I’ve reached my limit. This is the last month I will actively pursue getting pregnant. After this, I’m done. I’ll indulge in all the wine I want, shed the baby weight from my first child, who is now three years old, and relish in coffee throughout the day. I’ll take diet pills, melatonin, and any other supplements without worrying about their effects on fertility. This is it; I’m finished.
I had a fulfilling single life for 39 years until I unexpectedly reconnected with an old friend at a bar. Six months later, we were living together, and three months after that, we discovered I was pregnant. We got married and welcomed a beautiful baby girl into our lives when I was 40.
Six months later, I found myself pregnant again, but the joy was mixed with fear. Those initial months of marriage and new parenthood were challenging. At my 8-week ultrasound, we learned the baby measured only 6 weeks, and I suffered a miscarriage. Unlike the dramatic portrayals on TV, my grief was quiet and numbing; I assumed we would conceive again, and so we began trying.
I stocked up on ovulation tests and pregnancy tests, obsessively searching for any signs of pregnancy. I consumed countless articles about conceiving after 40. After a year of effort, my husband and I spent $250 on a fertility consultation, only to hear that our chances of another natural pregnancy were slim due to my age. Frustrated, we decided to continue trying on our own.
By summer, I was eager for a break and opted for an intense diet to shed the lingering baby weight. Then, unexpectedly, I missed my period at the end of July and learned I was pregnant again. We were elated, convinced we had defied the odds. Forget that doctor and his statistics!
However, at seven weeks, I experienced heavy bleeding that landed me in the emergency room. We approached the ultrasound with dread, preparing for another D&C. To our astonishment, we found a healthy fetus with a heartbeat! We scheduled a follow-up appointment for two weeks later because I remained high-risk. Tragically, at that visit, we discovered there was no longer a heartbeat. Once again, my sadness was heavy and unexpressed.
Losing a fetus at just 11 weeks is an isolating experience. There were no physical signs, and it felt as though nothing had changed, yet everything had shifted within me. It’s painful to see pregnant women or new siblings when dropping my daughter off at preschool. My daughter’s teacher is expecting, and it seems like everywhere I look, someone else is pregnant, even a friend who swore she was done having kids.
I want to feel joy for them. I do, in a way. But there’s also an urge to throw a tantrum because I wanted another baby and believed I should have had it. Sharing my loss feels futile; others don’t know what to say, and their attempts at consolation often miss the mark. The emotional weight remains, compounded by the fact that I’ve regained all the weight I lost on my restrictive diet.
Since October, my husband and I have resumed our attempts to conceive. I track my ovulation with tests and an app, and we’ve been intimate every other day during my fertile window. Each month, I hope for a positive pregnancy test, only to be met with disappointment when my period arrives.
I’ve wished for a rainbow baby, calculating due dates and making wishes on dandelions and shooting stars. Even the magic eight ball gave an unfavorable response. Perhaps that fertility doctor’s insights hold some truth? Frankly, I’m exhausted from re-reading “pregnant after 40” articles. It might be time to embrace coffee, wine, and extreme diets again. Life may continue with just the three of us, right? Next on my list, I’ll look into “remarkable only children” and “notable only children” success stories.
After this month.