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"I'm
What?" Accidentally pregnant at 42..
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My breasts are killing me. Is it my imagination,
or are they way bigger? And suddenly I can't even
look at coffee, much less guzzle it with my usual
gusto — my stomach is a mess. But what else is new?
My job is about as stressful as it gets these days,
and I have two wonderful but demanding kids: My
stomach is upset a lot. Then there's the missing
period. Hey, it happened last summer too.
Any other mother of two would know the signs. But
not me. After rigorous fertility treatments and two
foreign adoptions, I'm in serious denial. Yet deep
down I know. I'm 42, and I'm pregnant for the first
time.
My husband, John, is out of town, so I suffer in
silence for another week. When I finally reveal my
suspicion, he literally laughs in my face.
Nevertheless, he trudges off to the drugstore to get
the test.
The urine has barely hit the stick when the positive
sign blazes at me. I'm going to be sick. I'm too old
to do this. John announces that we'll be 60 when
this kid is graduating high school. I'm about to
argue with him, but then I do the math in my head.
He's right. This cannot be happening.
The next two weeks go by in a blur of denial and
anxiety. The upset stomach has turned into 24-hour
nausea, and my husband is really down (he's the
primary caregiver and was looking forward to going
back to work soon). I finally screw up the courage
to see my gynecologist, a lovely, warm Italian
woman, who saw me through the infertility
treatments. She's ecstatic and can't contain
herself: "This is a miracle! Let's drink champagne!"
I sob uncontrollably in her office, feeling guilty
that I can't share even a tiny bit of her joy.
At times, I know what my doctor means. Miracle or
not, there is a strong sense of fate here. And I
don't want to mess with fate. I'm a religious person
and believe that God has a plan, and it usually
works out if we just ride with it. In rare moments I
can imagine this will all be okay, that I'll be able
to handle three children and even like it. But most
of the time I want to scream, What kind of sick joke
is God playing on me? I'm a weary mother of two with
a high-pressure job and a house that's falling
apart! I can't raise another child.
And what about my two gorgeous, hilarious girls, the
lights of my life? Roma, who is 5, is just beginning
to understand adoption and has heartbreaking talks
with me. They go something like this:
"Mommy, I didn't grow in your belly, did I?"
"No, you didn't, sweetie."
"But I wish I had grown in your belly."
"I wish you had, too."
"How come I didn't grow in your belly?"
"Well, I guess God just didn't want it that way.
Sometimes women can't grow babies in their tummies
and so they adopt."
What do I tell her now? God changed his mind?
(Evidently he did.)
Some mornings I'm so sick I can hardly get out of
bed. Standing for any period of time makes me dizzy.
I can't eat a thing. Work is crazy-busy and I'm down
several staffers, but I drag myself in day after day
and put on a good face. Then I'm exhausted when I
get home and short-tempered with the kids. Our
2-year-old, Bea, still wakes up several times a
night. Whenever I drag myself out of bed to comfort
her, I can't help but think how much harder a
newborn would be. How will this aging body care for
a baby?
My husband and I haven't discussed abortion. Neither
of us has brought it up. But at 3 a.m. I wake him.
"Can you even think about abortion?" I ask. We talk
for two hours, and the next morning we both feel
relieved. Abortion, as awful as it is, feels like
the right thing to do. Neither of us wants another
child or feels equipped to deal with one, let alone
what would be our first infant. More important, we
both feel we have our family — these two girls are
our babies, and we will never love anyone more. A
biological child feels like an intrusion, a strange
add-on to a beautiful family. The window of
opportunity for more children is gone. We're done.
Four years ago, we didn't have a hard time making
the decision to adopt. Neither of us felt strongly
about seeing our genes played out in a child, and we
didn't have the stomach for continuing the fertility
treatments. Frankly, I've never been a baby person;
they seem so fragile and unresponsive. So going to
China to pick up a 10-month-old was the best birth
experience I could imagine. Somehow adoption just
suited us, and I've always been proud of our
mixed-race family. Yet there's a part of me that
wonders why a biological child seems uncompelling,
almost scary. Am I actually afraid of seeing a
version of myself out there in the world? Why am I
so selfish?
If I'm going to have an abortion, I have to learn
something from the experience. I can't just look at
this pregnancy as a mistake. I'm going to change my
life in positive ways because of it. I write a list
of all the things that having this child will keep
me from doing — traveling, making career changes,
fixing up our house, and especially spending quality
time with my first two children — and I vow to make
good on them. I can be a class parent, take the
girls on day trips, be more present in their lives.
A life that recently seemed overbooked suddenly
appears wide open.
I reach out to friends who I think will support my
decision. It's amazing how many of them have had
abortions that I didn't know about. Although I can
see hesitation in their faces — in one case real
strain — I manage to block it out. Feeling
bolstered, I make an appointment for a "termination
consultation." The appointment is a week away, so I
can always back out. I stop taking the prenatal
vitamins. They only make the nausea worse.
On a particularly bad morning, sick, run-down, and
facing a rough shift at work, I can't imagine how
I'll make it through the day. I force myself to eat
some scrambled eggs. They actually taste good. In
fact, nothing has ever tasted so good. I eat more
and more and more until I'm stuffed. For the first
time in a month, I feel relatively normal. Not only
do I make it through the day, I go for a run after
work. While I'm running, it occurs to me that the
nausea and weakness are contributing to my fears
about caring for a baby. Now strong, I feel the
possibility that maybe I could have a third child.
Unfortunately, the normality is fleeting — the next
day, eggs don't do the trick, and I almost throw
them up — but it's enough to make me postpone the
consultation one week. I want to want this baby.
Maybe I can will it. John, God bless him, has said
he'll support any decision I make. I spend that
evening at a party surrounded by people with
infants, and not one pang of desire registers in me.
I'm only 75 percent sure about my decision. The
other 25 percent is terrified that I'll never
forgive myself for giving the baby up, that I'll
always wonder what it would have been like. I pray
for some kind of resolution. I just want a sign. We
need to move on.
It's a gorgeous fall day as I walk my oldest
daughter to kindergarten. She chats about gym class,
and I realize I'm in a good mood. These walks have
been a struggle lately — the nausea is so strong in
the morning, I have trouble thinking of anything
else and tend to be terse with her. Today I feel
better and truly enjoy our conversation. I think
about another child and feel that the possibility
might be there. After I drop her off, I end up
walking all the way to work — a good 40 minutes —
just to prolong the good vibe.
Two days later, I go to my termination consultation.
Two minutes into the conversation, I know I don't
have the heart to go through with an abortion. Maybe
I never did. I look at the sonogram screen and am
shocked to see the baby has arms and a head. Four
weeks ago, in my doctor's office, it looked like a
grain of rice. I walk out into the sunshine and
realize I'm having another child.
A week later I'm sorting through summer clothes and
packing some up for charity. Roma keeps taking
things out of the giveaway bag, and I get annoyed.
"But Mom," she says, "We need to save these for the
baby." John and I haven't said a word to her, but
she already knows.
Everything is going to be okay. More than okay.
Blessed? I think so. |
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