Pregnant after 40

After three miscarriages, my boyfriend and I had given up. But then we had an accident. I was in Egypt, camping in the Sahara — an eight-hour jeep drive from any medical facility — when I realized I was pregnant. Again. All I could think about was the probability of miscarrying again, and so far from home. But it didn’t happen.

I’m a travel writer and I didn’t want to cancel plans and assignments for what I figured was just more false hope. So Egypt was followed by snorkelling in Cozumel and skiing in British Columbia. And yet — answered wish upon a falling star — six months later, at 44 years old, I was still pregnant!

Whatever the fertility gods held in store, I knew I had to record my experience.

First trimester

My boyfriend and I delay telling family and friends, hiding my growing bulge with big tops. Going through tests, waiting for results, always anticipating the worst — these early months are so fraught with fear of loss, we’re just spending all our time keeping hope in check.

I’ve decided to go with a midwife rather than my doctor. I made this decision more by default than by principle; I simply don’t want to face my doctor. After the last miscarriage he strongly advised us against trying again; the probabilities, he said, were not in our favour. And while this pregnancy is far from “tried,” I can’t stomach the thought of getting an I-told-you-so should something go wrong. Besides, the midwifery clinic lets me be the needy, nervous wreck of a mother-to-be that I am. I lose count of how many times I call because I haven’t felt — or think I haven’t felt — fetal movement in what I believe is too long. And they always welcome me when I drop in, bless them. Then, as I lie on the examination table with the fetal Doppler reassuringly sounding out my baby’s heartbeat, tears stream down my cheeks.

For most women over 40, the biggest concern about carrying a child to term is probably chromosome abnormality; yet for me, what becomes an even bigger worry is the actual test that determines if your fetus has such a defect. I read over and over again about how amniocentesis causes a miscarriage in one out of every 200 procedures. What a sickening thought: the possibility of losing a completely viable fetus all in the quest of seeking the fetus’s viability!

To amnio or not to amnio? I feel as though I’m stuck in the middle of a poker game with the highest of stakes. After great mental wrestling, however, I walk away from the amnio question and simply send a silent prayer to the powers that be.

Second trimester

No longer able to keep silent, my boyfriend and I embrace reality by buying a crib, a stroller and a car seat carrier. We take a childbirth education course, and I try not to be bothered by the fact that I am by far the oldest woman there. I wish I could say that at least I look young, but I don’t. Despite my active lifestyle, I look my age; I have all the earned creases, wrinkles, bags and grey strands of my generation.

I also don’t want to admit my age. My closest friend tells me I should stand proud and brag about it, but I just want to know if pregnancy makes me look younger. Does the virtue of being pregnant shed years off perceptions of age? Are people thinking, “She must be younger than she looks”? Or do I just look like a woman in her mid-forties having a late one?

The idea of relaxing and simply enjoying the ride is still out of reach for me. It’s as though I’ve entered a superstitious mindset: If I’m not worried, then something might actually go wrong. I refuse to entertain the idea of a baby shower.

When I finally admit my pregnancy, I find myself prefacing statements about the future with “if we’re so blessed” — though, technically, we already are. When friends say congratulations, I correct them to say “good luck.” I’m also in the habit of saying, “It was a surprise for us too.” But one day that sentiment backfires when a business associate responds with, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Suddenly I’m ashamed of not owning up to how much we want a child.

It takes me a long time to see the positive side to this older-mother business. But I do see it. For one thing, I can honestly say I am ready. More than any other time in my life, I am ready to be a mom. Life no longer needs to be all about me; that’s the crux of it. So, as much as I’d love to look younger, the truth is, I don’t know if I would have been ready younger.

Finally, I take strange comfort in the “accident” aspect of this pregnancy; it makes me think it was meant to be.

Third trimester

Thursday night is preggo yoga, and Monday and Wednesday nights are for hiking with Fiona, whom I met at yoga. Fiona is 2 1/2 months behind me on the pregnancy calendar, and 15 years behind me in age. Our stream of talk is endless — baby names, fetal movements, midwives, gaining weight, hormonal upheavals, and the rest of the whole pregnancy enchilada.

I’m volunteering now, mothering my cat and practising patience. I’m slowing for yellows, coming to full stops at stop signs, driving the speed limit and even graciously letting other drivers in. It seems a profound gentleness has come over me. I want to reach out and thank all those who have ever loved me. I’m calling old friends, wondering how they are, wanting to reconnect.

I can’t get enough sex. I’m engorged, in a constant state of readiness. My boyfriend doesn’t have a chance of keeping up. I’m quick; I’m easy. It’s never felt so good, or erupted so strongly.

But, boy, do I feel fat. When I sit I’ve got a boob shelf. I have one of those bodies that tries to compensate for the growing weight in front by adding weight to the back. One morning as I’m getting up out of bed, I see my boyfriend pull into the driveway, back from an early handyman job. As he’s taking the ladder off the truck roof, I teasingly get his attention and flash him, lifting my T-shirt.

“Want me to moon you too?” I ask.

“No, it’s all right,” he says, planting the ladder against the house.

“It’s a big moon,” I prompt.

“An eclipse,” he retorts, now playfully climbing up to my window.

“A total eclipse of the heart,” I say.

Now at eye level, he’s gazing at me and replies, “No — of the sun!”

Another day I’m leaning over the sink, naked, brushing my teeth when my boyfriend, who has just stepped out of the shower, pokes the side of my butt with his finger. I ignore him, there’s a pause, and he does it again. I’m rinsing now, and this time he does it with the palm of his hand. There’s another pause, then another palm push. I jerk to attention. “What are you doing?” I demand.

“The wave,” he replies.

The sorority of motherhood

I concede to a pre-birth baby shower. I decide it’s silly to be unprepared for a dream come true. Of the 17 girlfriends at my shower, only six are mothers. Does that say something about my friends — or about my generation? One girlfriend, 40, confides that she’d love to have a child but her boyfriend, who is 10 years her junior, thinks she’s already too old.

In addition to gifts are bags and boxes of hand-me-downs. I’m flabbergasted at all the goodwill coming our way — all, of course, from younger moms. In fact, one generous donor is a girlfriend’s daughter, who is 30 with two kids. So while I’m being initiated into the sorority of motherhood, my girlfriend, who is only a few years older than me, is already a grandmother!

Five weeks to go and time is suddenly zipping by all too fast. And while days are racing, I personally have reached an all-time slow. Everything and anything takes so long to do. I’m tired, I’m uncomfortable, I’m breathless and my back hurts.

My midwife suspects that my baby is in breech. An ultrasound confirms it. Baby is facing the world head-up and unless the little dear flips, it means I’ll have to give birth by Cesarean section — the only chapter in the book I skipped.

Two weeks from due date, my baby is still in breech. Why? I’m plagued with terrible visions of a wrapped umbilical cord causing restriction. A C-section is scheduled. I’m not happy; I’m worried, I’m scared. And suddenly, I am not ready: 14 anticipated days shrink to two. My boyfriend and I make a mad dash in final preparations.

Lying on the operating table, I’m so terrified. I have a death grip on my midwife’s fingers. Boyfriend and I can’t break eye contact. As I’m not able to see over the curtain — not that I necessarily want to — my midwife provides the play-by-play. Suddenly there’s a pause. Someone says, “Here she is,” and on that cue, my baby announces herself loud and clear.

Not every midlife pregnancy is a blessing. More profiles the tough choices some women face in Surprise, You're pregnant

This article originally appeared in the May 2008 issue of More