Yancey: Obstetrician’s personal experience with infertility … and a dog

Published 6:00 am Friday, June 16, 2023

Editor’s note: June is World Infertility Awareness Month. This column was originally published in October 2016.

The other night I was looking at some old pictures and came across a photo of Sadie. Sadie was our first and best dog. Sadie was our friend. Sadie was our child. Sadie made a selfless journey with our family the importance of which I suspect she never knew.

My wife and I had always wanted a large family, but we wanted to wait until I was finishing school. The prospect of starting a family was exciting. First bath, first words, first steps, riding a bike, coaching little league, dance recitals, pinewood derby, fishing, bedtime stories, tea parties, playing dress up, building forts. It was all too exciting.

But it didn’t turn out to be that easy.

One year turned into two years, and two years turned into three years — and still we had no children. We sought out an infertility specialist who ran every test and performed every procedure.

He found nothing he could treat.

Infertility is a lonely disease. It is a feeling of loss before there’s ever been a found. The feelings and emotions are indescribable to those who have never experienced it. You try not to be bitter. You try to be optimistic. It gets harder every day.

To make matters worse, I was an obstetrical resident in a large inner-city university hospital. We cared for people who did not want to be pregnant. We cared for people who did not need to be pregnant. I didn’t understand — it just wasn’t fair.

Our specialist told me we probably would never have children. So I bought my wife a puppy. A yellow Labrador — Sadie Hawkins Dance.

What a great dog. Our neighbors got to know her well. She could scale the fence like a commando. I’d come home after a 48-hour hospital shift and she would climb into the recliner beside me lying very still while I slept. She became our surrogate child.

She went everywhere and did everything with us. She loved riding in the car. We would never dream of putting her in a kennel if we went on a trip, so she went with us.

She was our child and she was our therapy, but what she did most for us was “be there.” She would “be there” as we suffered the pain of infertility. She would “be there” as we watched our friends grow their families. She would “be there” as we imagined all we would never experience with our own children. She would “be there” as we struggled through emotions that only infertility couples understand.

Time moved on, and eventually we were blessed with two great kids. Children who also got to know and love Sadie, our first child.

We are all a summation of our life experiences — both good and bad. Our infertility struggles taught us the value of life and family. Our dog taught us the value of “being there.”

As an obstetrician, I have been accused of sometimes being overly cautious with my patients and their pregnancies. I am quite sure there is truth in this. I suspect this is born of my own infertility experiences and accompanying deep desire for parents to fully experience and appreciate the joys of children and family.

Infertility creates in its victims a life perspective that few ever find. This life perspective deepened for me because of a yellow Labrador who provided comfort and taught empathy.

Thirteen years later I received a call from my wife. “Sadie’s having a hard time standing.” The doctor told us she had a tumor, and at her age she would not survive surgery. We knew what that meant. Over the next few months she became less mobile until the day arrived when she could no longer stand. We picked her up and carried her to her doctor’s office.

My wife said her tearful goodbyes, and I was left alone with Sadie and the doctor. I wanted to tell her how much she meant to us during a very difficult time. I wanted to tell her that I could not imagine our family without her.

Simple words were just not enough.

All I could do in that moment was the best I could do. All I could do for her was what she’d done for us. As she slipped away all I could do was “be there” — and that’s the best any of us can do.