If this was a hundred years ago, my daughter and I would probably be dead right now.
But by some cosmic chance, we exist in an era of private hospitals, sterilised medical equipment, highly trained nurses and anaesthesiologists and obstetricians—experts who, in 2018, nonetheless still use the antiquated term ‘geriatric’ for women like me, a forty-one-year-old who built an excellent career, a solid marriage, and an actual sense of self before deciding to have her first baby. Someone lucky enough to choose what she does with her body, and when. Someone who—despite a flawless pregnancy, perfect health, and almost unbearable excitement to meet the strong girl kick-kick-kicking inside her—can only be grateful we’re both here. It’s a miracle, really.
