Pushing 50 and Pregnant

Out of habit, I
still had an extra home pregnancy kit around. When a pink line emerged
indicating a positive result, it took my breath away. “Well, okay; here we go,”
I thought.  I would be 47 and Mark 48
when the baby was due.  At ages 50 and
51, we would have a 3-year-old.  Our
family numbered 11 since we had recently become legal guardians of a boy from
Kenya who we considered a son. 

 I was 44, when
our last baby was born; our eighth.  He
was planned. Some people thought we were crazy and let us know.   I suppose other people thought we were crazy
and just let other people know. 

Our seventh
child was born when I was forty-two. I like even numbers so eight seemed like a
good idea. Of course there were even better reasons such as a new eternal soul
and my daughters’ prayers for more siblings. The boys loved the new babies but
I don’t think they were as pro-active about it.

My husband and I
had given up contraception years earlier once we understood that the Church
knew a thing or two about marriage, creation, and everlasting life.  Still, after forty-four, I had given away
most of the baby things.  Seventy-two
months of being pregnant seemed like enough. That’s six straight years. Throw
in nursing and well, that’s a long time.  

“Hey Mark, we’re
going to have another baby,” I announced, showing him the pink line.  We looked at each other, wide-eyed.  It was a moment of understanding what it
meant to truly be pro-life, pro-Catholic, and anti-contraception.  In case you’re wondering, we practiced Natural
Family Planning in our own special way. 
Mark was always fine with more babies so it was just me sort of paying
attention. And sort of not.

Rather than be
crushed by popular opinion, we decided the only opinion that mattered was
God’s. As for all the money we didn’t have and all the gray hairs we did
have—well, what did that matter in the scheme of eternity? 

Then, at three
months, I miscarried for the first time. 
I was not sad at first. “Of course,” most people would think, “you were
just let off the hook from having a baby at 47.”   Yes, there was a part of me still a bit
shocked about another pregnancy.  But the
other part of me had bought a new baby swing and other items at rummage sales
to prepare for another baby that we would all love so very much. 

I had lost the
baby on Saturday but by Monday, the loss hit me when I was alone at morning
Mass. Before Mass started, I suddenly felt a deep sense of knowing that the
baby had been a boy—Matthew—and that he was with God now.  Awe and sadness washed over me.  There was no greater place for him yet still,
Matthew was our only baby that I did not get to hold in my arms.  He was the only one not to join his waiting family. 

I shed a few
tears but was filled with peace that I knew who my baby was.  Then, after Mass, before leaving for home,
the thought occurred to me that although I was convinced I had a son in heaven,
some of the older kids might say:  “Mom,
you really don’t know for sure.”  

I sent up a
prayer.  “Dear God, it would mean a lot
to me if you would let the others know the baby was a boy.” It crossed my mind
that I was making an outlandish request—how would he manage to let them
know?  But as soon as that thought came
to me, I immediately felt confident enough to pray. “I don’t know how you will do it, but I know that you can.”

At home, I kept
the morning’s experience to myself. 
Shortly after returning from Mass, Aaron, my oldest, called me from
Fargo, where he attended college and was living for the summer.  “Mom, I just wanted to call to tell you I
know the baby was a boy.” 

Aaron had
dreamed two nights in a row of a baby. 
In the first dream, a baby had died but he was confused.  The next night, he had the same dream but
this time, when he looked at the baby, he knew it was his little brother.  In the dream he looked at me and we nodded at
one another because we both knew it was Matthew. 

“Oh, Aaron, I
just asked God this morning to somehow let everyone else know it was a boy.” I
explained my own experience to him, marveling at my answered prayer. My oldest
had connected with my youngest, from heaven to earth.   

And so, no one
has ever questioned that it was Matthew who we lost–or rather gained. We
gained a special intercessor in heaven. 
The other thought that came to me before I drove away from church that
morning, was that we needed Matthew in heaven to pray for the rest of us. 

  As I look back on that whole mystical
experience, I have one regret.  If I
could go back in time, (ten years) there is one thing I would do differently.  Rather than avoid another pregnancy, I would
be open to life—perhaps even seek it.  My
health was fine and I recovered quickly. 
However, after the miscarriage and with my age in mind, I avoided ever
getting pregnant again.  I was
successful.  I wish I had not been.  

We know that
this world is passing and in a blink of an eye it will be over and eternity
will begin.  Yet, we often
let the weight of our worldly concerns determine our destiny.  It is a beautiful thing that I have a son in
heaven that I can talk to and will one day meet.  He is in the place I want the rest of us to
reach.  If we could see heaven with our
eyes right now, would it not bring joy to fill it with some of our children as yet
unborn?   Having children waiting for us in heaven–children that never sinned on this
earth and love us perfectly–would be a blessing.   

My Family

And if I had
gotten pregnant again and another child was born into this world, love would have flowed from us to him or her and back again.  Forever.  So what was I was afraid of?  The same thing that so many others are afraid
of—the world.  Rather than see with the
mind of God, I saw through my own little brain. 

I do not beat
myself up over this but it is a point I would change if going back in time were
possible. I give thanks to God for all 10 of our children on earth, (another son
joined us from Kenya) and look forward to meeting Matthew one day.  In the meantime, I know he is interceding for
us.

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