'I had countless, invasive tests to check my fertility, before anyone thought to check my husband.'

From as early as I can remember, I had a clear vision of what my future would look like. While my dreams often shifted from one ambition to the next, there was one role I never questioned: I was going to be a mum.

It wasn't just a hope; to me, it was a given. One of those assumptions you took for granted.

A couple of years after marrying my long-term partner, we made the decision to stop using contraception and start trying for a baby.

In my mind, the whole journey unfolded like a movie. I was 26, in a stable career, and ready. We'd fall pregnant quickly and share the news in a joyous, surprising reveal. A spontaneous, love-filled moment would lead to a positive test, followed by a doctor's confirmation and a teary, happy announcement to our families.

But things didn't go to plan. With each passing month, excitement turned into uncertainty, and soon, overwhelming anxiety and despair.

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My periods had always been irregular as a teenager and young adult and, since coming off the pill, nothing had changed. 

Sometimes four weeks would pass, other times more than six, before my period would make its arrival, crashing like a tsunami for at least seven days, an unflinching and often painful reminder that my body had failed once again. 

What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I get pregnant? I visited my GP, and the testing began. 

First, there were the blood tests. So many blood tests. On day three of my cycle, they checked my hormone levels — FSH, LH, oestradiol — trying to figure out if my ovaries were doing what they were supposed to. 

Another test measured my Anti-Müllerian Hormone, or AMH, which supposedly gave them a rough idea of how many eggs I had left. I had my thyroid function checked, my prolactin levels measured, and then, later in the cycle, a blood test to see if I'd ovulated at all. 

Each time, I found myself sitting in a pathology clinic, waiting with my sleeve rolled up, hoping for clarity that never seemed to come.

Then came the STI screenings. Even though I'd never had symptoms, they needed to rule out things like chlamydia or gonorrhoea — silent infections that can damage your fallopian tubes without you ever knowing. These all came back clear as well. 

After that, it was time for the transvaginal ultrasound to get a better look at my uterus and ovaries. The technician clicked away silently, searching for signs of PCOS, cysts, fibroids, anything that might explain what was going wrong. 

Next, they ordered a hysterosalpingogram, or HSG. This one hurt a bit. Dye was injected into my uterus and fallopian tubes while X-rays were taken to see if everything was open and working. I left that appointment sore and shaken, even though the results were apparently "normal."

I was starting to feel like a science experiment. Each new procedure felt like another attempt to find fault with my body. Still, there were no answers. 

The next step was surgery. A laparoscopy. Under general anaesthetic, the surgeon would insert a camera through my abdomen to check for endometriosis or pelvic adhesions. I remember signing the consent form, trying not to cry. I'd gone from blood tests to surgery in what felt like the blink of an eye.

At one point, doctors suggested genetic testing, just in case there was some hidden chromosomal issue at play.

Not once, during those early months, did anyone suggest testing my partner. 

It was until after my laparoscopy, when doctors determined IVF would be the next likely step, that they insisted my partner get tested. And this was purely because it was a requirement before IVF treatment could commence. 

All that was required of him was to walk into a private room with a magazine and a small cup. A few minutes later, he was done. 

It turned out, there was an issue with my partner's sperm. A couple, actually. A low count and low motility. That meant a particular kind of IVF was required, called ICSI.

Regardless of the process, the outcome would have been the same. But if one doctor had suggested testing my partner early in the process, I could have avoided a series of invasive tests, including surgery. 

My experience is not an isolated incident. Despite evidence that male and female factors contribute equally to infertility, women are still the ones who go through the most testing, and the most invasive procedures, first.

Globally, around one in six couples struggle to conceive. In about 30 to 50 per cent of cases, the issue lies with the male partner. The numbers are similar for women. Yet women are routinely sent for multiple rounds of blood tests, internal ultrasounds, dye studies, and in some cases, even surgery, all before a semen analysis is even considered.

So why does this still happen? A big part of it comes down to outdated assumptions, stereotypes and stigma. 

"When couples experience infertility, it's astonishing how reflexively the medical gaze turns to the woman — often sending her down a rabbit hole of blood tests, ultrasounds, hormonal profiling, and even surgery before anyone even asks the man for a simple semen sample," said Obstetrician and Gynaecologist, Associate Professor Vinay S. Rane.

"This is despite the fact that male factor infertility is just as common, accounting for around 40 per cent of cases, either on its own or in combination with female factors."

Part of the reason is what Professor Rane describes as "historical inertia". 

"Women are already engaged with reproductive health services, so they become the default point of entry," he explained. 

"Also, the discussion around fertility is often instigated by the woman. You'd be surprised how often my fertility appointments are attended only by the woman."

From a clinical perspective, Professor Rane says this is not only unfair, but also inefficient. 

"Semen analysis is cheap, quick, painless, and non-invasive — think of it as the blood pressure check of fertility medicine. It doesn't require hormones, stirrups, sedation, or a particular time in the cycle," he said.

"Meanwhile, women are often subjected to invasive tubal patency testing, cycle tracking, or even laparoscopic surgery, while a male factor goes undiagnosed.

"We generally find that having a baby is a team effort and this should be the same right from the investigation phase. Early, parallel assessment is best."

Feature image: Getty.