Content warning: This essay addresses infertility and addiction.
This all starts with love.
When we were 10, we met in 6th grade homeroom. Damien sat in the next row over, and two seats behind me. His surfer boy hair. His big beautiful smile. His sweet demeanor. I fell in love with him instantly. I had 2 secret nicknames for him: Pizza and Bigfoot. My friends and I would use the code names when writing notes to each other, and every day I wrote “I <3 Pizza” on my hand.
When we were 17, we shared a three-way kiss at a house party.
When we were 23, we made out (and stuff) for reals for the first time.
It was electrifying. And we didn’t stop for a few months … then a year.
When we were 25, we shared the loss of one of our most treasured friends and we were inseparable from then on.
Together we navigated Damien’s recovery from 8 years of being addicted to Percocet. We learned how to be honest with each other and with ourselves. We learned how to trust. How to hold soft, loving space for each other. We learned how to be bold with one another. We learned, together, how to grow. And we have grown in so many incredible ways.
I never wanted kids. Well, let me rephrase.
I always wanted kids, but was terrified I’d be a bad mother, or that the world was just too f—ed up, or that they’d be born and grow up and resent me for bringing them into this world.
I wanted kids but I was terrified. Petrified.
And yet, once Damien accomplished getting clean and we bought a house, we stopped using protection when we had sex, and we thought “well, if it happens then it’s meant to be.” After 3 years, though, it never happened. We never got pregnant.
Then 1 year and 1 month ago we started “officially” trying to conceive.
I did all the research. I learned all about my cycle (which — surprise — was never taught to me, and I was completely mortified by the fact that I barely knew how my cycle worked). I learned exactly what needs to happen for a baby to be made. I knew that “trying to get pregnant” could take anywhere from 3-8 months if everything was “perfect.” I relayed all that information to Damien and we jumped into our first month of really trying.
“Really trying." All that means is that we tracked my ovulation and we had sex every other day for 7-8 days with the hope that his sperm would reach my egg during ovulation and we’d get pregnant.
The first month was a disaster. And every month after was -- to put it very simply -- hard.
Having sex every other day for a week is tough — especially with my past sexual trauma and Damien’s general anxiety and both of our “I don’t want to be touched right now” moments — it’s difficult and sometimes unbearable.
And yet we didn’t want to miss a month (if you’ve ever tried to conceive, you might know how much of a waiting game it all is, and you know that missing a month means…well…you miss a freaking month), so we gritted our teeth and had sex even if it wasn’t because we actually wanted to. And then we had the “do we really want to conceive our child this way?!” conundrum…but at the end of the day, you just want the baby and you do what you feel like you have to do.
Month 1 was rough. We were optimistic and hopeful, and when my period was 5 days late, I started planning how I’d tell Damien he was going to be a Dad. I said to myself “wow, all we had to do was actually TRY! I can’t believe we did it on the first try!” But every test I took came back negative, and on Easter Sunday of last year, my period came. I was devastated.
It’s so hard to describe the feeling of waiting.
The emotions you go through. The scenarios you play out in your head. The things you dream up. The baby name lists and the Pinterest boards full of cute nurseries and baby clothes. It takes up so much space. It’s a constant, 24/7 reel of dreaming and hoping and wishing. Half of you KNOWS it’s your month, and the other half KNOWS it’s not. It’s confusing and lonely and heartbreaking.
Month after month we tried.
We did everything we were supposed to do. We read everything we could read. We set up an altar for our baby. We made sure we both were on the same page energetically and we we wrote down everything we wanted in each other, a family, and in life in an effort to manifest it all. It took up so much of my mental space that I could barely concentrate on anything else at all.
After 6 months, I went to my OBGYN to talk to her about our situation.
Because my periods are so regular and it was clear I was ovulating (I used Ovusense for a few months which confirmed ovulation), my doctor recommended that Damien get a sperm analysis done. His test results came back and his doctor let us know he had a low sperm count and that it would be a 1-2% chance that we’d get pregnant on our own, so they referred us to a fertility clinic.
Our clinic is amazing.
The doctor and nurses are all incredible. We feel heard and seen. We feel cared for. It’s such a breath of fresh air to walk into the office knowing that everyone there understands what we’re going through. They care deeply for their patients and it’s remarkable and refreshing and absolutely wonderful.
All my tests came back normal, and after having his semen tested again, they were able to confirm that Damien does have a low count, and our doctor recommended we get started with our first round of IUI, which is a procedure where they wash the sperm so that only the best swimmers are left and are injected directly into the cervix to give them a head start to reach the egg. The IUI would give us a 10-12% chance of getting pregnant, instead of the 1-2% chance that we would have trying on our own at home.
We were elated, and after getting that info, my period was going to start just a week and a half later.
They let me know that once my period came, we’d be able to start the whole process.
But, the day before we were due to come in to get everything going, our nurse called us to let us know that because of COVID-19, they have to cancel any new IUI cycles.
We were one day away from starting our cycle. Even though we did our best to prepare ourselves for the possibility that our cycle would be canceled due to the virus, we were absolutely devastated to hear the words over the phone.
No one can possibly prepare you for everything that comes with trying to conceive, let alone everything that comes with infertility.
Trying to conceive is messy and exhausting and nerve-racking in and of itself. It makes you ridiculously competitive with yourself — you promise yourself that the next month will be the month, and it tricks you into believing that as long as you do exactly ‘what you’re supposed to’ then it’ll work. It throws you down crazy google rabbit holes (I once googled: “is clearer eyesight a pregnancy symptom?” It is definitely not).
It puts a stress on your sex life and on your partnership in general. It puts stress on your relationship with yourself and your body. It puts stress on everything. It makes you want to punch people in the face when they tell you things like “just relax! Your time will come!” and “it’ll happen when it’s supped to!” and “have you tried XYZ? That worked for my sister’s friend. They got pregnant the first month they tried!” and “just stop trying and I bet you’ll get pregnant right away!”
Punch punch punch punch punch.
Infertility is all of that, plus loneliness and complete and utter heart break. It’s silent.
It’s days and days of your brain screaming at the top of its lungs, but your mouth not being able to find the words. It’s waiting and waiting and waiting. A day feels like a month. It’s feeling totally helpless. It’s joy and devastation all at once when you’re around pregnant people or children. It’s convincing yourself that our bodies are failing us (they’re not). It’s feeling as though we have to have hope because everyone tells us to, but the reality is that there’s a 99% chance of us NOT conceiving naturally. Seeing the number makes me mad. That 1% is our only hope, and we do hold onto it, but we don’t let it float up too high because the devastation of another negative test hurts too much.
Damien and I have already changed so much after processing everything -- not just with our canceled cycle.
But also with everything going on in the world in general.
So much has shifted. Things inside of me have settled into the soil. I am a mother already. I know our baby is in the stars. We already love them more than words could ever describe. We speak to them. We’ve given them a name. We envision the spirit of a loved one holding our baby, taking care of them until they’re ready to join our family. We light candles. We have rituals. We talk about the ways we’re scared and the ways we’ll be incredible parents and the ways we might [expletive] them up and the ways we’re going to enrich their lives and the ways we’ll do things differently than how our parents did and the ways we’ll teach them to live in a way that feels beautiful to them and how we’re going to break so many of the cycles passed down to us from years and years and years of ancestral trauma.
And in all of that we feel power and peace.
I know already that the person I will give birth to is so very powerful.
I feel them. I feel their power. I know their past lives. I know their heart. They are already here. They are strong and soft. They are not of this earth. They are of the Universe. The stars. They are wise and curious and grounded. They are rooted. They are already here.
We can’t wait to meet them. But we will wait for as long as we have to.
Love is what keeps us going.
This essay was written by Cheyenne Gil of Cheyenne Gil Studios and was republished with permission. Learn more about Cheyenne and her body positive boudoir business here.
