I'm 37 and just had my second miscarriage. Being older only intensifies the grief I feel this time around, and I'm not sure if I'll try again.
Courtesy Sarah Michelle Sherman
A few weeks ago, at a birthday celebration, my husband and I were talking to a friend and his partner. She's 28, beautiful, and expecting; her glow is unmistakable. He asked me a simple question: "How did you feel during your first trimester?" Simple — yet it stunned me into a silence as my mind went somewhere else.
I felt their eyes on me as they waited for me to answer. All I could think to say was, "Which time?" But I said nothing at first — I was too lost in thoughts, visions of ultrasounds, doctors, and grief.
After a few seconds, I shook my head in an effort to snap myself back to reality. "Sorry," I said, as if I had left to take a phone call and come back. I knew he was only referring to when I was pregnant with my now 2-and-a-half-year-old.
Of course, he wasn't asking about when I was pregnant the year before that — or the most recent time I was pregnant, just two months ago — because no babies were born with those pregnancies, so he didn't know about them. So, instead, I kept my answer as simple as the question was intended to be — honest, but not totally-kill-the-mood honest. I told them I had been miserable, and how the exhaustion of the first trimester is debilitating.
When I was pregnant with my son, I was stopped by a colleague in my office one day in the bathroom. I had recently started showing. With big eyes, she pointed toward my stomach. "Yeah, I'm pregnant," I said.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"34."
"Wow," she said. "You guys start so old these days."
I laughed, then left. Later, I regretted not saying something — anything — to her. Because it was offensive, for so many reasons. I still wonder what her reaction would've been had I responded with, "Well, I wanted to start earlier, but I had a miscarriage." Or, "You have no idea when I started."
The first time I was pregnant, my 12-week ultrasound revealed a reality I hadn't prepared for. When the doctor told me I miscarried, I was left with a grief I never imagined and one I didn't quite understand.
When I got pregnant the next year, I was overcome with fear that I'd have another miscarriage. At every appointment, I expected the doctor to tell me it was gone. But it kept growing — my son kept growing. And when he came, I knew how lucky I was — that he made it, that he was here.
This last time I was pregnant, just recently, I was consumed by fear from the moment I saw the positive test result. I just had a bad feeling, so I prepared for the worst. Because I'm 37 — which is considered an advanced maternal age — I had an ultrasound at eight weeks.
Afterward, the doctor explained to me that the fetus was measuring small and the heartbeat was weak, but there was still a chance, still a reason to have hope. I had to wait a week to repeat the ultrasound to see if things improved. They didn't. Seven days later, when I returned to the office, she told me the heartbeat was gone.
I learned then that preparation does absolutely nothing to protect you from the devastation you feel in this situation. It didn't matter how many times I'd told myself it could happen. I was aware of the probability, knew the statistics: between the ages of 35 and 40, your chance for miscarriage is about 20% to 30%. But the ultrasound with no movement, the silence of the technician, and the words "no fetal heartbeat" on the sonogram image placed next to my urine sample — it all hurt. It put an abrupt stop to my plans, the dreams I had for my family's future.
That was the weird thing. Despite my constant worrying and that bad feeling in my gut, I had still been planning, dreaming. But I had to stop doing that. I had to stop doing all of it. And I had to cancel the meeting with the home renovator — no point in getting that extra bedroom now. No reason to make lists of names we like. I could eat sushi again. I could have an old-fashioned.
Suddenly being able to do these things again made me feel like I was going backward — a direction I wasn't supposed to be going in. I didn't have time to go back. I was supposed to be going forward to something new. "Advanced maternal age" kept echoing in my mind — a term that feels like a verdict, a reminder that time is not on my side.
So, here I am, with the weight of my age pressing down on me, amplifying my grief in ways I never thought possible. Because I am grieving not just for what might have been, but for the harsh reality of the limitations my age imposes. And the thought of starting this process over again at 37 feels daunting, with each passing day adding another layer of uncertainty and fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of the challenges that come with being an older mother, fear of facing another loss.
I don't know yet if I'll try again. I still need time to figure that out. But I do know a little boy who'd make a great big brother, and I can't seem to get that out of my head.
