Try and Try Again: My Struggles with Infertility the Second Time Around
I have the worst zit on my chin. It just sits there. It’s been growing bigger and redder the past two days. It’s a painful indication that I’ve failed once again. Then the 4 AM insomnia and sweating confirmed it. I’m not pregnant. Again. For the eleventh time.
Trying to get pregnant the second time around has been a lot harder than we expected. When we conceived our daughter 2.5 years ago, it happened immediately. The most thought we put into it was downloading a period-tracking app. This time around, it has been monthly cycles starting with a few weeks of optimism, followed by some weeks of hope with sprinkles of desperation, then topped off with disappointment and defeat.
The first two months that we tried and didn’t succeed in pregnancy, my thoughts were calm and calculated. I thought I could simply go out and buy some ovulation sticks and that would take care of that problem. But, when that didn’t produce a pregnancy, I did the next best thing I could do to control the situation and I emailed my doctor. I explained that we had tried 3 times, but I was still breastfeeding, but I was also going to acupuncture regularly. He wrote back to stop breastfeeding and get in touch again in 3 months if we were not successful.
I wasn’t ready to stop breastfeeding so suddenly. It just seemed so selfish to take away the one thing that my body made specifically to give to my daughter. And what if I took it away and it didn’t produce a pregnancy? So instead of going cold turkey with breastfeeding, I turned to Amazon to provide me with the instant comfort of “control”: I bought a basal body temperature thermometer and what looked like an encyclopedia of women’s fertility.
Once they arrived, I took daily temperatures, looked for signs and patterns, downloaded 3 more apps, documented changing body symptoms (hello huge zit, my old friend), continued acupuncture, drank disgusting herbs, and gave myself pep talks for weaning strategies. As the next two months went by, I felt it was all okay, because I had one last trick up my sleeve: I could just stop breastfeeding and that would restore my hormones and my fertility. All the while, I consumed myself in numbers, patterns, and signs; all of which just added strength to the hurricane of information blowing through our lives.
Sometimes the numbers would come too late, like the rising body temperature after ovulation had already happened. But, the worst was when the numbers would tell me my period was coming before it arrived. I tried to convince myself there was something I could do to stop it from coming, some way to hold it in. I really believed in this “holding in” idea, not in a cross-my-legs kind of way, more in a willpower kind of way. I thought I could stay positive by hoping for a miracle or a long shot and that would be enough to hold it in. I didn’t see all the negativity surrounding me, the negativity in the temperatures, the peeing on sticks, the reading of all the possible problems and issues, the emotional drain from the fixation and constant search for an unattainable rein of control.
By the 5th month, it was time to pull out that final trick. I was sure this would work. My daughter was 18 months old, and she was down to one breastfeeding session a day. She didn’t even seem to notice when I stopped the night feedings. She was ready. I was ready for the monthly repeated frustrations and disappointments to come to an end and for my fertility to feel like it was under my control.
By the time we got through weaning, the sticks told me it was time to try again. I felt optimistic and pretty much certain. This had to be the trick. Something had to give. I just had a “feeling”, this was the thing to make it happen.
But it wasn’t. The day of my period on that 6th month felt devastating. I felt stuck. We were in uncharted territory. We had tried everything that we could possibly try in the past 6 months and since I was in the 36–40 year-old bracket, the next most logical step was to contact my doctor again. My fear was that going in to see him would set us off down this path of serious testing and hormonal treatments. As someone in the last few months of my 40s, I was dreading hearing about my dwindling egg production and overall decreased fertility. I wanted positivity, I wanted certainty and security.
For the first time in 6 months, I cried when I got my period. I felt lost and discouraged. So discouraged that I wondered why I had ever started down such a disappointing path. It was only bringing me heartache. A few hours later, I texted a friend: a strong, dedicated, determined, generous, positive friend. She reminded me of what she often reminds me, to do it anyway. Be sad in the moment, but then, shift to productivity. It was time to move forward without attachment to the outcome. What I was after was coming to me, just in a different way than I had expected. It was time to drop expectations (and that encyclopedia of women’s health issues that kept informing me of women’s health issues), and leave behind my plan.
I had been avoiding going to see my doctor because I feared hearing the results of my fertility. I didn’t want to know what I had already heard: after 38, fertility drops dramatically. I didn’t want to receive negative information, I only wanted to hear the positive. I feared that if I heard the truth, it would somehow seal my fate and label me infertile forever.
The desire for some certainty after months of hopefulness rollercoasters was enough to get me to make the appointment. I needed information. I just needed to quiet the bully in my head for long enough so that I could receive the information. The only way to get through the appointment was to take in the information without judgement, and just see it for what it is: information. My labeling of the results was what created the positivity or negativity. I finally saw that I had created my own negativity.
In the meantime, I found consolation in the purchase of some unmedicated fertility teas. I ditched the encyclopedia of fertility and the basal body temperature thermometer. They did not bring me joy. My husband came home with an Ava bracelet and I synced the data to his phone so I couldn’t obsessively check my fertility. It was useful information, but I needed to detach from the obsession and dread caused by the thermometer. The Ava bracelet offered a new perspective with less effort. I was back up on that “top of the month” high, full of hope, thinking that “this” would do it. This would be the thing. I imagined that feeling of irony knowing we had just spent money on this new fertility bracelet and spend the time to go to the doctor and wouldn’t you know it… “poof”! I would be pregnant before the doctor could even could give us the results of the fertility bloodwork.
The good news was that my numbers all came back “normal”. The bad news was that I was 39 and my doctor was certain to remind me. The super bad news was by the 7th time I got my period, my sadness shifted to anger. It all felt so unfair. We had conceived so easily the first time. What were we doing wrong this time? What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I do this? I tried to control it and failed. I tried to give up control and failed too. I was just fed up and pissed. We could try and try and time it and plan it, and it still made no guarantee that pregnancy would happen. I felt like my hope had lied to me. It had been stringing me along and now here I was with nothing to show for it except feeling like a fool for believing.
I went into month 8, with less of an attachment to the outcome. But, then, there I was, staring down my old friend, big zit, in the mirror, fully aware of the following week’s emotional crash. I was at a crossroads. Do I continue this roller coaster of hope/reality with its extreme highs and lows or do I just accept it? This might not happen. I might not get pregnant again. As much as I desperately want to create another human together with my husband, as much as I think that child would complete our home, as much as I think that our home could provide love and happiness for that child, that child might never come. I’m overwhelmed by that sadness. It pours out my eyes faster than the thoughts can come to stop them. It’s the sadness I’ve been avoiding, rejecting, denying. It’s like I’m saying goodbye to a child I’ve never concieved or carried. I don’t want to stop holding this child, my hope child. I don’t want to give up my hope. But how is it possible to hold onto my hopes when grief is so deep?
The next week, I was told my progesterone was too low to support a pregnancy. I was devastated. Now, I identified myself as a woman with “fertility issues”. I continued further down the grief path. I was a failure and I had a label: infertile. When my doctor emailed me after a week of agony waiting for his explanation, he offered me Clomid, the classic fertility drug. My fertility fears had been manifested into real life. While Clomid is a wonderful drug for many women, I have strong depressive and anxious reactions to medications involving hormones. The use of hormonal treatments would have to take some serious soul searching. Would I be willing to sacrifice my body and my mind for a new life? The fear below all fertility fears was that if I started with Clomid, an entry level fertility drug, it would set me on a predetermined path for IVF. And the worst fear of all was that I would not be able to handle the hormonal stress implications of IVF.
A good friend told me it was time for a second opinion from another doctor, so I found two: a homeopathic doctor and a different OB who specialized in more natural conception approaches. The waitlist was long, but by some 40th birthday miracle, I was gifted an appointment within two weeks. The OB suspected and confirmed that I had insulin resistance. This resistance was impacting my hormones and my ability to ovulate. Although I didn’t have PCOS (polycystic ovary syndrome), I had PCO, a milder form. My body was trying and trying every month to ovulate and just couldn’t because of the hormone imbalance.
I should have flipped out when I heard the news. I should have cried. I should have felt despair and loss and further failure. I didn’t. Not one bit. I felt my left hand tingle with energy, the way it had when I held my dad’s arm on his deathbed. He was close by, supporting me as I received this news. I’m sure of it.
I went home energized. I not only identified the problem, but also the root cause. I could heal my body with diet, vitamins, and exercise. A week later a dermatologist (without knowing I was changing my diet) told me the same diet would fix my eczema. Everything was lining up. Everything was shifted now. This was about getting my body back, not about getting pregnant. I felt relieved and free. Even if we never conceive, I had found something I could do to better my body and extend my life with my family.
So, I wish this story had a positive ending you’re likely expecting. Like, now it’s 5 months after I actually wrote this and *surprise* I’m actually pregnant. I’m not. But, in all the hopelessness, sadness, worry and grief, I have found space for gratitude. I’m so grateful to have discovered what my body needs. I was completely unknowingly headed on a path to diabetes and now I’m on a path to healing. I’m free from wondering why I can’t lose weight on classic diets. I’m free from the pain of relentless eczema. Even my mind feels free from the relentless anxiety that typically floods my brain day after day. And regardless of the outcome, I’m free from worry that I can’t conceive again. Instead, I have resilience. I have a lot of gratitude for that.
Recently, I’ve had some friends tell me they are pregnant again for the second time including two very close friends. I thought that I would be pissed at my body (or at the very least, jealous of their pregnancies). I was genuinely filled with joy and excitement for them. I think about them, and from time to time, a quiet voice pops in my mind just to remind me that I’m struggling to do this for myself. I wallow for a second and then, I soak in their joy and gratitude. I breathe it straight into my heart.
Since I started my fertility diet, I’ve had two more periods. The last two periods I chalked up to being a wash with all the new dietary changes. Last night, I woke up at 3 AM feeling very hot. Thank you insomnia and hot flashes for indicating so clearly that I’m now anticipating my 11th period. As another month goes by, I’m ready to stop clinging so closely to my hope. I realize I have been using hope to ward off the deep pain that would be uncovered if I admitted that it just might not happen, that we might not conceive. My hopes have been the one hurting me and letting me down every month. It was the reason why month after month I would imagine myself feeling so surprised, excited and relieved this recurring deviation, self-defeat and exhaustion would finally all be over. If I just focused hard enough, stayed positive long enough, I could manifest this pregnancy. The ovulation sticks strengthened my hopes with its false positives month after month letting me believe I was ovulating when I wasn’t. Friends and professionals meant well, but they also reinforced my hopes by trying to comfort me with comments that this was all normal, I was normal, it would happen, just relax, just give it time.
I heard on an Oprah Super Soul Podcast once that our “lower-case-h” hopes are things you imagine to be true and that “capital-H” Hope, true hope, is being open to receiving the unimaginable. I didn’t realize that I had this “lower case-h” hope, this band-aid hope playing tricks, telling me this will be the month, that there will be some miracle and it will happen if I just “don’t expect it”. This month, I told myself, the miracle would be the anniversary of my dad’s death. Maybe he could send me this baby as his gift of comfort. I talked myself back out of that one and then my imagination sneaked my hopes right back in. I heard that small whispering voice telling me, “nah, it really will happen this month, don’t worry.” I thought that trying to imagine the future would manifest it for me. And then every period that came just indicated that I didn’t believe hard enough, making it my fault it didn’t happen. What a vicious cycle. So, I’ve decided. I’m relieving my hope from its false sense of duty to set optimistic expectations every month. Holding onto these expectations is what’s breaking my heart.
Instead, I’m grieving. I am grieving the loss of this unconceived child. I am grieving the loss of the body I once knew, the one I could count on to bounce back. I am grieving the loss of control I have over any of this. This grief is heavy. It’s been building up silently behind these walls of false hope. This grief is hard, and it’s dark and it’s loud and overwhelming. And it’s sad. It’s so so so sad to imagine this child might not happen. It’s surrounded in guilt, and feelings of worthlessness and shame. It’s no wonder I have been avoiding this place. It’s depressing in here.
But, don’t worry. Even in all this darkness, somehow the sun keeps rising every day. My life is happening every day. Even while I have all this grief, I’m still creating space to receive the unimaginable. I’m not entirely sure how to do this, so I start by breathing in the sunshine. I’m sending my heart that joy I know my pregnant friends have. I’m breathing in the love and gratitude that I found during my toughest moments. I can feel it in the spring air of a summer walk. I hear it in the ocean waves crashing on the beach. I see it on my family’s faces as I hug and kiss them goodnight. I smell it on my daughter’s head as she sleeps and I breathe it in straight to my heart. I focus on the things that bring me joy, right here, right now. I trust that I have set my pregnancy intention and that I may find my path to it. I might not either and even so, I will still be whole. I will still have all that joy, love and gratitude I will have breathed in and what a gift that is. So no more avoiding this sadness. Instead, I sit in it, talk about it, write about it, then fill up my heart again and again and again.
If you are reading this and you are trying to conceive, I want you to know that I see you. I see you struggling, suffering, grieving, soaking in the joy of others. I read your stories on the “women’s health” app’s blogs. I see your rainbow and baby face emojis, and I know your loss must be deeper than mine at this point. But I’m glad to see you’re not alone. Somehow, when we’re together, the reminders to life’s joys are not as hard to find. So, thank you for holding space when I felt alone, providing that punch of reality when I needed it and for escorting me to this space now where I’m grateful, this space where I recognize my resilience, and where I’m practicing sending my heart love and joy daily. I know now that even during my toughest days, there is still space to breathe, space to see my strength and space to open up to receiving the unimaginable. I hope this for you too, because no matter what, there is space for us to be whole. Even if this doesn’t happen.
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