And there goes another year. 2015 went fast. Half of it was filled with the frustrations of trying to make another baby. I was mostly convinced it was too late. That my time was over at 42. But then I’d see a doctor, and they’d tell me differently: “I just delivered a baby for a 50-year-old.” And, “You have eggs, your organs look fine. There’s no reason you can’t have hope.” And, “Go home and get pregnant. Just keep trying.” And so I’d come home with hope and renewed energy to try again.
I started having strange, heavy periods right after being convinced that I was pregnant. I mean, crazy amounts of blood would come out of me. I once woke up, felt it, and by the time I walked down the hall to the bathroom, it was a full on murder scene in my house. And for four days after, I’d soak pads and tampons every hour. My doctor said they sounded like chemical pregnancies, but there’s no way to know really, unless I wanted to try testing early. “Just keep trying.”
So I started testing early. And sure enough, I had a few positive tests. Brief elation, lots of anxiety, even a fear of thinking it might actually be true. Both DH and I fought off the hope because it hurts so much when it’s dashed. After the miscarriage in 2014, we both protected our hearts. Let’s not get our hopes up just yet. I’d show him the positive test, he’d smile, and that was that. We wouldn’t even talk about it. A week later, I’d tell him the bad news. And repeat.
My daughter, who is now 3, would tell me, “I want a baby sister named Alice.” I’d just keep telling her, we’ll see. (And pull the knife from my heart.)
We were one week out from seeing a specialist to talk about intrauterine insemination as our next step. I kept telling my doctor it would do no good. I was pretty sure I could get pregnant — I just couldn’t stay pregnant. But then, on the morning of August 31, 2015, I took an early test, and it was positive … and it stuck.
After two years of trying, one miscarriage, several chemical pregnancies … I’m now 21 weeks along with #2.
Second trimester, and I’ve just about stopped preparing myself for it all ending. I used to hold my breath at doctor’s appointments and cry when I heard a heartbeat. I was so afraid to really believe. Each appointment would have me begging my doctor for an ultrasound, so I could see the blink of the heartbeat. She’d tell me that she doesn’t do ultrasounds at every appointment, but just this once, she’d pull in the handheld machine that gave a grainy view of the little one. Heart beating just fine. Deep breath, tears, relief. Until next time, when I’d beg her again to see it.
But not anymore. I’ve been able to feel the baby move for 5 weeks now. It’s very real, and I’m going to just believe and be happy. We are really lucky. The old fashioned way worked for us. I’m 43 and pregnant.