Abigail Nichols has tried everything from rash-inducing herbal creams to acupuncture in a desperate, last-ditch effort to get pregnant. Wedged into her iPhone schedule among new business pitches and rebranding design meetings is Abby’s ovulation cycle, along with potential opportunities for illicit afternoon quickies. With all of their hopes and savings on the table, Abby and her husband Jack enter the whispered world of fertility clinics.
Along with a meddling mother-in-law, competitive pregnancies, and constant obligatory sex, Abby’s baby-track mind conspires to ravage her career, her marriage, and her sanity. One thing she knows for sure: a healthy sense of humor (and the occasional glass of red wine) is the best coping strategy. One thing she wishes she knew: whether it will be enough.
Ms. Conception is an honest but light-hearted novel inspired by the ups and downs of fertility treatments and the emotional burden that rests on those trying to conceive.
A procreation vacation? What the hell is that? The first email is from my best friend, Jules, one of the few people who know Jack and I are struggling to have a baby. I ignore the rest of my inbox and start Google searching.
There are hotels in the Caribbean that offer fertility vacations? Seriously? Powder white sand beaches, private infinity pools, couples massages with fertility-boosting kelp wraps and reflexology, all to supposedly stimulate semen production. After three years of unsuccessful pregnancy attempts, I’ve found fertility utopia.
Wait, hold on; there’s something here about drinking sea moss elixirs. That doesn’t sound overly appetizing. I read a quote from a successful vacationer: “I conceived as soon as I got home.” With rising excitement, I check out the menu, knowing Jack loves a great meal. Darn, there’s a lot of tofu – this might not fly. My husband Jack is many things, but tofu lover is not on that list.
I click on another link and find the Fertile Turtle vacation package. Apparently sea turtles are symbols of fertility. “You can watch sea turtles hatch while trying to fertilize your own egg.” My cheeks flame. I couldn’t have sex with anyone watching, even poor sea turtles. Jules is definitely yanking my chain. Hitting reply to her email, I type, “The poor turtles. You bitch!”
This is what my life has come to. The ongoing struggle to have a baby has spilled over into desperate Internet searches, sexy lingerie purchases, and my ovulation cycle scheduled into our iPhones. Oh god, sexy lingerie purchases. My face flames brighter at the memory. I thought spicing up our sex life might help, but in my crazy one-track baby-on-the-brain mind, I’d stupidly put the office address in the “ship to” box. That was a really fun day in the office. Pressing my hands against the heat of my cheeks, I sigh and turn back to my computer. Another day begins for me, Abigail Nichols, marketing maven by day, fertility-obsessed sex fiend by night.
Jen Cumming had two dreams: to be a mother and a writer. The first was much harder than she’d imagined, but it gave her plenty of material for her second dream. Now she’s realized both and traded drug cocktails and early morning line-ups at the fertility clinic for juice boxes and evening PTA meetings.
Jen’s latest dream is to live in a small village in France and eat croissants. Being allergic to wheat might hamper that dream, so in the meantime she does her best to balance life with two young children and run a business with her husband in Toronto. She loves to spend time at the cottage in the summer, ski in the winter, and travel whenever she can.
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