The Jacksons: Facing Fertility Together

Continuing their journey with CRGH, Ed and Lois share their personal reflections on how fertility became a real part of their story, and what it means to take the next step together. Read their side of the story below, as they open up with honesty and hope about the challenges, discoveries, and emotions that have shaped this chapter of their journey.

Ed Jackson: When Fertility Wasn’t on My Radar

If you had told my younger self that fertility would one day be a big topic in my life, I probably would have laughed it off. It just wasn’t something I ever thought about.

Back then, I naively assumed that as a bloke, and a rugby player at that, fertility was a given. In my head, testosterone equalled kids. Simple as that. Looking back now, I can see how arrogant and misinformed that was. But really, it wasn’t arrogance, it was ignorance. Kids just weren’t on my radar.

When Lois and I met, we were young. She was on the pill, life was busy, and starting a family wasn’t something we even discussed. Then came my spinal cord injury, and while we were fielding all sorts of questions like “Will I walk again?” fertility was nowhere near the list. I didn’t even realise that spinal cord injuries could affect things like that. And even if someone had mentioned it, I doubt I would have asked too many follow up questions. We were in survival mode, not family planning mode.

As the years went by and Lois came off contraception because it was affecting her, we just decided to be careful. Sex after injury was a whole new learning curve, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I’ve spoken about that before: the awkwardness, the frustration, and the process of finding the right erectile dysfunction medication. It wasn’t exactly the most romantic period of our lives, but over time we found our rhythm again. It took patience, communication, and a decent sense of humour, because if you can’t laugh about it, you’ll cry.

By the time we hit our thirties and friends started having kids, the conversation slowly began to shift. I started to wonder why, after a few years without contraception, there had never even been a pregnancy scare. I’d done enough research and spoken to enough people in the spinal cord injury community to know that fertility issues were common. But it’s still not something you hear men talk about much.

That silence is dangerous because it breeds embarrassment. And the embarrassment makes the silence worse. So instead of confronting it, I quietly convinced myself that maybe we were better off without kids. Life was full. We had adventure, travel, purpose. We were literally climbing mountains together. It was easy to rationalise that adding children might take that away. But if I’m being honest, that was fear talking. Fear of disappointment. Fear of letting Lois down. A defence mechanism that had served me well since my accident. Focus on what you can control, appraise the downside, stay positive. It’s a good strategy for recovery, not such a good one for vulnerability.

Meanwhile, things were changing for Lois. More of her friends were starting families, some were getting their eggs frozen, and the topic of fertility started coming up more often in her circles. She could feel the clock ticking in a way that, as men, we’re lucky not to. Then, when her mum was diagnosed with cancer, it put everything into perspective. I think it made her realise that time isn’t infinite, and that if she was ever going to have children, she wanted her mum to be part of that journey for as long as possible. That was a really powerful shift. It stopped being a vague “one day” conversation and became something real that we needed to explore properly.

Of course, I was up for it, but still with the mindset of “let’s see what happens, we’ll be happy either way.” And I do genuinely believe that. But deep down, I think I was still avoiding the possibility that it might not be that simple.

Providing a sample naturally proved logistically difficult. I’ll spare you the details, but it’s not the sort of thing that makes you feel like a young Casanova again. Eventually, earlier this year, I had a biopsy to see what was really going on. The results confirmed what I’d quietly suspected: I produce very few sperm, and the ones they did find weren’t motile. Not exactly the result you hope for, but it didn’t close the door completely. With IVF, you only need one, so there’s still a shot.
That’s where CRGH come in, and something called a micro TESE procedure. Basically, it’s when a surgeon quite literally opens up your balls under a microscope to hunt for sperm. I’m not going to lie, as far as procedures go, it sounds like every man’s worst nightmare. The phrase “surgical exploration of the testicles” doesn’t exactly scream good time. But if it gives us a chance, then it’s worth it.

The turning point for me came in August, when I spent a month in Kyrgyzstan on a mountaineering expedition. Being off grid for that long gave me space to think. No distractions, no noise, just time. Somewhere between the glaciers and the yaks, I realised that if all things were equal, I’d want kids with Lois. I think that’s always been true, I’d just been too scared to admit it to myself. Telling myself I didn’t want kids was easier than facing the idea that I might not be able to have them.

Now, the odds are stacked against us, and the outcome is largely out of our hands. But with the help of CRGH and the wonders of modern science, we’ll give it our best shot. What will be, will be.

We’re sharing this because when I first started looking for stories like ours, I couldn’t find many, especially from men. Fertility issues are so much more common than people realise, but they’re still whispered about like a secret. That doesn’t help anyone. If opening up about it helps even one person feel less isolated or embarrassed, then it’s worth the awkwardness.

So that’s where we’re at. It’s a strange mix of realism and hope. We don’t know what’s next, but we’re going to face it together, one step, one test, one laugh at a time.