Who Is This Man?

Last night, I overheard (okay, so maybe eavesdropping would be a better word) Mo having a conversation with a high-school buddy of his.  He was talking about...wait for it... INFERTILITY.   Specifically, how men often feel embarrassed and ashamed by it, and therefore don't talk about it.  And how women feel all alone in their journeys, especially because their men aren't talking about it.

I sat on the couch in the living room and listened to him explain to his friend the myriad of emotions we've experienced the last few years.  He talked about our losses openly, talked about what helped and what didn't after.  He talked about what its like to be on THIS side of things (his friend is, quite, um...fertile) and he did so without shame, without apologies.  He even talked about his role in our IF (as you know, men often equate sperm production with masculinity, so this has frequently been a sore subject for Mo).

I sat there in wonderment, simply glowing with pride.  He has come so far.

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It's only been about six months since I really, openly, started talking about infertility on FB.  I've always been willing to share what we're going through in person, and I posted random stuff every so often after our losses. But then something shifted inside of me, and I got sick and tired of feeling like I was alone in this (IRL, I mean.)  I started sharing more and more about our journey.  This IVF has been well-documented online, and I've got an amazing group of friends and family cheering us on every step of the way.  It has been humbling, as so many friends have come "out of the closet" and shared their struggles with me, often privately, because of what I've posted.

And, as I've become more open, so has Mo.  He started linking to the articles I shared, and sharing them with HIS friends.  He started posting his own status updates as to where we were in our treatments.  He started getting his own emails from friends he hadn't seen in twenty years, telling him about all that they had endured to bring their families into being.

And, in his own small way, Mo found himself becoming a sort of advocate.  Not in the earth-shaking way that some of you here are, but in his world, he is opening people's eyes.  He is changing how people understand things, and he's doing what so many men are afraid to do -- he's talking about what its like to be infertile, in a forum that is very personal and public at the same time.

As I sat there listening, I had the brief thought: "Who IS this man?"  I could never have imagined the Mo of two years ago doing or saying anything like what I heard last night.

And then I remembered.  THIS is the man I married, the man I've been in love with all along, the man I fought to bring back.  This is the man I am proud to have by my side, holding my hand, every single heartbreaking step of the way.

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As we lay in bed last night, several hours after this conversation took place, we somehow got onto the topic of all the money we've spent in the last year or two -- leaving our jobs, moving five states away, two IVF's, and a FET cost an awful, embarrassing amount of money.  And Mo took my hand, and said quietly -- "But, you saved my life.  Don't think I don't know that."

I like to think that's true, though the reality is he saved himself as much as I did.  And in the process, he saved US, and gave us this second shot at happiness.  Had we not taken that leap, I know without a shadow of a doubt that we wouldn't be here today.

It's been a long, bumpy road -- and I still have no idea how its all going to turn out.  I've changed so much in the last ten years, and so has Mo.  We are not the same people who flung ourselves headfirst into marriage, with all those blissful ideas of what the future would hold.  I'm still figuring out who I am, and who Mo is, on a daily basis.  

But, more and more, I like the people we are becoming.  And, in a very twisted way, I have infertility to thank for that.