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| Colorful macarons that caught my eye during my caffeine-fueled euphoria in the Miami airport |
I’m addicted to travel. Recently I was talking to a coworker
who tried a trapeze class a few months ago, fell in love and now can’t get
enough of flying through the air. That’s how I feel about travel. Every time I
go somewhere, my bucket list gets longer, not shorter. Long before I ever
wanted a baby, I wanted to travel the world.
Family trips to Florida and Jamaica as a young adult lit a
spark, but timidity and insecurity kept me grounded until a summer studying in
England just after I finished my senior year of college gave me confidence and
stoked the travel fire. When I landed a job as a writer for a
destination-wedding and honeymoon magazine six years ago, my fate was sealed.
My first work trip was to three Hawaiian Islands with an
amazing group of journalists who modeled an enthusiastic curiosity and
gratitude that has inspired me ever since. The trip took place a month after I
started with the magazine, and the travel never slowed. Every six or eight
weeks, I was off to some new exotic place.
I was 27 and being treated, for free, to sailing trips in
the Caribbean, luxury cruises through Mexico and even an African safari. The
idea of children seemed distant — something I wanted, someday. But I wasn’t
ready yet. I was having too much fun; there was too much I still wanted to see.
I traveled like this for six years straight. Airports became
my second home, and I settled into the routine: seeing my name on a driver’s
sign at a ramshackle airport, arriving to some high-end hotel to a welcome
treat of fruit or chocolate in my room. Philip was able to come with me from
time to time, but almost always I was traveling with writers on assignment for
other outlets — strangers who would often become friends in a matter of three
or four days. Our itineraries were set for us — not restful at all but always
fun.
I loved the repeat themes: Shooting the breeze with a taxi
driver, eating fresh fish in view of the ocean, snorkeling a coral reef and
bebopping to the spa for a massage never got old.
Until, they did.
I had done amazing things. I had dined at a
three-Michelin-starred restaurant on a Roman hilltop. I had seen humpback
whales and blue-footed-booby birds in the Bay of Banderas. I had zip-lined in
Costa Rica, climbed a volcano in St. Vincent, made a wish under a Bermudan
moongate, kayaked to a deserted Cayman islet, drank Killer Bee rum punch in
Nevis, taken a mud bath in St. Lucia, ATVed through a Puerto Rican jungle, kneelt
in a Thai temple, biked through San Diego and summited a Maya ruin in Belize. And I had written about it all.
But I was tired. Traveling this way meant often traveling
solo. It meant being beholden to someone else’s schedule. It meant colds,
canker sores and constipation from airplane germs and airport food. It meant
missing friends’ birthday parties and spending less time with my family. It
meant not even knowing what was going on in my own backyard.
I had seen so much and been blessed for this season, but I
felt the season was waning. I was ready to move into a new adventure:
motherhood.
I had seen what I wanted to see and was prepared to finally
join my friends in the excitement of expecting — the thrill of a positive
pregnancy test, of breaking the news to happy loved ones, of celebrating at a
shower, choosing names and designing a nursery — followed by the wonder of
welcoming a new life into the world and watching him or her learn and grow, of
being able to share with a child all I’ve come to love about this beautiful,
diverse world.
For two full years I tried to become a mother without
success while simultaneously clinging my other reality as a travel writer. With
each invitation to a new resort, I scrutinized my calendar: When was I likely
to ovulate?
Traveling planning around my inconsistent ovulation proved
challenging, and it just got worse as we began fertility treatment and the
treatments became more involved. Many months I agonized over an unexpectedly
long cycle and a looming trip that would put Philip and me in different
countries when we needed to be in the same bed.
Still, I continued to jetset, faithfully packing my
thermometer, ovulation chart and prenatal vitamins into my carry-on.
Infertility had robbed me of my dream to be a mother, but I wasn’t going to let
it also ruin my passion for seeing new places, experiencing new cultures and sharing these experiences with curious readers.
In December of 2012, I was scheduled to travel to south
Florida for a luxury wedding conference, and I was determined to cram in our
first IUI before I left. If everything went according to plan, I’d be safely
within my two-week wait while I sat in on inspiration sessions and attended
fancy dinners.
Instead, my ovaries balked. Letrozole medication that had
worked like gangbusters for two other cycles of timed relations didn’t do a
thing. On cycle day 10, my biggest follicles were a measly 9 mm. At this rate,
they’d never mature in time for an IUI before I had to depart for my trip.
I panicked and stressed. I nervously talked to my boss and
negotiated a plan B; maybe I could drive down a day late. She reluctantly
agreed.
In the end, my follicles didn’t grow a single millimeter
more, and the cycle was cancelled, so I was able to travel to the conference as
originally planned. But as the New Year approached, I knew I had to make a
change. Treatment and travel were mutually exclusive, and I had to prioritize
one at the expense of the other.
So, I let go of the traveling. I was grounded until further
notice. I hated infertility even more for stripping me of not only my dream but
also my passion, but I didn’t see any other way.
And actually, it wasn’t so bad.
I got well. Really well. No more headaches, a lot less
stress. I had time to cook dinner and exercise regularly. I fell into a routine
for the first time in years, and it felt good. I started regularly attending a
yoga class. I was blogging more. For the first time ever, I had adequate time
to finish my to-do lists at work — and even start learning some new digital
skills.
I was able to attend every birthday dinner, every friend’s
art show or musical performance. I went to spring-training games; I went on walks;
I spent time with family. So this is what
a normal life feels like, I thought.
And of course, I was able to pursue fertility treatment
without worrying myself to death over the timing of everything. We found the
magical dosage of Follistim that kicked my ovaries into gear, and we underwent
two IUIs that went off without a hitch.
Of course, they both failed. And then a new priority
emerged: to visit our sponsored child in Bolivia before she graduates out of
the program and before we — hopefully — start a family and can no longer
gallivant around impoverished third-world countries.
So instead of trying to balance treatment with a two-week
jaunt through South America, which entails high altitudes, delicious wines and
multiple inoculations, we are prioritizing the trip.
And since we were on a break from treatment, it turned out I
could even squeeze in a work trip too. So that’s where I sit at this moment: on
American Airlines flight 1245 to the Turks and Caicos Islands. My first work trip in
six months.
And I have to say, it feels really good to be back in the
saddle.
Armed with a Starbucks mocha latte in one hand and an issue
of Islands magazine in the other, I
sat on my flight to Miami feeling like I could explode with happiness. (That
could have been the caffeine, but still …)
Oh hello, old self,
my brain said as I navigated the gates in the Miami airport as though I hadn’t
missed a beat.
I enjoyed my time off, and it was important to do, but
traveling for work again is reawakening some important part of me that values
adventure and feels purpose in looking for compelling stories in far-off
places.
I’m reminded that I have a plan B if it turns out that our
resolution to infertility is living child-free. I am a traveler. I am a travel
writer. I love this. It makes me feel alive and happy. It feels reassuring,
centering, true.
So here I go, ready to set foot on the Turks and Caicos
Islands for the first time. More to come, as hopefully, I will find compelling
stories to tell in this far-off place.