Hope. Whether we realize it or not, hope is what gets us out of bed in the morning. The hope of a good day at the office; the hope of seeing that special person that makes you smile; or maybe the hope of doing something meaningful to bring positivity into the world. Sometimes hope is all we have.
But I found myself desperately without hope a few years ago, after experiencing my third miscarriage at the age of 43. I watched my sons crumble as we learned the news, and I fought through the depression of our loss, family health issues, and my own spiritual and emotional struggles. After several months, I started to feel like I reached a turning point. The miscarriage was devastating, but I still had hope that maybe I could have another child.
And then I got the diagnosis that took my hope away: perimenopause.
Also called the menopause transition, perimenopause marks the time when a woman’s ovaries begin to produce less estrogen. Perimenopause continues until menopause, when the ovaries no longer release eggs. The average length of perimenopause is four years but can be a few months for some women and up to 10 years for others.
I thought that my moodiness, hot flashes, and digestive issues were just a part of the enduring stress of the miscarriage, so I dismissed them. According to the National Institute on Aging, transitioning to menopause usually begins between ages 45 and 55. I was younger than that, so I wasn’t prepared for it.
Being diagnosed with perimenopause felt like a sucker punch to the gut, because I knew menopause was on the horizon. Although by this point I’d experienced three miscarriages, I’d also successfully given birth twice. So I believed I could still get pregnant and give birth to a beautiful baby. But once I stopped ovulating and menopause set in, carrying a child would change from a dream to an achingly disappearing reality. Once this condition wreaked its biological havoc, it will have taken the one thing I wanted more than anything else: to have another child.
I distinctly remember sitting on my bed, reading, when the truth hit me. “I can’t carry a child anymore,” I thought. Soon, I was sobbing. Convulsing. I realized I wasn’t so much crying about the inability to get pregnant again or even about this life change. I was crying about the loss of the dream of adding another wheel to our precious family wagon.
Once this condition wreaked its biological havoc, it will have taken the one thing I wanted more than anything else: to have another child.
I had to dig my way out and process the fact that I needed to let go of what I had once been able to do so effortlessly. I dealt with the anger at seeing other women get pregnant, or a newborn seeming to pop up at every turn. I confronted deep-seated jealousy that engulfed me after receiving a baby shower invitation. I realized that I had already dealt with all these feelings after the miscarriage. Yet they were back. And like before, I had to make a decision. While this door had slammed in my face, it was up to me to learn how to open up other life-engaging doors.
First, I had to talk about it. Let out the pain and disappointment I was harboring. I felt stigmatized at times by people who said I should be grateful for the two kids I have. And I was. Immensely. But that didn’t take away the very real hurt I felt. I was so thankful to have listening friends and family who didn’t let me mourn my loss alone.
My support system extended to seeing a counselor for therapy. On the advice of my therapist, I started exercising more to help my physical and mental state. Boy, did it make a difference! I also decided to take part in online support groups. In these groups, I read story after story of women going through my exact same situation. Other women also endured a shattering experience, and were now trying to pick up the pieces. I realized I wasn’t alone. There were other women who felt like their families weren’t complete, but their bodies were telling them they would have to complete their family in other ways.
I’m a writer, so chronicling my journey in writing was therapeutic. It also helped from time to time to read past entries, so I could see how far I’d come. I gave myself a lot of grace and patience, too. Just like when I grieved the miscarriage, this was another type of grief. And experience had taught me just how detrimental it is to zoom through your grief, or even worse, stuff it inside.
Just like when I grieved the miscarriage, this was another type of grief.
It took some time, but I learned to focus on the positives in my life and be grateful for those things. Prayer and reading the Bible really helped me in this area. I found myself able to look forward to other goals I had that were still thriving. Writing a book, homeschooling my boys, and helping my husband with projects were just a few of the exciting possibilities.
And maybe, just maybe, looking at other ways to expand my family. When I allowed myself to hope again.
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