.

Suddenly, I wanted a baby more than anything. Kind of like when you’re dieting, but worse.

I can’t have chocolate. I want chocolate.

I can’t have a baby. I want a baby.

Turns out when you desperately want to get pregnant – everyone else gets pregnant instead. And I mean everyone. Your best friends, your sister, the bulging bellies you pass in the street. And the people who aren’t even trying.

“Oh George just has to look at me, and I get pregnant!”

“Liam and I already have three beautiful children, I can’t believe we’re going to have a fourth.”

“You’re not going to believe this, but we’re having a baby!”

Congratu-fucking-lations.

Of course I delivered my congratulations with the appropriate mix of pure joy and excitement and I made damn sure no body could see through to what was really going on inside my head. Then I would excuse myself and cry my eyes out.

Watch Bronwyn McMahon talk about her own struggles to fall pregnant. (Post continues after video.)

We were told the only way to really find out what was going on was to take a peek inside. Translation? Nuts cut open. Literally. When azoospermia (the medical term for "no sperm count") presents it can be either obtrusive or non-obtrusive. The former being a blockage in the tubes to some degree or another, and the latter being code for “We really just have no bloody idea.” Well... that’s what it felt like to us. Two years later and we still don’t know what has caused this and to be honest, probably never will.

I’ll never forget walking back into the room when he was wheeled in after theatre. He was still very groggy and there were two nurses looking over his chart who didn’t bother to look up as I entered. Here’s how it went down:

Me: Um… excuse me, do you know the results of the operation at all?

Rude Nurse 1: No.

Rude Nurse 2: You’ll have to make an appointment to come back and see the Doctor at a later date.

Me: Oh really? We were told that …

Rude Nurse 1: (cutting me off) That’s procedure.

After about 10 seconds, I decided that I didn’t like Rude Nurse 1 or 2.

Me: Get the doctor up here now, go down and personally get him or call him from this phone. We’ve been in agony for over six months about the possibility of never having children and we were told that we would get the results immediately after this operation. I am not leaving here without an answer and neither are you.

Five minutes later the bedside phone rung and the doctor who graduated from the School of How Not to Give Bad News to Patients was cheerfully talking in my ear.

Doctor: Hey, the nurses said you wanted to talk to me?

Me: Ah yes… The results of the operation?

Doctor: Oh I told your husband that, didn’t he pass the message on?

At this stage, hubby has one eye open and is mumbling something about green cats and sausage rolls.

Me: In case you forgot doctor… He is just waking up from anaesthetic now.

Doctor: Oh right, sorry. Yeah, so we didn’t find anything. Cut open both testes, thought we found something but it ended up being a bit of fatty tissue. So you’ll have to make an appointment to chat about donor or adoption, okay?

I tried to stop crying but I couldn’t. I couldn’t breathe, my legs gave way and I felt like I had the weight of a polar bear on my chest. The room spun and I remember feeling an intense pain in my heart. Then I ran to the bathroom and proceeded to throw up as quietly as I could so I wouldn’t make my husband any more upset than he needed to be.

To be honest, this has been the most challenging part for me - constantly trying to protect him. I didn’t (and still don’t) want to add to his pain. I used to get guilty for getting upset because I felt like I was just reminding him of it again. I felt like I was the one that needed to be strong because he already had enough to deal with. I would cry after I knew he had fallen asleep or go the toilet when I felt the floodgates starting to open.

I find social situations with people I don’t know particularly well - especially with his circle of friends - something I generally want to avoid. When faced with the “When are you two going to start making babies?” question I revert back to the sweet smiling “Oh no, we’re far too busy for children – besides we have our little fur baby!” line.

You see, if the issue was within my body I’d be talking to everyone about it, not hiding it, not being ashamed of it and opening up a conversation to help other people going through similar situations. But it’s not and I can’t. Sure good friends know, but sharing it openly with whoever asks and on my various platforms is not an option, which has been really hard for me. Not being able to write about it (until now) was like wearing masking tape over my mouth. When I write, I feel. When I feel, I can release. When I release, I can make way for something better. And it wasn’t until I told my amazing therapist who came up with the idea of writing anonymously that I started that process. So here it is, swear words and all. Sorry, mum.

The next few months after that operation were hard. I was numb and got really good at distracting myself with new shoes and the latest pinot noir. I was in major denial.

We saw specialist after specialist, to no avail.

More recently we started a program with a brilliant man who for the first time, actually explained our test result. Turns out when an issue is presented in the male, the female often gets completely overlooked. I had cysts. A whole bunch of them in fact, and needed a laparoscopy, stat. I actually felt good when I heard this – it wasn’t just hubby’s issue, I had something going on with me too! We were told that if hubby was to go on hormone replacement therapy, we may just have a chance.

We had hope, we had a plan.

Then someone threw a spanner in the works.

The specialist who was due to perform my operation and give hubby his hormone injections, completely disagreed with the first guy and told us flat out it wouldn’t work. He looked me right in the eye and said if I were his sister, there would be no way he would let her go through all of this.

And just like that, we are back to square one looking at two options we are still not really ready to look at. It’s so final. I feel as though if I start to really consider these options – donor sperm or adoption, then the second that I do that there is no going back.

You guys, this really sucks.

But we don’t want to rush in and make any decisions while we feeling so overwhelmed and unsure. Under this foggy cloud that we find ourselves in, there are a lot of things we don’t know, and at the same time – a lot of things we do know.

We know that:

We love each other.
We have each other’s backs.
We love our dog.
We love our home.
We love our friends and family.

And I can’t help but think of the quote:

“Everything will be okay in the end, and if it’s not okay – it’s not the end.”

Let’s hope so.