My Geriatric Pregnancy Was a Constant Fight for Control Over My Body

Navigating a patriarchal medical system as a pregnant at 42 year old deeply changed something in me.

I am smack bang in the middle of a cluster-feeding clusterfuck. My daughter is six weeks fresh into this world and I have been chained to this godforsaken mustard rocking chair with her ravenous little milk-seeking mouth not letting my red-raw blistered nipples get a break for even a nanosecond. My tits are raging in a nettled fire and I am on the precipice of tears.

I can feel the beginnings of a boiling hemorrhoid forming at the mouth of my anus from all this sitting and feeding. I need to get up and out of this chair but any time I attempt such a risky maneuver, my daughter screams at a pitch so diabolical and otherworldly, primal internal alarms sound in my postpartum body as my cortisol spikes to dangerous levels and I immediately sit down again to re-latch my bloodied nipple.

You look up at me with a red and gummy contented smile.

I am in hell.

The oxytocin that has been flowing with each breast connection up until this point appears to have run its course. I’ve had exactly 20 minutes of connected sleep in the past 24 hours and I am a nauseous sweaty mess. Panic inches closer to my coffee-fuelled heart.

I am a milk machine. Reduced to two-tits-on-legs, I am so far removed from whom I’ve ever been, I don’t recognize my own face when I look in the mirror. My partner has just returned to work and I’m home alone for the first time, with my dog at my heels and my cat meowing incessantly at me.

 What do you want, cat?

 What the fucking, fuck do you want?

Postpartum me hates this cat, a cat I used to love with every fiber of my being. I have random flashes of drowning her in the bath. I’m concerned by these intrusive impulsions, but at this precise moment, I’m more concerned by my inflamed asshole.

Sleep deprivation has reached critical levels and I’m now struck with bursts of vertigo which grip me whenever I stand up too quickly. The first incident occurred at 2 a.m. two nights ago, when I heard you cry from your moses basket next to our bed, only to topple over onto the hardwood floor, landing with a heavy thud on my right arm as the world spun with the most intense dizziness I’ve ever experienced. We’re talking Gravitron-levels of unsteadiness until I ran to the bathroom and vomited my insides out.

I know the cluster-feeding will pass, so I persist.

I am determined. 

Breastfeeding came naturally to us both after a traumatic Code Green geriatric birth at age 42. It was the second wonderful thing my ancient body managed to do, after going into labor naturally, when I desperately didn’t want to be induced, before the wheels came off spectacularly and the preeclampsia took hold of us both.

My blood pressure, critically rising. 

Yours, critically dropping.

Within minutes, a Code Green was called. An emergency obstetric code used in Australian hospitals to signal the need for immediate birth, typically a cesarean section, due to an urgent threat to the mother and baby. The announcement reverberated through the jangling speakers of the hospital. Masked orderlies, backs to the wall, look on with perturbed eyes.

My husband’s face is ashen.

My gurney is rushed though the cramped, under-construction corridors of the refurbishment-in-progress public hospital for the emergency C-section. 

You arrived through seven layers—skin, subcutaneous fat, fascia, muscle, peritoneum, uterus, and amniotic sac.   

Skin to skin, you did the most perfect breast crawl and latched immediately.

A perfect fit. 

In an instant, the havoc of the last 24 hours melted away. 

And so began our milk-odyssey. 

Being good at this was healing. 

Breastfeeding ameliorates the trauma of our birth.

And so, I hold onto our breastfeeding journey with a white-knuckle grip.

---

It is the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, we’ve just moved to Geelong from Melbourne and I’m in the third trimester of my geriatric pregnancy at the local public hospital. 

My care is fast becoming a battleground to navigate and I am alone at every single appointment due to the strict pandemic restrictions. 

Not only am I a senior citizen pregnant person but I’ve won the old Lavender Lady lottery of having gestational diabetes, gestational hypertension with the increasingly likely possibility of it developing into preeclampsia, and severe anaemia. What a trifecta!

This has meant an urgent iron infusion, hours upon hours of blood pressure monitoring at the maternal assessment unit along with countless urine tests to ensure my hypertension is kept at manageable levels. At the maternity assessment unit, dozens of pregnant women are herded like cows upon entry to the weighing station in the middle of reception, where we’re instructed to waddle on over like the heifers we are and step on the scales out in the open air for all to see.

Due to my “advanced maternal age,” I am being pressured to the point of coercion to be induced no later than 38 weeks. There have been multiple discussions around me about what this might entail, the first being a Foley bulb induction, a procedure to help “ripen” the cervix for labor. A thin tube with a balloon at the end is inserted into the cervix, then inflated with fluid, applying pressure to soften and open the cervix over several hours. This mechanical process helps prepare the cervix for labor and may allow it to dilate to about 3-6 centimeters before the catheter is removed, either manually or when it falls out on its own. Side effects can include severe nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. 

This procedure elicits a severe panic response in me—it feels barbaric—and beyond invasive. I have politely declined all offers of any forms of inductions, which has earned me the hard-won title of “difficult.” It’s a new badge I’m trying on for size and in time, I will wear it comfortably well.

I’ve hired a birth and postpartum doula to empower me to navigate a patriarchal medical system. She has taught me to demand informed consent, to know and uphold my rights, especially my right to say no.

Failing the balloon, the next induction step will be the syntocinon drip. This is a method of inducing labor using a synthetic version of the hormone oxytocin, which stimulates uterine contractions. This sounds less barbaric; however, it can often lead to the cascade of interventions, which can often lead to the need for others, creating a domino effect. For example, inducing labor might lead to stronger contractions, which leads to the need for continuous fetal monitoring and an epidural, potentially increasing the risk of an instrumental birth or a cesarean section. 

This can also impact the initial breastfeeding experience.

As I politely decline another induction booking and the sour-faced midwife squints at me disapprovingly, I leave the assessment unit with my head held high, until I get outside and exhale a tightly held breath I didn’t know I was holding onto and cry.

I sit on a nearby bench and make an urgent whispered deal with my baby.

 Babygirl, I need you to come out naturally.

We will not be induced, my beautiful girl.

You kick in response and I know we’ve got this. 

---

When you’re 42 and in your third trimester, medical professionals do not like the word no.

When you’re 42 and in your third trimester, medical professionals tend to coerce, though this just presents as standard procedure. 

When you’re 42 and in your third trimester, medical professionals like to invade your body with “routine” checks.

As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, I am at war with the hospital birthing system.

At every appointment I am either standing on a dehumanizing scale, pissing in a cup or suddenly spread-eagled, stirrups up on a table, as cold male latex fingers are forced into my cervix.

In the beginning, I dissociate from my body to survive, just as I did as a child.

But then something shifts. 

Subtly. 

Imperceptively. 

The pregnancy hormones flooding my body go into overdrive to protect me and push me to stop the cycle of obstetric violence.

I fight back.

I find my voice.

I begin to say no.

I sign myself out of the hospital multiple times.

It is risky. Of that I am well aware.

But for me it is riskier to allow myself to feel powerless over my own body in a system not designed with the needs of women at the forefront.

---

I have a routine check up with the Head Obstetrician at the maternal health unit. Within minutes of the appointment, he gloves up ready to do a vaginal exam.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I exclaim.

Mouth agape, he stares at me.

I burst into tears.

His face softens. I must explain to this stranger my history of sexual abuse. 

The about-to-be-mother-in-me at her most powerful and protective, gently pushes me forward. I am deeply uncomfortable, physically shaking and crying with each traumatic word that exits my mouth, but I cannot live in this warzone any longer. 

I decline the vaginal exam.

He accepts my position, kindly. 

Genuinely. 

I need bodily autonomy.

The cycle breaks with me.

---

It’s the day before my “imposed” induction date. I’m in the 40th week of my pregnancy. It is the latest they’ve ‘allowed’ me to push back the date. It’s a blustery, hot April day and we’ve gone to swim in the ocean. I’m being tossed around by the waves as my husband grips my hand cautiously.

I am unafraid. 

I let the salty waves tumble over me.

I let the ocean swallow me.

I know she will protect me.

Hours later, my waters break naturally.

---

Breastfeeding for one year takes approximately 1,800 hours and that’s a conservative estimate. I’ve reached just over 5,400 hours, having breastfed my daughter for three years and three months, but the time has come to terminate the arrangement. Breastfeeding is a full-time job, but I submitted my notice of resignation to Human Resources a few months ago and have begun the gentle weaning process.

I want my body back.

I need my body back.

I’ve craved sovereignty over my body for at least the last six months and in true perpetuation of the sacrificing perfect-mother-martyr-myth, I’ve continued to put the comfort of others at the forefront and my needs on the back burner. Even when the inequity of parental roles between my husband and I makes me rage to the point of blackout. Even when my physical aversion makes me gag and my skin prickle to the point of dissociation.

Up until this point, I’ve not been quite ready to sit with my daughter’s distress and discomfort, despite my own.

But the time has come.

“Can we get more milk at the shops, Mama?” You ask through crumpled-chin tears.

I’ve just announced my milk will be “stopping” in the next few weeks and you are understandably devastated. For some reason I’m crying too, even though I want this to end more than anything.

“We can’t get more mama-milk at the shops my darling, but I will help you get to sleep in other ways too, don’t worry. I will still lie with you and rub your back, okay?”

You sob silently. Accepting but heartbroken. 

I set an arbitrary date for the end and my daughter nods, not really understanding any measurement of time in days, weeks, or months. In the meantime, I read you a weaning picture book every night and each time we cry. 

Our symbiotic breastfeeding relationship is ending. 

Grief floods me.

Breastfeeding symbolized so much for me as a woman. As a mother. My innate power. My ability to feed, nourish, nurture, and protect. It was empowering beyond words. It was healing against a brutally patriarchal hospital birthing system.

When the end date rolls around, you’re surprisingly stoic. For the first time, I lay with you in bed, milk-free and instead I rub delicate, repetitive circles on your back.

Within minutes you’re asleep.

As I leave your room, I sob. 

The gentle push and pull of it all overwhelms my heart.

This chapter is closing.

It is harrowing and heartbreaking. 

It is also a sweet fucking relief.

Mothering is made up of moments; utterly magnificent, quietly devastating, and excruciatingly mundane little moments of holding on and letting go.

In my three-and-a-bit years of parenting, I don’t know much, but in my bones, I know what I know.

My milk may be gone, but our love will always grow.

---

Protectively, my memory of the birth is a distant montage of disconnected images. 

The same cannot be said for my husband. 

I labored at home for 15 hours; peacefully, with my husband, my doula on speed dial and my fluffy Maltipoo by my side. Until I spotted the greenish meconium discharge on my maternity pad, which set in motion a terrifying chain of events. 

Rushed to the hospital, I’m immediately attached to every medical monitor possible. They administer the lowest dose of syntocinon, even though I desperately don’t want it. With my contractions getting closer, I don’t have any fight left in me. I give my “consent.”

Within minutes of the drip being attached my blood pressure skyrockets. My daughter’s blood pressure drops and all manner of beeps escalate until sudden resounding silence.

“What’s going on? Is she okay? Why is there no beeping?”

My husband tries to allay my fears but the horror that has overtaken his face belies any platitudes he manages to mumble. 

“The battery’s dead,” a midwife confirms.

The CTG is flat. 

Everyone in the room scrambles to find another fetal heart rate monitor.

They are unsuccessful. 

Minutes pass and my syntocinon-induced back-to-back contractions have ramped up to levels I cannot manage. My body writhes in twisted pain. They are relentless.

Bam.

Contraction.

Bam.

Contraction.

I am releasing primal animalistic noises and vomiting into a plastic receptacle in rushed intervals.

My blood pressure spikes.

The preeclampsia has taken hold of my daughter and me.

I am on the verge of eclampsia-induced convulsions.

Her vitals are dropping.

A masked someone of significant importance makes the call.

Code Green.

Code Green.

Code Green.

The announcement echoes through the metallic speaker of the hospital. 

I am dying.

My daughter is dying.

We are dying.

I am rushed through the narrow makeshift hallways, filled with stretchers of those in overflow, unable to be admitted due to maximum capacity. Masked doctors, orderlies, nurses, and midwives slam their backs to the wall as I’m wheeled wildly through to the operating room for the emergency C-section. The longest, thickest needle is pushed into my spinal cord and my pain melts away.

Thirty minutes later, covered in shit, through seven layers of skin, you have arrived.

Your robust cry is magic. 

The thick cord connecting us both, is hacked by your crying, shaking father. 

We are disconnected but only for a moment.

On my chest, skin to skin, your gaping little o-shaped mouth latches perfectly onto my breast like a missing puzzle piece.

Connected we stay in this fluorescently lit room.

My love for you threatens to swallow me whole.

It is bigger than the moon. 

---

There is no such thing as a good birth or a bad birth. Only the pregnancy and birth you were meant to have to teach you whatever it is you need to learn when entering matrescence. My pregnancy taught me self-advocacy for bodily autonomy.

You entered the world as a Code Green. We stared death in the face.

Liminal space. On the precipice of the in between.

As a mother, I take all my power and strength from that; it only took 42 fucking years to get my sovereignty back.

---

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