Telling My Husband I am Infertile: the Time I Didn't Need Cake

I was 18 when I had my fertility taken from me. It was a long time coming. Years of pain, surgeries, uncertainty, and anticipation for that moment that the fight would come to an end and I would lose.

At the time, I had been dating a young man. I will call him Phoenix. It was one of those “things” where you don’t ever really label it, but you snuggle and spend almost every day

together for months. That means that all the emotional connection of having a boyfriend was there for me, without any of the responsibility for him.

He was a good man and I felt like his presence in my life was a gift from God. As if he was a sort of penance for all the mental and physical agony I was going through. However, walking to his door to tell him I was about to have a life-changing surgery was one of the scariest moments I had ever experienced.

I had been trying to get ahold of him all day, but he was busy and distant. So, to keep my mind busy, I had walked to the store and bought a chocolate cake. I then, still not having heard from him, made the trek to his apartment. I stood in front of his doors and could feel my body quake as my knuckles rapped against his door. A few moments later, he swung the door open and looked at me with a sort of curious confusion. I can only imagine what he thought seeing me with tears brimming in my eyes, my knees nervously knocking together, holding a plastic-wrapped cake in my shaking hands. He welcomed me inside and we took a seat at his dining room table. He asked what was wrong and, with a wavering voice, I slowly told him of my history of reproductive disorders, impending surgery, and my mourning of the future that was never mine. He was kind to me and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening sitting with me, distracting me, and being my friend. But ultimately, he told me that was all he could give me, he was unable and unwilling to take on this trial and I worried it would be mine alone to carry.

Flashing forward 3 years. I sat in a car with a man I had only started talking to about a week before. We had just gone geocaching and had Asian food. It was honestly a fantastic time, but as most first dates did, had its awkward moments. I wasn’t sure if we would ever see each other again, but it was clear that I liked him and there was an instant comfortability with him. From the first day we had hung out he had emphasized the importance of honesty and communication in any friendship and relationship he was in. I was not very good at this. It made me worry that just like with Phoenix, honesty and openness would lead to rejection.

When I found out his brother had the same name as Phoenix, I made an off-handed comment about the PTSD that brought me. He of course pressed for details citing that if I wasn’t willing to talk about it, I shouldn’t have brought it up and that we could talk about anything. I was silent for a long minute and decided that I would take an approach I had never taken before. I would share with a boy I was barely dating one of the most intimate, difficult, and personal things that I struggled with… infertility. In just a few sentences I told him I had a hysterectomy and was dating Phoenix at the time. I ended with how thinking about that time and the rejection it had led to was painful.

He didn’t say much, other than that he was sorry that happened to me. When we arrived at my house, he picked up two of the sand dollars we had been leaving at the geocaching sites we found. He put them in his car’s cupholder, “one for me and one for you.” Coleman said, thoughtfully.

“What is that for?” I asked a sparkle in my eye.

“The next time we go geocaching,” he looked at me. And as I looked at his big, kind smile, all the worries of the last 10 years melted away even for just a moment. It was clear, I hadn’t been too much. I hadn’t scared him off. I wasn’t too open. He liked me and he expected to spend more time with me. Months later, I found out just weeks before his brother and he

had discussed what it would be like to marry a woman who struggled with infertility, and as such it had given him time to ponder being in this very situation. Making the point even more clear that he was prepared for me.

For years, I had struggled about when to bring up the infertility issue in dating. If I brought it up too early, it would seem like I was already thinking of having babies with them. And if I told them too late, it would seem like I was lying or hiding something from them; not allowing them to choose if this was a trial that they were willing to take on. But Coleman made it easy. Though I was nervous, it didn’t take me weeks to tell him, and I didn’t need to hide behind chocolate cake. It came up naturally. When he told me we could talk about anything, he meant it. He could see past my trials and pains to me.

Now, I am not saying that every trial or personal detail needs to be shared on a first date (a little mystery is important). For example, I waited weeks to divulge my struggles with OCD and anxiety. But I quickly learned that the sooner I was open about an issue, the sooner I found greater peace, the sooner we could find solutions, and ultimately the sooner I fell in love.

My relationship with Coleman was so much different than I ever imagined. And he is so much different than I ever imagined. And because of that, I am so much different than I ever imagined. I am more open, more secure, and more loved than I could have ever imagined. And it all started on the first date.