WITH MY FIRST PREGNANCY, I remember getting ready for work and moving a quick load of laundry into the dryer before I ran out the door. Then it hit me like a brick wall. Is there a dead fish in this room? Now, I’m no June Cleaver, but I generally try not to let animals die in my house. Clothes may live on the treadmill, but nothing has ever died in my home. I went on to work making a note to check the laundry room for dead animals when I got home. As the day went on, I felt a sickness that sank deep into my soul. I didn’t think anything of nearly falling asleep during the budget meeting, but when the smell of Chick-fil-A had me losing my lunch, I knew something was wrong. Could this be? Is this it? We had been trying, and we did want a baby, but I was not ready to take the test.
I thought, I’m either pregnant or I have something horribly wrong with me. I’m not talking about the flu. I’m talking about discovering a brand-new disease that they would name after me. There would be prayer chains, casseroles, and telethons in my honor. Was I being dramatic? No, this was serious.
I went to the grocery store and bought three items. A pregnancy test, an apple, and one extra-large jar of Nutella. The apple was going to be the start of eating healthy throughout my pregnancy, and the Nutella was to drown my sorrows of not being pregnant and the pending doom of the new disease I was sure to have. I took the test. One quick line, then waiting, waiting… Is that a… Is it? It is! A second line appeared. Pregnant! In my excitement, I had to celebrate, so I shared the news with my husband and quickly downed half the jar of Nutella.
I did the apple-Nutella–pregnancy test routine once more three years later. This time we added a boy to go along with his big sister. When my daughter was born, the doctor said, “Oh wow, you can have as many as you like,” and that I had good strong lady parts. But by the time my son was born, he said, “So are we shuttin’ this down or what?” I told him I wasn’t sure and thought that I might want one more. He said he thought I could handle one more as long as I was pregnant by the time I left the hospital.
I wish I could say I was surprised by my doctor saying my uterus was made of tissue paper. I knew before giving birth that I was part of a dying breed—the Gen X mom with an infant. I didn’t know what I was in for at the beginning of that second pregnancy, but it didn’t take long for the doctor and nurses to let me know. I can still see the look on the nurse’s face. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-one and looked scared to death.
Her voice shook a tiny bit as she said, “I want you to know that we all really like you and think you are really pretty.”
“Ok, thank you! I really like all of you too,” I replied.
She continued, “So please don’t be mad at me, but legally I have to give you this pamphlet.”
I’m sorry. A pamphlet? Spoiler alert—NOTHING GOOD EVER COMES FROM A PAMPHLET.
There it was in big, bold letters.
SURVIVING YOUR GERIATRIC PREGNANCY
“I’m sorry, but this can’t be right. I’m only thirty-five,” I told her.
“Oh, no! You aren’t getting this because you are thirty-five—you are getting this because you are going to be thirty-six when the baby arrives” was her response.
“So my only way to avoid a geriatric pregnancy is to die…”
“Please don’t think of it that way. It’s just that a woman of your age—”
“Of my age?? Am I going to break a hip in childbirth? Should I start on soft foods now? Should we call in the family?”
“No, it’s just that a pregnancy for a woman of your age—”
“Could you please stop saying ‘for your age’? Nothing ends a compliment faster than ‘for your age.’ You look so good… for your age. You run so fast… for your age. You eat so much… for your age.”
The pamphlet explained some of the risks of having a baby when you are older than the Crypt Keeper: C-section, diabetes, chromosome problems. What it never said was that due to my age, my ankles would swell to the size of my head, and my baby weight would hang on for dear life. If I could go back in time, I would tell my thirty-five-and-pregnant self to put down the caramel cake and drink more water.
By the time I got this pamphlet, I had already crossed the gestational diabetes hurdle and was cleared on all fronts. As for the risks to chromosomes—this baby was already so loved. However many chromosomes this baby had would be exactly how many we wanted. We never did further testing. My only hope was that this baby would be ok when he saw his old mother and even older father.
The C-section risk was not a big deal. I’d had one with my daughter, so I was expecting one regardless of my advanced maternal age. I don’t mean to brag, but I have a skinny pelvis, which led to my needing the C-section. I was as surprised as anyone to receive this news. I was born a size twelve and had spent every Sunday hearing the little old ladies tell me that I would appreciate my birthing hips when I was older.
I planned my first pregnancy around my baby being born the first week of January: (a) It was my due date; (b) it fit into my work schedule; and (c) it was wild card weekend! Our new baby could be here in time to watch the playoffs.
I went in for what I knew would be my last weekly checkup. The doctor did his little exam and told me that he’d see me next week. I told him that he would see me next week, but we would be seeing each other in labor and delivery. “THIS BABY IS READY! THIS GOOSE IS COOKED. EVICT THIS BABY.”
“You are not dilated in the least. It would take a miracle for you to be ready to deliver by next week,” the doctor told me.
“Sir, I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, but this baby is ready to come out!”
Thankfully, my doctor and I had become friends over the past nine months, which was no accident; I chose the only Mississippi State Bulldog ob-gyn in Jackson, Mississippi. He was referred by my neighbor who was a NICU nurse, but what helped reassure my husband that this man knew about medicine was that he was an undergrad from Mississippi State. Never mind that Mississippi State is known for its veterinary medicine and I’m birthing a human child, not a cow… That was his top credential.
“Listen,” he said, “if it makes you feel better, we can do an ultrasound today to prove to you that your baby is not ready.”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s do the ultrasound so we know I’m right.”
During the ultrasound, the technician never showed her cards. I waited in the room for what felt like an eternity, then the doctor came in.
“Well! This never happens. You are right. Ms. Skrmetti, you are measuring forty full weeks. Your baby is full-term and ready. The problem is that you have a skinny pelvis.”
“I’m sorry—what did you just say to me?”
“You have a skinny pelvis, and she can’t get down the birth canal because it’s so skinny.”
I looked him dead in the eye and said, “I’m about to have another man’s baby and here you are flirtin’ with me. This is highly unprofessional.”
I asked him to double-check about my hips. “Sir, I have been told my whole life that I could birth a baby with nothing more than a hard sneeze.”
Well, the old ladies were wrong. I had the opposite of birthin’ hips and would need a C-section for both of my pregnancies.
I was discharged from the hospital with baby number two without being pregnant with baby number three, but we were happy as a family of four. The next eight years in Birmingham, Alabama, showed me in real time why they say, “The days are long, but the years are short.” We said goodbye to dear friends, made new ones, and realized that no amount of distance could get in the way of true friendship.
As the kids got older, my yearly doctor appointments were replaced by what felt like weekly visits to the pediatrician. I thought I was holding myself together well, but the first time we visited a clinic in Birmingham, I was fumbling through my purse for my insurance card when the receptionist informed me, “Ma’am, we don’t take Medicare.”
I found my insurance card and didn’t kill her or shoot her the bird, which I felt was Christlike.
It was eight years after that geriatric pregnancy when I pulled out my calendar and started counting backward. Truth be told I couldn’t remember exactly when my last one was. I had noticed that things weren’t running like clockwork anymore, but I had also hoped that I was so busy with kids that I was getting my dates confused. No… this time was late. So late that it could almost be considered early for the next go-round.
So there I sat, waiting on the test and talking to Jesus and asking him to please not pick me. Just as I explained that I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me, but I don’t always want to, the test came back, and Jesus answered, “Fear not—it’s only menopause.”