Perfectly Conceived

Some thoughts on the pressure to be ‘perfect’ to get pregnant.

Image by Dakota Corbin/Unsplash

Moving into my fourth year with empty arms I’m becoming increasingly tired of the pressure to be perfect to conceive. That, somehow because I have reproductive issues — less of this (eggs), too much of that (killer cells) a birthdate in the early eighties (1984) I must eat, drink, sleep, move, think and pray like a nun to be in with a remote chance of motherhood. A nun with a special dispensation to break my chastity vow one week of every month, of course.

I struggle with all the ‘advice’ for fertility because there’s no denying, as a midwife, I passed babies drawing their first breath to many women with decidedly unhealthy lifestyles. From poor diet right through to addiction to nicotine, alcohol and drugs — I can’t forget my years of proximity to imperfect conception and pregnancy. Yet, I’m meant to eat completely organic, exercise in the Goldilocks zone of sweating-but-not-out-of-breath, keep my feet constantly warm and not touch till receipts?

It’s easy to see how becoming militant about diet, exposure to chemicals that are everywhere (good luck with that) and cultivating a constant high-vibe mood can, I don’t know — make you ill. I’ve felt guilty about having a glass of wine, an extra biscuit and even wondered if my pessimism has stopped me ovulating.

So when I see a woman I perceive (on sight) to be more unhealthy than me with three children under five, I’m not ashamed to admit I think of: all the supplements, the acupuncture, the herbs, the tablets, the pessaries, the injections, the scans, the blood tests, the swabs, the cameras, the probes, the sedations, the lab results, the infusions, the paperwork, the passwords, the online portals, the consent forms, the train journeys, the money, the time, the stolen peace of mind and feel pretty hard done by. That it’s not fair others get all the luck by putting in minus negative effort.

It’s awkward to reconcile with these types of thoughts when I practised non-judgement as a health professional before. I know that now, unlike then, I can’t help but compare. These are the ugly parts to infertility, the hard truths about how it hijacks your personality. How you enter into the loop-like destruction of judging others then judging yourself for judging them. The main thing I remind myself in these instances is that, it’s natural to feel this way after my experiences. That thankfully, I’m self-aware enough to consider it as an observer and work out what I can do to reassure myself — because underneath it all is my own fear and self-loathing.

Essentially I’m learning to mother myself through the issues related to perfecting fertility health to conceive. The longer this ‘trying’ phase of my life goes on the more I think about the type of mother I will be, if I finally become one. I know it’s a version of myself that will only exist because I was the unlucky one for so long. That my experience of such personal imperfection, yet dedication to moving beyond it, is what will make me a more present, compassionate and supportive parent to my child. That’s not to say that it’s ‘all been for a reason’, that I needed to go through it all. I really didn’t. But now that I have, I choose to use it not be used by it.

Honestly, I’ve changed so much, acquired so many top-notch mothering skills through the last years of anguish, it becomes kind of ironic that I’m still not one.

Battling to have a baby is one of the few areas in life that effort does not equal the eventual outcome. This is disturbing for someone who spent 35 years successfully following the formula of working hard to achieve what you desire. Sure, I can still work hard at this but it’s a bit like paying for and studying for years to get a PhD that the University can take back whenever they like — no explanations, no recourse, no restitution.

I’ve never tried so hard for anything EVER in my life. I have to constantly subject myself to things I don’t want to do, in the hope it will lead to being able to do the one thing I know I do want to do. I have spent so long completely cut off from what I actually want for my body, my day, my relationship, my life — the idea of stopping feels strangely exciting, like a very spontaneous trip back to the point I last felt myself alive and unburdened.

It’s the most curious feeling.

I’m not going to stop. I know that. But the fantasy of it (where I don’t care about having a baby anymore) and take my life back, hair whipping wildly as I ride passenger on the motorbike of my long-forgotten autonomy, is so seductive.

I’ve been stuck in this holding pattern for too long. I know I’m craving freedom. Freedom from feeling like a bad person who judges others. Freedom from being under the microscope. Freedom from perfection.

I dream a lot lately of being somewhere abroad alone, where no one knows me. Just a little break from the me I’m having to be. That would be nice.

In fact, that would be perfect.

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