Stop trying

What happened when I actually let go

We decided to stop trying. It had been four months. Four months that were beginning to feel arduous. Four months of fastidiously tracking my cycle, timing intimacy for when we thought I was most fertile, and hoping the blood would not come. January, February, March, April. Every time it came, my heart sank. We had built an altar, we were saying prayers, we were singing and talking to the baby, We’re ready for you. We can’t wait to meet you. Please, please, if you’re ready, come down.

I’d had concerns about my fertility for years. My cycle has never been regular, and I’ve never gotten even accidentally pregnant before. I finally told a friend in April, “I’m worried maybe I can’t conceive.” We had been trying, and really trying, for four months at that point. The book I was using as a guide told me: If you’ve practiced the fertility awareness method for 6 cycles and still have not conceived, you should see your doctor.

After I bled in April, we decided, let’s give it a break. Clearly it’s not meant to happen now. We don’t want to force this. We learned early on in our relationship that trusting and following what we now call “The Flow Principle” (i.e. don’t force what doesn’t want to happen, listen to what life is telling you, respond accordingly) generally leads to more ease and better outcomes.

It was a relief to stop. To settle into more time together, to return to the original plan of waiting to start a family until after I’d gotten my independent social work license, and to relax into enjoying the freedom and space we have in our lives without a baby on the scene.

When my period didn’t come in May, I was unsurprised. Like I said, I’ve never had a regular cycle. I kept taking my temperature, though. The book said, “After your temperature has gone up (post ovulation), if it stays elevated for 18 days or more, that means you’re pregnant.” Day 16, then day 17 came, and my morning temperature was still high. We had a pregnancy test leftover from the months of trying, and I told Andrew, “If it’s still high tomorrow, I’m gonna take this thing, just to see.” It seemed highly unlikely, but there was a chance.

Day 18 was Sunday, June 9. Sure enough, my temperature was still high. It was 5am. I got up, shaking, unwrapped the pregnancy test, and held it under myself, counting to five as I peed. The results showed up immediately. The first line filled in, the one that means “Pregnant.” I called to Andrew. “I think it says it’s positive!” feeling like I was about to cry. Shock, disbelief, and something I can describe as nothing other than the Fear of God.

Andrew stumbled into the bathroom, his eyes still bleary from sleep. “What?!” His response was immediate delight, wonder, awe. He laughed with astonishment, and we both looked at the thing, saying over and over, “Oh, my god.” We lay back down in bed, holding one another, is a mixture of giddiness and disbelief. “Are you actually pregnant?! Are we about to have a baby?!” I felt the fear slowly give way to joy. Yes. This is what I want. This is what I’ve been praying for. It was a similar sensation to the first time I ever took ayahuasca (whose effects can take hours to set in.) After I’d drunk the cup of medicine and lay back down on my mat, vibrating with anticipation, What’s about to happen to me? I’m on the rollercoaster now, and I hope my seatbelt’s fastened.

The rollercoaster, as it turns out, has been just that. No less than a few days after we found out, the big bad wolf of the first trimester, who I now call my good friend Nausea, was knocking at my door. To add some spice to the mix, we were slated to fly out to California for a friend’s wedding that week, and I was in rough shape. I’m proud of myself for getting through it, taking it day by day and caring for myself as best I could, but flying across the country, camping, hiking and wedding-ing in the High Sierra at four weeks pregnant is not an experience I would recommend or wish upon anyone.

When we got home, a historic heat wave was waiting for us. Weeks of temperatures in the high 80s and 90s with devastating humidity. It turns out heat and nausea don’t mix well. At all. The month of July was a total blow-out. I could hardly stay upright at work for more than an hour, had to come home and lie down and would just pass out for hours in the dark, all the fans in the house on full-blast, lying on the trifold mattress on the floor. Rose the dog got very few afternoon walks that month and was a total queen, panting by my side.

It was hard to stay connected to the joy and wonder of a new life growing within me during those brutal weeks when my baseline physical state was one of such relentless physical discomfort. I tried to tell myself, This is preparation for the pain of labor. This is getting me ready for the trials of motherhood. But mostly what I told myself was, This fucking sucks. I was ravenous, with a near-insatiable appetite, and instead of the fun cravings I had heard many women get in pregnancy, I felt repulsed by most foods. Aware that I needed to be taking in nutrient-dense nourishment to feed my body and the baby’s, I agonized over the fact that vegetables made me feel sick to even think about.

To make things even trickier, Andrew got sick around the same time that my symptoms intensified and was in his own world of discomfort while I languished in mine. As much as we tried, it was hard to support one another as we were in simultaneously compromised states.

After three straight weeks of nausea without reprieve, I wrote in my journal, “I am beginning to despair. I am struggling. I hope this changes soon.”

And just like that, it did. Right around the time I hit week 12, the clouds parted. The nausea and debilitating fatigue lifted. We had our first ultrasound and could see the baby, not that they looked very much like a baby on the screen yet, but there was definitely a little wriggly creature moving around inside my womb. Seeing the pulsing of their little heart, seeing their erratic watery dance as they flipped and squirmed, I felt my breath and my words fall away. Tears. My child.

One of the blessings of this chapter has been how powerfully connected to the truth I feel, all of a sudden. I can’t pretend I don’t feel the way I feel. I’m less afraid of saying what’s true, even if it doesn’t sound good. It’s a little frightening. And it also feels amazing.

While I was really struggling there, it was near impossible for me to care about my work. And I felt no qualms about being honest with my colleagues and supervisor. One day, I sat in the office of a colleague, telling her point blank that I was struggling to find it in myself to “give a shit” about my work at the clinic, as I felt all my energy completely focused on the vortex at the center of my being. The meaning I had previously found in my counseling work seemed totally inaccessible in the moment. She looked at me kindly and said, “Well, you’re creating life. This is the most important thing you’ll ever do. It makes sense that nothing else would really matter to you right now.”

Miraculously, I have now passed through the gauntlet of the first trimester and am breezily sailing through the second trimester, which I’ve heard described as “glowy” and “wonderful,” and I am thrilled to report that I am starting to feel the magic of it, myself. An inexplicable feeling of contentment has come over me, and many days I find myself in a good mood that has no traceable origin point. My energy is up again. I am inspired to make lots of yummy and nutritious meals (vegetables and I are cool again, thank god), and Andrew’s also feeling better so we are able to delight in this moment together. We’ve been playing tennis, going to CrossFit on the weekends, exploring the beaches of Maine. We had a week-long staycation Baby Moon, some luxurious, slow time to revel in our togetherness before our little one arrives. I’m also back at work this week, and am pleased to report that I have found the wherewithal to give a shit again. I’ve been connecting with other mothers and mothers-to-be, enjoying the changes in my body, and am generally stoked on the whole pregnancy thing. Music and writing have had less appeal these past two months, and for the first time in my life, I’m not experiencing any guilt or crisis of identity for not having “made anything” in over two months. Because I am “making something.” Something called a baby.