I’ve reached a breaking point. This is the last month I will endeavor to get pregnant, and then I’m done. I’m ready to indulge in all the wine I desire, shed the baby weight from my first child, who is now three, and savor coffee throughout the day. I’ll take whatever diet pills, melatonin, and other supplements I fancy without worrying about whether they might hinder my chances of conception. After this month, I’m officially done.
For 39 years, I enjoyed being single until I unexpectedly ran into an old friend at a bar. Within six months, we were cohabitating, and just three months later, we discovered I was pregnant. We tied the knot, and I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl at age 40.
Six months later, I was expecting again, but I was filled with anxiety. The early months of marriage and parenthood were challenging. At my 8-week ultrasound, the baby measured only 6 weeks, and I ultimately suffered a miscarriage. I didn’t cry like you see on TV; the experience was physically painless but emotionally disheartening. I anticipated getting pregnant again, so we continued trying.
I bought ovulation tests and pregnancy tests in bulk, looking for any signs of pregnancy each month. I immersed myself in articles about conceiving after 40. After a year of trying, my husband and I spent $250 on a fertility doctor who bluntly informed us that our chances of conceiving naturally were low. I immediately regretted the expense and we agreed to keep trying on our own.
By summer, I felt overwhelmed and opted for an extreme diet to lose some of the baby weight. Then, at the end of July, I missed my period and discovered I was pregnant again! We were ecstatic, feeling like we had defied the odds.
However, at seven weeks, I began bleeding heavily and we rushed to the ER, bracing ourselves for bad news. To our surprise, the ultrasound revealed a healthy fetus with a heartbeat! We scheduled a follow-up appointment for two weeks later, but when we returned, there was no heartbeat. I felt an immense sadness, yet there were no tears.
Losing an 11-week fetus is a peculiar experience. Physically, it’s as if nothing happened, but emotionally, everything has shifted. It’s painful to see pregnant women or siblings of my daughter when I drop her off at preschool. The joy of others’ pregnancies stings, especially when a friend who vowed to stop at one is now expecting again.
I should be thrilled for them, and in some ways, I am. But there’s also a part of me that wants to throw a tantrum because I wanted another child. It seems trivial to voice my feelings since the loss was early; mentioning my miscarriage often leads to discomfort for others, as they struggle to find the right words. It’s a heavy feeling, compounded by the weight I regained after my extreme diet.
Since October, my husband and I have been trying again, tracking ovulation with sticks and apps, aiming for every other day during my fertile window. Yet, my period returns each month.
I’ve been yearning for that elusive rainbow baby. I meticulously calculate each month when the due date would fall, making wishes on dandelions and shooting stars. I’ve even consulted an online magic eight ball, which has not been encouraging. Could it be that the fertility doctor’s advice holds some truth?
Honestly, I’m weary of rehashing articles about getting pregnant over 40. Perhaps I’m ready for more coffee, wine, and extreme diets. I might need to reconsider my approach to this journey to avoid the heartbreak I’ve experienced each month. Life will continue with just the three of us, right? It’s time to explore the joys of being an only child and find inspiration in successful only children.
After this month.
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Summary:
This article recounts the emotional journey of a woman who is grappling with the challenges of trying to conceive after experiencing multiple miscarriages. After years of effort and heartbreak, she declares that this will be her final month of trying, as she contemplates moving forward with her life and embracing the joys of motherhood with her first child.