In the Frost: Surviving my Season of Trying
I didn't even realize it was winter
I have been trying to have a baby for many years now. Trying and failing. Having never been one to do anything half-assed, I assumed that my efforts would eventually culminate in results. But that has not happened, and I have not been honest with myself.
In the book “Wintering” by
, the author equates chapters of life to the seasons in nature. It wasn’t until I finally picked up a copy of this book that I realized I had been in denial about what season of life I was in. I was slumbering through the darkness of winter while wearing a bikini and applying sunscreen.
For a while, I tried to convince myself that a few snowstorms had hit me in late March. I was surely capable of going through a professional metamorphosis while dragging along my ailing body. This was no big deal.
Except it is a big deal. My body, my beautiful, wholesome body, has been suffering for some time now. I was given all the signs through my monthly period which came heavy and painful. I knew I should pay attention, seek help, and take action but I did not want to. Last June, while spending a beautiful day in sunny Finland, I doubled over in pain despite maxing out on ibuprofen and plastering a smile on my face. It was inconvenient to go home and rest so I stayed out to adventure. I didn’t want to interrupt my long-dreamed-for sabbatical with pin-pricking, medieval torture, waiting rooms, and insurance claims. But I also wanted to be a mom. And a well-trained soldier will fight on.
My comfort zone is spring. I love the joy of initiating, of going first, of making a plan. I thought for sure I could “get this body fixed” during my time off of work, my own eternal summer of fun, passion, and art. It would be a minor inconvenience during my growth-filled sabbatical. I would keep optimistic and manifest my way to a baby. I have now come to realize I should have listened once I heard that pain stands for “pay attention inside now” - which is so inconvenient when you are trying to have a brat summer.
After six months of therapeutic treatments, I feel like a stuffed duck waiting to become foie gras. My supplements have been optimized, and my diet perfected. I eat the perfect mix of healthy fats, complex carbohydrates, and wholesome protein. My cells have been rejuvenated with NAC and CoQ10. My hormones have been balanced with herbal teas, acupuncture needles, and abstention from caffeine and alcohol. I exercise regularly - but not too much. I take breaks for my mental health and ensure I’m sufficiently “relaxed”.
With all of this optimization and compartmentalization, it’s no wonder I didn’t realize that the leaves have fallen off the trees and the snow is quietly piling up on the rooftop.
When you are trying to have a baby, it seems like the seasons pass joyfully for everyone else. You are stuck in winter’s den when those around you have moved on to the newborns of spring, the all-encompassing passion of motherhood in summer, and the changing nature of a baby’s growth in autumn. Years pass, and everyone else is now worried about daycare and teething and hypnobirthing, while you sit perched on your window, the quiet blanket of snow staying put. Nothing is melting, nothing is changing, just endless cycles of waiting.
I have now admitted to myself that I am tired, my spirit is low, and any encouragement to “keep going” and “don’t give up” feels phony.
points out that plants and animals don’t “fight” through winter - they find ways to adapt and endure. writes about his discomfort with the idea of fighting against cancer when he has no control over the outcome. All he can do is “show up to appointments and take [his] meds”. He redefines his fight in his publication Reflections:“My fight is not about living or dying. It is with maintaining my humanity, holding onto my love for life despite the very real possibility that it could be taken from me. For me, loving life means having curiosity, experiencing new things and wanting to learn. Having gratitude for what brings me joy. Taking time to dream about the future. Enjoying time with the people I love. If I can do all of those things, then I can never lose the fight.”
Adapting to this season means that like Danny, I will find ways to maintain my dignity and my humanity regardless of the outcome. So much can be taken from you when you are trying to conceive a baby: you lose control of your schedule, you are subjected to painful and invasive procedures, your friendships change, you often witness the loss of life, you may struggle with the financial impact, and undergoing the stress of political arguments and policy changes can leave anyone shaken with anxiety. Straddling the line between this world and the next has left an intense darkness shadowing over me that I know scares other people. I often try to package it up and stuff it away so that I don’t make anyone uncomfortable.
When I am faced with a painful situation, I envision myself outside of my body, controlling my reactions to appear normal: Wow - your ultrasound photos! How exciting hearing your spontaneous conception stories! Let’s organize a sprinkle! I stand above myself, manipulating my lips into a smile like pulling the strings of a puppet.
The last thing I want is to be perceived as a victim, nor do I want your pity. The highest version of myself can separate my journey from someone else’s. I am capable of experiencing joy for other people once the initial shock has worn off. But pretending I don’t need extra love, care, and support until winter thaws out only extends my period of hibernation.
In Naples, the hints of winter are less obvious. In a giant urban sprawl, the days become shorter and the ocean colder. On my winter walks, these words have been seething out of my pores, the sentences appearing as banner ads above my head, the pain of keeping it inside became greater than the fear of exposing it on paper. I could write a book on the lessons I learned while trying to conceive, but perhaps the largest lesson this has taught me has been to not be afraid to be seen trying. Perfectionism has followed me, even during my career break. It was hard for me to admit that I was getting rejected from literary publications or job interviews because that meant I was failing. I certainly didn’t want to be seen trying to have a baby after all these years. How embarrassing.
I wanted to post belly shots from the beach, where my boobs are bursting out of my bikini and I am posing with confidence. I wanted to surprise my husband in the way I tell him I’m pregnant. Maybe I’ll buy a “new dad” hat or do something insanely corny like ask him to open the oven after I’ve put a bun inside. Maybe I’ll post a video “telling my parents we’re pregnant” and they would squeal with excitement or cry or jump in the ocean. The reality is that my fear of losing something that hasn’t even come yet is so great, I won’t even be able to soak in the joy of it.
There is something about the light in winter. It shines through windows with more force, bouncing off crystal and highlighting otherwise banal objects. The other day, I was getting yet another test on my endless list of examinations. The doctor asked why I was there, and I told him very matter-of-factly my memorized spiel, spat out in Italian like an actress devoted to her script.
I was lying down on the examination table, my chest exposed in the cold air, when the doctor told me that he too, had struggled to have his four children, the last one being an all-out “war”. I nodded, unsure of what to say. No doctor had ever spoken to me like that before. After the exam was all over, he instructed me on follow-ups and reminded me how important it was to take care of myself now that I was going to be a mother.
I was going to be a mother.
A lump formed thick and tight in my throat. I said nothing as I dressed, the thought bouncing around in my head like a pinball ricocheting through the machine. Was I going to be a mother? Was that what I was doing this all for? I had been so focused on each painstaking step on the path that I had forgotten where I was going.
As I stepped outside of the clinic, the grey streets of Napoli filled with mopeds and traffic, I started to cry. I cried for what I’d lost. I cried for what this had done to me. I cried for the beauty of bright light on dark days, casting hope for springtime.
I’ve closed comments on this post, as I am creating a boundary from pity and advice. Thank you, dear readers! My heart is with anyone who has experienced fertility challenges. A beautiful poem from Harry Baker is below.
