Trying to Conceive or Achieve?

TTC. If it took you longer than five minutes to get pregnant, you surely came across this cute little acronym. There are entire books, blogs, internet forums, YouTube videos, and apps devoted to it. I should know; I read all of them.

Trying to conceive my first child was comically easy. My husband and I wanted a baby and a month later, without much fanfare, I was pregnant. I feel guilty even saying that we “tried” to conceive because aside from slightly increasing the amount of sex we were having (we were newlyweds at the time so there was plenty of that happening anyway), the effort was minimal. I didn’t track my cycle or use ovulation sticks or take supplements. I didn’t take my temperature or check my cervical position. I didn’t abstain from alcohol or caffeine. I didn’t do anything but hope. And that seemed to be enough.

It was so easy to get pregnant the first time that I was convinced I was some sort of fertile goddess. Those first few years after my son arrived, when we were definitely not ready for any more babies, I went to great lengths to avoid pregnancy.

So once we were open to try again, right around my son’s third birthday, all I did was remove my NuvaRing and hope. Those first few months were full of so much hope and anticipation. I was giddy with the prospect of being pregnant again. We even tried to time it to the exact season I’d give birth. Our first was a spring baby and I thrived as a new mom in the warming weather. My maternity leave fell into the better part of summer so I spent much of it at the beach, sitting under an umbrella with a sleeping newborn in my arms. It was bliss. I was looking forward to a repeat, except this time I’d also have a toddler building sand castles next to me.

By the third month of TTC, I downloaded an app that would tell me my most fertile days and started using the ovulation predictor kits my friends had touted. I was still pretty “chill” about it; I had no reason not to be.

The fourth month is when my Type A, control freak personality started to really shine. I spent hours perusing TTC message boards for tips and tricks from women who had been in my position. My Google search history was a desperate list of key words such as “signs of ovulation” and “chances of getting pregnant after 30” and “sperm meets egg method.” I ordered an absurd amount of vitamins and supplements from Amazon based on the recommendations of complete strangers from the internet (who were not medical professionals). I made sure to never go more than two days without having sex with my husband, whether he liked it or not. And when a 5-day business trip came up that happened to fall into my fertile window, I cried actual tears and considered telling my boss I couldn’t go.

I decided that my body simply wasn’t “balanced” enough so I started to see a holistic chiropractor and an acupuncturist. I removed wheat, dairy, sugar, and meat from my diet. I went through my entire house and replaced anything with toxins with its natural counterpart. I shopped exclusively at Whole Foods. I was hungry and moody and kind of smelly (turns out organic deodorant just doesn’t cut it for me). I no longer felt like a fertile goddess.

After six months of stark white pregnancy tests, and only three periods, I called my doctor, explaining that I was doing everything “right” yet I hadn’t gotten a single positive ovulation test and my cycles were getting longer and longer. She asked when my last period was and I checked my app. It had been 55 days and I had taken no less than 20 pregnancy tests. My body wasn’t menstruating or ovulating or conceiving; it wasn’t doing anything but wasting my time and I was on a schedule, goddammit. She referred to me to a reproductive endocrinologist (RE).

“It might take you a little while to get an appointment but in the meantime, I’d encourage you to relax. It’s only been six months and you’re 34. You’ve got time,” she said.

But the thing is, that infuriating old adage about the biological clock tick, tick, ticking away had never felt more true. I didn’t feel like time was on my side at all. I felt like maybe my time had already run out. I felt sad and desperate and broken. Every time I watched my son play by himself, it was a painful reminder that I was unable to give him the lifelong playmate he so obviously needed.

My initial consultation with the RE brought more bad news. After an uncomfortable and invasive internal exam, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome.

The RE, while compassionate and kind, was also a straight shooter, delivering the facts: women with my condition usually only ovulated a few times a year. And even if I ovulated, that still only gave me a 25% chance of conceiving. I asked how I’d conceived my son so easily and she said it was a “lucky fluke” and that my chances of conceiving naturally again were “low.” But she also said I had options. She named a few fertility medications, as well as procedures, that I could look into. I had six vials of blood drawn and scheduled a follow-up appointment. The nurse who drew my blood told me I had “lots more needles in my future.” When I got into my car, I sobbed.

For my whole life, I was taught that if you try really hard and put in the work, you’ll get what you want. I’m ambitious by nature. I’ve set my sights on some lofty goals – graduate school, getting published, job promotions – and achieved it all through determination, discipline, and focus. I was used to trying and succeeding. Sure, I had experienced some failures along the way but nothing that ever truly took me off the course I had set for myself. I followed the same formula over and over – make a plan, set a goal, work your ass off, and achieve it.

I had never tried harder at anything than I did when I tried to conceive my second child. And I had never felt like a bigger failure.

In a weird twist of fate, three weeks after my appointment with the RE, I had appendicitis and an emergency appendectomy. Following surgery, the surgeon informed me that after he removed my appendix, he found an enormous ovarian cyst. Tell me something I don’t already know, Doc. He gave me the name of a gynecologist who specialized in polycystic ovarian syndrome whom he encouraged me to see after I had healed. He also told me to pump the brakes on trying to conceive. My body had to be given time to rest; the last thing it needed was the added stress of pregnancy.

Great. Fantastic. Super. More months passed and I remained very much not pregnant. I grew despondent and depressed, becoming obsessed with the potential age gap between my son and his future sibling. I cried daily.

My body healed and we tried again. I got my period almost immediately. It lasted for weeks. Nothing about my body felt normal and I had fresh new scars from an abdominal surgery. I hated myself. We were on our tenth month of TTC and it was starting to affect my mental health. I found a therapist and decided, for my own sanity, to take a break from trying. My husband was intensely relieved – both that I was talking to someone (else) about it and that our sex life no longer had to follow a rigid schedule. I have to admit, having sex only when I was in the mood to have sex was revolutionary and extremely satisfying after nearly a year of robotic, timed intercourse. 10 out of 10 would recommend.

I met with the OBGYN the appendectomy surgeon had recommended. We decided that I’d start Clomid, a medication that forces ovulation, on my next cycle. I left that appointment with a renewed sense of hope. Once again, I had a plan. I thrive on plans.

Little did I know that I was actually six weeks pregnant.

The only reason I even took a pregnancy test was because our family was headed on vacation and I knew I’d want a glass of wine (or three) with dinner each night of the trip. When I saw the second pink line show up immediately, I started to hyperventilate. There was just no way. We were taking a break. The only day I could have conceived was day 27 of my cycle. Who ovulates on day 27?! Apparently I do.

I’m currently 20 weeks along. Sometimes I honestly still can’t believe it. If this has taught me anything, it’s that for a long time I confused trying to conceive with trying to achieve. I was very unkind and unfair to myself during the dark time when I couldn’t get pregnant, allowing myself little to no grace when I so greatly deserved it. It seems no coincidence that as soon as I let go of controlling the situation, my body simply did was it was made to do.

However, I don’t like telling people that I nearly lost my mind TTC and ended up conceiving on the one month I wasn’t trying at all. I don’t like telling people because I can’t even count the number of times I was told “just relax” and “it’ll happen when it’s meant to happen.” Telling a woman who desperately wants to get pregnant to relax is like telling a toddler not to fart in public – it’s shitty.

What I know now that I did not understand for all those desperate months is that if you’re a woman just like me – a control freak who feels like she has lost all control over her body – you are not a failure. These things are not in our hands; they never were. There is absolutely no correlation between your value as a human being and your ability to conceive a human being. Please don’t forget that, Mama.

– Kaysie, Woman of a Certain Grace