by Sandra Philpott

Created on: January 19, 2009

I was 39 years old when I got married for the first time. I was 39 years old when I got pregnant for the first time. And I was 39 years old when I had a miscarriage for the first time.

A miscarriage at any age is heartbreaking. But at 39, I knew I didn't have a lot of time to play with. I was fortunate, I suppose, that I miscarried so early, at only 9 weeks. I was fortunate, too, that I had gotten pregnant after only three months of trying. And that I got my period only three weeks after the miscarriage and was ready to start trying again. But at age 39, that added up to six months wasted. Lost. Gone. I was six months older with nothing to show for it. I was heartbroken, and angry, and scared, all at once.

Being an analytical person, I sought solace in information and research. I pored over on-line articles, I read medical journals, I waded through countless entries on on-line bulletin boards. I found myself resenting the 25-year-olds who were posting about their own miscarriages. How dare they think their pain was as great as mine? They had years to let themselves recover physically and emotionally. They had time to try again and again if they needed to. They had time to take a break, time to explore new medical technologies, time to think and plan and make decisions. I was panicked because I had no time. Every month I thought about how old I would be when the baby was born if I conceived again that month. Every month I calculated how many more tries until I would be having this baby at age 41. Time was my enemy.

But time eventually became my friend. With the passing months, the pain of losing my child eased. My original due date had been March, but as I calculated each possible new conception, I saw myself expecting in the summer, and then in the beautiful New England fall. I could picture my husband driving me to the hospital through the glorious autumn foliage to deliver our child. It gave me hope. I began to be able to rejoice in friends' pregnancies again, instead of being resentful. I began to watch mothers pushing strollers in the mall with a smile instead of tears. I began to let go of the anger and resentment, and to be thankful for all that I had that most of the 25-year-olds didn't: a mature, understanding, and supportive husband; a good job with excellent health benefits; a comfortable home; friends who were experienced moms (many of whom had been through both miscarriages and fertility treatments); and a solid financial cushion.

Life does go on after miscarriage. I still hold my breath every month, hoping to see two pink lines on the pregnancy test. And I know that once I do, I will continue to hold my breath until I pass each benchmark of a healthy pregnancy: seeing and hearing the heartbeat, reaching the end of the first trimester, feeling the first tiny flutter of movement, and finally, going into labor and delivering my sweet baby. It may be that I never reach those stages, but for now I intend to keep trying. Because life does go on.

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