In the stillness of the night, I mustered the strength to rise from my bed. It was well before the sun started to rise, and avoiding my doctor’s orders to fast, I snuck a quick breakfast of cereal and milky-sweet coffee. This would be my third and final child, and at almost 46 years old, I knew it was a risk. But we had gotten this far with no complications, and I was hopeful. As we drove to the hospital, I couldn’t ignore the strange and delightful feeling that soon, my baby’s first cry would echo through the world.
Despite the challenges that come with pregnancy at an advanced age, I remained determined. Even though my choice of a distant hospital seemed unconventional, it felt right to me. The hospital held a special place in my heart, having worked there for many years. At age 45, I was pushing past the conventional boundaries of childbirth, leaning on the promise of advancements in medical science.
As nervousness started to set in on our way to the hospital, my husband, Joe, attempted to ease my tension. He was calm, almost serene, in the face of the uncertainty that awaited us. To distract ourselves, I shared with him a heart-wrenching story from my residency days, an unexpected reminder of the unpredictability of childbirth.
The climb from career success to the joy of motherhood is one many women experience, and as my body lay still, I couldn’t help but wonder about the risks of giving birth at my age. Yet, as the scent of burnt flesh wafted through the room and I was consumed by a sharp pain in by chest, I knew that the baby was all that mattered at that moment.
Despite the discomfort and chaos of the operating room, my third child finally made their entrance into the world, and…
