Judith's Birth of Veronica

This article is from Mothering Magazine.  Read the original article here:

http://mothering.com/pregnancy-birth/new-mom-at-50?page=0,0

"I didn't know women your age could have babies," the young woman blurted out. We were both looking at crib quilts at a church bazaar, and she had asked me who was going to have a baby. "I am," I replied, thinking she couldn't miss my pregnant belly, swollen large in the eighth month. Yes, admittedly my hair was quite gray for my 49 years, but I didn't feel that old.

After that encounter, I went to the beauty shop and had my hair dyed. At least then I didn't look 50 at first glance, and everybody didn't immediately assume that my baby daughter was my granddaughter. Now, five years later, I've gone back to my natural gray, and the grandmother comments don't bother me any more. After all, I am old enough to be Veronica's grandmother.

This baby was a complete surprise. I'd tried to have another baby after my son was born when I was 41, but after four miscarriages I finally gave up hope that I would have another child. My periods stopped abruptly when I moved to the East Coast to take a new teaching job, and I accepted the fact that I had started menopause.

My husband, John, and I were in New York for a weekend workshop when I noticed that my breasts had started swelling and felt tender. "Maybe I'm pregnant," I quipped to John, not really believing it. Then I squeezed a nipple and got a little milky fluid. "Oops! This doesn't feel like menopause!" I said.

I felt very ambivalent about being pregnant again. If the pregnancy continues, I thought, fine; I'll have another baby. If it doesn't, that's fine, too, because I can pursue my new career. After four miscarriages, I was afraid to get very excited. I didn't want to be disappointed again.

I felt a little embarrassed going to the doctor and admitting I was pregnant at my age. Then I asked the important question: "Given my history of miscarriage, do you think I can carry this baby to term?" The doctor was matter-of-fact: "I don't see why not." I asked her about checking my progesterone level to make sure it was high enough to maintain the pregnancy during the first trimester. She didn't seem very concerned. However, I was; so every time I felt a twinge that resembled a cramp, I rubbed natural progesterone cream on my belly. I have no idea if it helped prevent an early miscarriage, but it did ease my mind somewhat.

At 11 weeks gestation I had a CVS test to see if the fetus had normal chromosomes. (Statistically the chances are one in seven that a woman my age could have a Downs Syndrome child.) In all my eight pregnancies, I had never had an ultrasound. What a thrill to see that little peanut shaped being moving around on the ultrasound monitor! There really was something alive inside me!

When I received the call from the genetic laboratory with the results of the test, I held my breath. Was the baby going to be all right? What if it wasn't? Would I decide to abort? The fact that I was pregnant was miracle enough; would I dare to reject this gift from heaven because it wasn't society's idea of normal?

The fetus was all right, the lab woman told me. I let out my breath, and tears formed in my eyes. "Do you want to know the sex?" she asked. "Yes!" A girl! I was ecstatic. Maybe this pregnancy would continue! I hadn't had any cramping or bleeding from the CVS test, as they had warned I might. I was already past the first trimester, when most miscarriages occur. John and I began thinking of this baby as a real entity and inviting her into our lives.

Our family moved back to my hometown in the Midwest, and I found a skilled and intuitive midwife who guided me through the easiest pregnancy of all. This was my fourth full-term pregnancy--the first two in my mid-20s, the last two in my 40s. My midwife was completely supportive of my desire to have the baby at home, despite my age and previous miscarriages. As long as I followed her nutritional advice I should stay healthy, and she saw no reason to plan a hospital birth. I couldn't find a doctor to agree to be a back-up to a lay midwife, so I had no doctor at all. My midwife worked with a medical doctor in a small town close to her residence, and he would be available in an emergency.

A few days before I gave birth, my midwife prepared me for the possibility that we might have to use that doctor, as the cord seemed to be wrapped around the baby's neck, preventing her from descending into the birth canal. However, we were successful in getting the baby to turn around enough to loosen the cord, so we went ahead with the homebirth. We planned an underwater birth in a big inflatable spa, and the labor and birth were the most comfortable I have had.

My recovery also went well. I'd like to say this was due to my impeccable exercise program, but I was actually less diligent during this pregnancy than previously. I did return to a regular yoga practice after Veronica's birth, which has firmed and slimmed my body. Although I didn't have the abundance of milk I'd had with my first two children, my supply was adequate, and Veronica grew quite chubby on breast milk exclusively. She continued to nurse for 38 months! During the pregnancy I got used to a more youthful appearance due to increased blood and water in my tissues, which tends to smooth out hairline wrinkles. I was sorry to see those little wrinkles reappear a few months after the birth.

The reaction of friends and family members has been mixed, but mostly very supportive of my being an older mom. Several family members were quite concerned about my choice to have a homebirth, especially because the medical profession automatically labels pregnancies over age 35 "high risk." I think my pregnancy and birth were not riskier than any other, thanks to a high-quality diet and excellent prenatal care.

My two older children, neither of whom have children of their own, are delighted with their new sister. My older son said, "Thanks for having your grandchildren for us, Mom." My younger son, who was nine when Veronica was born, had problems adjusting to being a sibling instead of the only child in the family; but even though he still complains about his "annoying" little sister, I can tell that he loves her.

There are times I think, "I'll be 68 when she turns 18!" but luckily I have some wonderful older role models in my life, so that doesn't sound so very old. I expect to live until Veronica is at least 50 years old herself! One activity I love is traveling, and at first I was concerned that having a young child would curtail my ability to travel. However, Veronica has been to Russia twice with us, and she loves to travel. She and I are already planning an extended trip to Europe when she is 15 or 16.

I think the foremost asset of being an older mother is my greater perspective on the importance of paying attention to children when they are little. I know how fast the years go. Veronica will only be a baby/toddler/child for a very short time, and I want to relish every moment. When my first two children were small, I was impatient for them to grow up so that I could pursue other interests. Indeed, I was so involved in other interests and projects when they were little that I missed some of their childhood! I now know that I can always return to those interests when Veronica is older, but I can never return to her young childhood.

Malvina Reynolds wrote a song, called "I Wish You Were Here," that expresses this thought beautifully:
I wish you were here to get underfoot,
I wish you were here to get in my way;
To call me from work, to call me to play.
I wish you were here again.
Oh what did I do that had to be done?
And what did I read that had to be read?
When I could have turned to watch you instead?
I wish you were here again1

Whenever I find myself getting impatient, or wishing I could be doing something other than caring for my precious child, I sing that song to myself and thank God that I was given yet another baby to care for.

NOTE
1. Malvina Reynolds, "I Wish You Were Here," published in The Malvina Reynolds Songbook (Berkeley, CA: Schroder Press), 1984.

Judith Wynhausen has been a folksinger, natural food store manager, consumer advocate, actress, director, kindergarten teacher, storyteller, and yoga instructor. She lives in Joplin, Missouri, with her husband, John, son Aaron (14), daughter Veronica (5), one dog, one cat, and 15 baby chicks. Her other two children are Kristin (31) and Erich (29).

Angel's Journey to Motherhood After 40

The following is an article from Angel's Blog.

 Follow her here:

Who Needs Immaculate Conception?

Can it be possible that an estimated one billion Catholics—representing a scant one-sixth of the world’s population—actually believe that over 2000 years ago, a Middle Eastern peasant woman named Mary  conceived “immaculately”,  while supposedly retaining her virginity?

If so, why is it so hard to arouse a modicum of faith in the modern miracle of middle-aged motherhood? Today, the science of ART (assisted reproductive technologies) has virtually reinvented the concept of immaculate conception, and all but marginalized embryonic production of the more old fashioned, “missionary” kind.

In fact, when any woman over forty conceives the old fashioned way, it tends to be seen as the exception that proves the rule.

Frank and I met after being liberated from our first marriages—both childless. I was forty years old, with my statistical probability of conception plummeting like a two-ton elevator car with a busted motor from the top of the Empire State Building.

And Frank came complete with scrotal varicose veins (varicoceles), a natural form of birth control, along with the ‘comforting’ brochure he’d been fobbed off with at the fertility clinic, featuring a childless couple on an expensive sailboat, smiling blissfully into the sunset.

I wondered, then, if that was all we were:  the perfect postcard couple—for childlessness.

But I never took things at face (or fertility) value. Just as I knew Frank was going to be my husband from the moment I clapped eyes on him, I also knew he would be the father of our son.

“I see a little boy on you” I said, amidst the rosy glow of our blossoming courtship.

“That’s funny” replied Frank, laughing like Santa Claus during a prostate examination. “I can’t have children!”

I thought about this. But I could still see Alex, my boy who was meant to be.

“Yes, you can” I stated emphatically. “And I believe you will.”

But like everything else worth having in life—no pain, no gain.(Or, as in our case—no abject torment and suffering, no pink booties and bunting. )

And when it came to enthusiasm, Frank was a warrior, I tell you.

He would soon discover, however, that during the tender administrations of varicocele embolization,  resistance was futile.

Frank was a lamb, (if not downright eager-to-please) when they skewered him with a catheter through the jugular vein—like  theBorg performing a nanoprobe assimilation—and whipped it down into his scrotum after a brief overture through the heart.

It was Cringe Factor 8, Mr Sulu—enough to make any red-blooded man highjack the nearest shuttle craft, to hole up on a remote mining planet in the Gamma Quadrant.

But my intuition was right. We conceived Alex five months later. When he was born, I was nearly forty-two.

Soon after that, we were trying for a girl. And just like that “deaf, dumb, blind kid” out of Tommy with his pinball machine, I could sense her even if no one else did.

This time, however, we were in for the faith-rocking shock of our lives.

At forty-three, I miscarried. After that, I was no longer confident in my vision of a baby girl, nor trusting of my own instincts. The egg-timer was down to pinching out its last few grains.

There is a depth of desperation to which women can sink, where they are almost willing to barter a kidney, in exchange for being able to conceive a single, human life. And every aspect of every day is overshadowed by its gloom.

But everyone knows that—unless you are on the black market (and even then)—it’s rare to obtain the spark of life in exchange for human body parts.

So we were prepared to try everything else—from home pregnancy predictors, farmers’ almanacs, and divining rods—to work out the right body temperature, exact planetary alignments, location of meridian lines required to accurately forecast ideal conditions for sex-on-demand.

We might even have thrown in a pagan sacrifice if we thought it would have helped.

At forty-four, just before Christmas in 2004, I decided it was time for the Hail Mary play—a last ditched attempt at conception. And I had to at least consider the possibility of a scientifically-induced “immaculate” conception.

We were scheduled for an interview at a fertility clinic in January 2005. Just before the holidays, we did the triathlon of tests, including the one that had Frank racing across town with a vial of hot sperm in his shirt pocket, hoping he wouldn’t get nailed for speeding. (Yeah, Frank, explain that one to the nice officer.)

We took Alex with us to see a renowned specialist in reproductive endocrinology and infertility—“Dr Dick”, we’ll call him.

When we said we wanted to conceive with our own eggs, he jammed his coffee cup between his teeth—a token attempt to hide his knee-jerk contempt response—and then rolled his long suffering eyes.

When Frank (understandably) asked: “But what about myvaricocele procedure?”, the surgeon glanced at two-year-old Alex (who was expressing familial solidarity by ripping Dr Dick’s office apart, one file at a time) with barely repressed disdain.

“The evidence”, he pontificated archly, “for the efficacy of varicocele embolization in fertility is only anecdotal”.

That was when it dawned on me that the man didn’t even like kids.

I kept a grip on it until we were given the bums’ rush, passing the line-up of women paying for their fertility drugs—the air so pungent with desperation, you could cut it with a scalpel—on the way out.

Once outside, I let go. I sobbed brokenly, like a kid on the morning after the murder of Bambi’s mother.

One month later, my period was late and I concluded that, on top of all else, I was menopausal. Two months later, when my breasts felt tender, I said “What the…?” and tested myself.

And that’s when, against the odds, the pregnant lady sang.

Lizzie was born—all pink perfection on a cloud of joy—shortly before my forty-fifth birthday. I had conceived at Christmas, the birthday of the child who had supposedly been borne by a virgin, as improbably as the goddess Athene springing from the head of Zeus.

But Christmas had been different. It had been the eve of the last resort when we thought it was all over but the fat lady singing, when we did it just for the joy and made love like it was 1999….

It turns out I had already been two weeks pregnant during our visit to Dr. Dick.

“Let’s send Dr Dick a baby photo of Lizzie” said Frank, “and sign it ‘Anecdotally Yours’.”

His suggestion set me to wondering how close “anecdotal” came to a downright miracle.

And could there any such thing as an atheist in a fertility clinic?

Tagged with: baby after 40 • donor eggs • egg donation after 45 • egg donation after 50 •fertility after 40 • first time mother over 40 • mother after 40 • mother over 40 • mother over 45 • mother over 50 • motherhood after 40 • motherhood after 50 • motherhood over 40 • mothers after 40 • mothers over 40 • over 40 pregnancy • pregnant after 40