The journey of a working, pregnant woman at 40

I chose this title on February 14th, 2024, with the intention of starting my journal as a second-time, forty-year-old mom. But life — in its chaotic, all-consuming way — took over, and here I am finally writing on March 3rd, 2025. In some ways, I think I’ve unintentionally done justice to that title: the journey of a working, no-longer-pregnant, perpetually busy mom of two.

This may end up being a long journal, but I’ll try my best to break it down…

Let’s begin with my birthing experience — the arrival of my beautifully mischievous (now seven-month-old) baby girl. The most honest way to describe it? I nearly died on the operating table, without even realizing it. My husband and I couldn’t quite grasp the urgency in the delivery room, as doctors and nurses hovered around for hours. All I could think about was how ravenous I was, having not eaten for over 28 hours.

Postpartum hemorrhage (PPH) is no small matter. Though it occurs in roughly 3-5% of women, its severity and the body’s response can differ drastically. I lost 2,700 ml of blood right there on the table, with my hemoglobin plunging from a healthy 13 to a dangerously low 6. While the nurses scrambled in panic, my sleep-deprived doctor — who had already handled two emergency cesareans that night — was slow to respond. Eventually, I was moved to the nursing room to bond with my baby, and that I did. Looking back, I wonder if I survived simply because I didn’t know the gravity of the situation. Ignorance is bliss, isn’t it? After a total blood loss of nearly 3,000 ml, two blood transfusions, and three rounds of iron infusions, I was finally sent home.

You’d think that was the end of the ordeal — but life had other plans, a twist within a twist. The first two weeks were difficult but manageable, thanks to a few good friends whose support I will forever cherish. But on Day 14, everything came crashing down. An agonizing trip to the ER due to secondary hemorrhage — and this time, the fear was palpable. Now I knew what PPH was (thank you, Google), and the looming fear of death was very real. I lay alone in the hospital bed, chills coursing through my body, trembling violently as I clung to life. A scan revealed retained products of conception — a rather painful souvenir left behind by my doctor.

I underwent an emergency (well, semi-emergency — it was scheduled for the next afternoon) D&C, followed by yet another iron transfusion, before finally returning home.

The next two months were a blur of trying to find joy and bond with my baby. Feeding her became a challenge I could not conquer, and I leaned heavily on formula bottles. (Side note: The definition of a “good mom” is something society loves to dictate — but deep down, I know I am the best mom my children could ever have.) Miraculously, my baby seemed to sense my struggle and remained as easy-going as a newborn could be — happy, sleeping well, and meeting every milestone without fuss.

But my body wasn’t healing the way it should have. Persistent postpartum issues lingered, and despite constant monitoring and multiple attempts at treatment, nothing worked. My doctor finally decided to investigate further. Exactly two months after my baby was born, I underwent a hysteroscopy — and, once again, my delivery doctor’s legacy remained. More retained products of conception, stubbornly refusing to leave. What was supposed to be a simple procedure turned into another D&C, a tug-of-war between my body and my doctor’s efforts.

After seven long months, I can finally say — my doctor won. The agonizing pain, discomfort, and emotional turmoil of those two months finally came to an end.

A happy ending? Not quite. More like the beginning of a new chapter called “The dark side of raising a baby in your 40s”

But that story… for my next blog.