Pregnancy After Trying to Conceive for Nearly 2 Years

Content alert: This post contains frank and personal stories concerning the process of trying to conceive and stay pregnant. (Related post: My Fertility Journey)

When I was pregnant with West (who is now 4 years old), I couldn’t wait to share the news with our friends, family and online community. This time around has been quite different— just like the pregnancy itself.

I tried to conceive for nearly two years. I’m sure that there were a few months along the way during which Adam and I missed my ovulation window, but there were also months when we saw signs of early pregnancies that didn’t last. I had negative and positive pregnancy tests. I experienced a few instances of bleeding that nurses and I suspected were implantation bleeding (which I had with West). There were months with no periods, months with weeks-long bleeding, and the corresponding hormonal & physical fluctuations. 

I had normal FSH levels / test results for my age, and my incredible doctor informed me that there was no discernible reason that I couldn’t conceive. I had anxiety of course— who hasn’t this year? I was 38… then I turned 39… and the months kept rolling by.

During this time, many women kindly reached out to me with stories of what worked for them when they were trying to conceive. Some individuals encouraged me to change my diet (we’re vegetarians), others suggested particular vitamins, and some recommended hormone creams. I appreciated the intention and time behind each and every message. But I made the personal decision to simply listen to my body and let it guide the way. 

Eventually, I felt like perhaps I should interpret my body’s signals as a sign for me to fully accept second infertility. 

Above: Details from the Cottage nursery in 2016, photographed by Kat Borchart.

I stopped wearing my ovulation tracking bracelet. I enjoyed learning from the insights it provided, and am glad I used it as long as I did. But eventually the act of putting on / taking off the bracelet began to feel hopeless, so I thanked it for what it taught me— particularly about my sleep habits — and tucked the bracelet away in my dopp kit. 

In August, we decided to take a quiet, very COVID-cautious, week-long road trip to visit my sister’s family in Boise. We packed up our little old Honda Fit, buckled in West and the pups, and drove 800+ miles in the blazing sun in order to get out of our bubble for the first time since February. (I didn’t mention the trip on Instagram. I wanted it to be all about family— not work. And I didn’t want to contribute to normalizing travel during the pandemic.) 

We believe it was on this trip that I got pregnant with the new life that’s now inside of me. 

I hadn’t stopped eating a vegetarian diet, nor did I add any supplements to my routine (beyond continuing my prenatals). I didn’t take any hormones either. I experienced no implantation bleeding this time. Instead, my first signs were the common symptoms felt around week 6, such as fatigue, tenderness, nausea.  

Above: The Cottage closet nursery in 2016.

Weirdly enough, it was a random symptom — congestion — that nudged me out of bed at 1 o’clock at night while my family slept, and prompted me to go buy a pregnancy test at a 24-hour pharmacy. While I was at the store, I made an atypical purchase; a tiny toy construction set for West. I had a feeling that Adam and I would be distracted by the test results in the morning, and I didn’t want our then-3 year old, who’d fallen asleep between us in the “family bed” that night, feeling overlooked. 

The moment I returned home, I took the test. 

When the “YES +” appeared, I felt a wave of enormous joy. Then, moments later, I experienced a crash of fears. I decided to sit in those feelings by myself until Adam awoke 5 hours later.

When West began to stir, I decided to activate the camera on my phone and let it run, thinking it might be delightful to catch Adam’s reaction to the test. More than twenty minutes passed, and by then I forgot that the camera was running. When Adam opened his eyes, I handed the test to West and asked him if he wouldn’t mind passing it along to his father. When Adam realized what he was looking it, his eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open in disbelief. (It had been about a year since we’d last seen a positive test.) Despite the worry pressing in on me, I couldn’t help but laugh. And, since I’d forgotten about the camera, I promptly sat up right in front of it.  

Turns out that the miniature construction set was a good call. West was thrilled with that surprise, as Adam and I were thrilled with the other. 

I’m now well into my second trimester— a welcome relief after the first, which was unforgiving. Not only is my pregnancy labeled as a Geriatric (as it was with West), but it’s also now labeled as Elderly Multigravida. 

So far, all medical tests indicate that the baby is healthy and on track. But every time I feel round ligament pain, I desperately hope that’s all it is. Every time I use the restroom, I hold my breath and check for signs of disruption. Every time an unpleasant pregnancy symptom vanishes, relief is accompanied by a parallel panic. 

To the women out there who are trying to conceive and/or who have suffered loss - I am holding you with me tightly, every day. 

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*A note on privilege: During my pregnancy and birth with West and now, I’ve have the privilege of safe and respectful maternity care. Access, along with the opportunity and space be heard in order to best achieve a healthy outcome for mother and child is by no means a given for every woman in America.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported that “Black mothers in the U.S. die at three to four times the rate of white mothers, one of the widest of all racial disparities in women's health.” (NPR)

According to Every Mother Counts: “Chronic stress and systemic and interpersonal racism contribute to a higher risk of complications and death for women of color. The number of women who die giving birth in America each year has nearly doubled in the last two decades, and over half of all maternal deaths in the U.S. can be prevented.“

My journey will always include working towards dismantling the systemic racism that robs Black women and women of color from potentially having the same wonderful experience with their baby/babies as I had with West.

Growing Our Family

We’d begun to settle into the belief that it wouldn’t happen... and now here we are— guarded, bewildered, and steeped in gratitude.

Our four year old knows that sometime in spring he’ll become a big brother. To our relief and delight, he’s jubilant, though he has also confessed to being “a little nervous.” (So are we, sweet one. So are we.) 

I have much more to write about this experience thus far, along with our plans and my thoughts on fear, loss and privilege... but I’ll save all that for after the election. Our vote is our voice— let’s be heard, loud and clear.

Related posts:
My Fertility Journey
My Voting Plan

My Fertility Journey

Content alert: This post contains frank and personal stories concerning the process of trying to conceive and stay pregnant.

Yet another month gone by, and I’m still unable to become (or remain) pregnant.

We’ve now been trying for a year and a half. At first, I began the journey with optimistic caution. At 34 years old, we conceived West on the very first try, and it was my first pregnancy ever. The entire experience — including labor — was positive. I knew then how lucky I was. I know it still. (More on that further down in this post.)

In the past 18 months, I’ve had:

• negative and positive pregnancy tests

• bleeding that my doctor and I suspected was implantation bleeding (which I experienced with West)

• months with no periods

• months with weeks-long bleeding

• normal FSH levels / test results for my age

• hormonal & physical fluctuations 

I’m sure that there have been a few months along the way during which we missed my ovulation window. I routinely wore an Ava bracelet to track my cycle, but life still gets in the way sometimes, and that’s okay. (Click here to view my post about intimacy in a small space.)

But the mental and physical rollercoaster of trying to conceive (and the unsuccessful starts) takes a toll of sorts. There are the changes in the body (some visible, some not), the extra careful monitoring of everything consumed, the dramatic dips in energy, and, ultimately, the heartbreaking disappointments. 

I’ve modified my diet, the contents of our medicine cabinet, and even my wardrobe to accommodate the ride. I now sticking almost entirely to clothing that adapts comfortably to the dramatic waistline inches gained and lost over the months, including pants that accommodate the fluctuations while still being appropriate for business video conference calls and bike rides with my son and dogs at a moment’s notice. (This might seem like a silly detail, but every single time I get dressed I’m somehow reminded of my inability to get or stay pregnant, as well as the need to keep my company going during this pandemic while also still being present with my family. To me, it’s a meaningful consideration, even if it’s a minor one.)

It’s a challenge to discern which emotions are a result of my fertility journey, and which are a result of the pandemic, running a small business, and renting in an expensive city. It all adds up to a tangle of anxiety. 

I’ll keep my head up, even during the days that are particularly draining and bleak. Our little family has so much privilege, along with everything we need— we have to pay that forward.

It’s my duty to focus daily on being an anti-racist, raising a feminist and anti-racist child, advocating for voting rights, and fighting for human rights and environmental justice every step of the way. 

Throughout my pregnancy and on the day I was ready to deliver West, I had the privilege of safe and respectful maternity care. It wasn’t perfect— there were points at which I believe the hospital got it wrong. For example, some of the medical staff tried to hurry me into having a Caesarean section since my contractions didn’t progress quickly after my water broke, but I had access to a doula team that advocated hard on my behalf for a vaginal delivery without an epidural. This sort of access, along with the opportunity and space be heard, and the successful outcome is by no means a given for every woman in America.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported that “Black mothers in the U.S. die at three to four times the rate of white mothers, one of the widest of all racial disparities in women's health.” (NPR)

According to Every Mother Counts: “Chronic stress and systemic and interpersonal racism contribute to a higher risk of complications and death for women of color. The number of women who die giving birth in America each year has nearly doubled in the last two decades, and over half of all maternal deaths in the U.S. can be prevented.“

My fertility journey includes working towards dismantling the systemic racism that robs Black women and women of color from potentially having the same wonderful experience with their baby/babies as I had with our lil’ West.

The fight for equitable maternity care is one to engage in every day until quality healthcare is accessible and provided for all mothers. And as for my physical struggle to conceive… well, I’m 39, so it’s still very much within the scope of possibility, but I’m coming to terms with the fact that West might never have a sibling beyond our pups, StanLee & Sophee. (For reasons I’m not yet ready to discuss publicly, we aren’t currently considering IVF or adoption.)

Just when I start to feel overwhelmed with disappointment, West intuitively swoops in and reminds me of my overflowing gratitude for this lil’ family, home and life.