Globally, around 1 in six people face infertility, that is, the inability to fall pregnant after at least one year of regular unprotected sex. Both men and women can have infertility, but women bear the disproportionate social and physiological burden of not being able to conceive. This is Alucia Mabunda’s story. The campus head at IIE Rosebank College in Nelson Mandela Bay has written a book that delves deep into her own emotional and physical challenges with infertility. This is an abstract from the book titled: The Quest for a Child: A Story of Hardship, Resilience and Faith.  

The routine of each month began to feel all too familiar, with fertomid, ovulation predictor kits, and pregnancy tests becoming staples akin to my regular grocery items. There were times I would test twice or even more within the same day, just on the off chance I might overlook a faint positive result. It was a game of chance also because blood tests are more advisable as some fertility medications can give a false positive on a pee stick. 

Nevertheless, the desire for a child turned the examination of a pregnancy test into a meticulous scrutiny, harbouring the hope that perhaps a very light line might be present. The financial toll of medications, tests, and doctor visits was substantial, with money continuously being drawn from our reserves. Yet, the financial burden seemed inconsequential compared to our longing for a child. 

To ensure we could afford the necessary medical treatments for our fertility journey, both of us were employed in positions that, while not highly lucrative, provided us with the means to prioritise our healthcare needs. I held the position of General Manager at a country lodge located in Venda, Limpopo, and my husband worked as a Life Coach at a high school in Whiteriver, Mpumalanga. 

It’s essential to understand that our financial resources were low; however, we were committed to allocating every available cent towards our fertility treatments. The geographical distance between our workplaces spanned over 350 kilometres through complicated roads, adding a layer of complexity to our lives. Despite these challenges, my husband made the effort to travel to Venda, and occasionally, we found solace in the modest three-roomed house we had built at the village in Tzaneen following our lobola negotiations. 

Amid our financial and geographical challenges, our faith remained unwavering, with Jesus at the center of our hearts. We faced our days with smiles, laughter, and a sense of living fully, even as we carried the internal burden of our unfulfilled desire for a child. However, the physical distance between us became a significant obstacle in our quest for conception. The timing of ovulation is critical, as a woman’s fertile window lasts about five days each month. 

There were instances when the ovulation kit indicated I was ovulating mere hours after my husband’s departure, causing us to miss our opportunity for that cycle. At other times, even when the timing aligned with his return, the toll of his long journey — marked by stress and exhaustion — meant that engaging in sexual activities was sometimes beyond our capacity. 

Navigating the journey towards conception introduces a unique set of challenges, transforming the intimate act of sex from a moment of connection and pleasure into a task with a specific goal in mind. For both partners, this shift can strip away the joy and spontaneity typically associated with lovemaking, turning it into a dutiful endeavour aimed at achieving pregnancy. Compounding the situation, I had to elevate my legs against the wall immediately after intercourse to aid or enhance sperm mobility. Seems a bit funny, considering that other couples conceive without going through all these strategies. 

For someone struggling through what is typically a natural process, receiving advice from those without understanding can be quite painful. Infertility is often misunderstood by outsiders, who might casually suggest to “just enjoy the process” and assure that pregnancy will occur unexpectedly. What is there to enjoy when you are told when to engage, then rush to the elevation of legs? Such advice falls flat for couples deeply engrossed in the pursuit of parenthood, where every intimate moment is inevitably tied to the hope of conception. Despite our fervent prayers and the belief that they were making an impact in the spiritual realm, our physical reality remained unchanged. I hold onto the faith that each prayer planted a seed, awaiting its time to blossom. 

As the year 2013 neared its close, marking nearly two years of our unsuccessful attempts to conceive, we began to face a renewed wave of inquiries and remarks. Questions such as “Don’t you have children yet?” or “You have been married for long, where are your children?” seemed to imply that starting a family was as straightforward as purchasing a loaf of bread from a local store. The most painful question one can pose to a couple facing fertility challenges is about their status on having children. Although some may argue that such questions are born out of genuine concern, I earnestly plead for sensitivity: PLEASE REFRAIN FROM ASKING. Such questions, however well-intentioned, can deeply wound and diminish the already fragile hopes of those struggling to conceive. 

Our journey was not just a battle against infertility, but also against the insensitivity we sometimes faced from those around us. One Friday evening at a funeral, a particularly piercing moment unfolded that I cannot forget. Amongst the gathered relatives, one of the aunts from my husband’s side approached me with a directness that felt like a cold wind. Without a word, she went straight for my stomach, pressing it, her actions laden with silent inquiry. That moment cut deeper than any spoken word could have. It wasn’t just the physical invasion of my personal space that hurt; it was the stark reminder of what I so desperately longed for but did not have. 

This action, perhaps innocuous and driven by curiosity in her perspective, was a glaring example of the lack of sensitivity people can exhibit. She did not say much after touching me, but the message was clear as she went on to greet me. I was bloated, well, that is a side effect of fertility treatments. Unfortunately, being bloated only served to make these interactions more frequent and more painful. You would think people would possess an innate sensitivity towards such a personal struggle, understanding without being told that such actions or questions can be incredibly hurtful. Yet, the opposite seemed true more often than not. 

*Alucia’s book: The Quest for a Child: A Story of Hardship, Resilience and Faith is available on Amazon and Takealot. 
Do you have a story about infertility that you’d like to share? Email us your story at editor@health-e.org.za