He called me old! – A woman in her forties at the OBGYN

At my birthday party, I looked in disbelief at the many people in our apartment that my husband had invited with the help of some randomizer (old classmates, current friends, arch-enemies, co-workers, neighbors, but for some reason my brother and dad were not invited), are they really blowing up balloons? And do they honestly think I'm the least bit excited about it? That it is written in huge letters everywhere that I'm 40, which just slaps it in my face, that the end of everything has begun, that from now on my life will be a predictable, not really long, journey, with all the stages I know in advance, and that my slowly disintegrating body - until it is eaten away by the diseases I read about every day on the internet - will only be able to consume secondary, or even tertiary, joy juice? For my part, I would have liked to have skipped the whole birthday thing, but there were already balloons, lanterns, and enthusiastic guests, so I choked back the tears and went through with the fun. I consoled myself with the fact that most of our guests looked older and shakier than me. 
They say, some men in mid-life crisis sell their cars and buy a convertible. I'm a relatively masculine character, but I don't drive and I can't afford a convertible. I still had the option of replacing my husband's car with a newer, more open-top version - but somehow that didn't appeal to me either, I was happy with his current car, which was almost 20 years old and which I had regularly maintained.

So there was only one option I thought: a new baby! It would make me beautiful, rejuvenate me, and give me back my faith in life! The big ones are about to fly out anyway: 17, 16, and 10 years old, they look less and less like children.

I'm sure I'll be more enthusiastic about writing because I've been pretty lazy lately. No more lounging around all day, scrolling on Facebook, binge watching TV series! There will be a baby, a tight schedule, and discipline again! Reading up, I learned that children of mothers over forty are often more intelligent and smarter than the kids of younger moms - and they are born into a family with a high level of emotional and financial security. (The article did not specifically mention the families of teachers, but maybe the new child will make us feel better!) OK, that's the solution, that's what I need.
I asked my husband what he would think about such a thing. - "Sure, maybe," he said with a kind shrug. Great, exactly the answer I was waiting for! As the fourth in a family of seven children, I think he would be happy to have him/her, the fourth in our model.
With great enthusiasm, I made an appointment with my (male) gynaecologist and explained my ambitious plans. The gynaecologist looked at me wearily.

– You mean, now? When you are finally able to sleep at night because your kids are grown? When you could go to the movies and have a beer with them? And when they finally fly out, you and your husband could spend more time together, which you haven’t had a chance to do for who knows how long?

Suspicious, I asked him:
- How old is your child?
- One and a half, – he said, with a grey face.
- That's different – I chuckled grudgingly. – It's your first, but we're very experienced, it’ll be our fourth, and we'll do everything easy peasy. I'm going to be the coolest mother in the world!

He just grunted at that, then he examined me and said:
– Borbála, you're not young anymore, and your ovaries aren't either. There's no way of knowing how many ovaries have any fertilizable eggs in them at all, and whether they're genetically defective, so I'd say there's about a two to three percent chance of you getting pregnant spontaneously at that age.
What???? I could hardly breathe! What does he think I am? An old woman? He practically called me barren! Me, who had three children, got pregnant in a month and gave birth without any problems. I was determined to prove to him that he was out of luck calling me an old bag. I'm still as prolific as a rabbit. It won't be two months before I'm back in prenatal care!
It was. Not two, but even four, six, eight, twelve. And as those months went by (and I wasn’t forty anymore but forty-one) slowly my eyes got used to the gloomy wood. It didn't seem scary anymore, I started to see the roads again, the lovely paths into the future. We started going to the cinema, restaurants, and swimming pools with my husband, having long talks with our little grown-ups.

I finally started my new novel, and I've made good progress. There was time for exercise, time for a haircut, and in general: I was beginning to wonder what my problem was with my life a year ago. It is better than ever! Freer, more colorful, more complete.

There was only one thing that bothered me a lot: the smells. Somehow everything smelled so bad. I ran out of the public toilet vomiting, but then I got a raging hunger and stuffed myself with three burgers.
– Well, congratulations! – the gynaecologist shook his head sadly. - You got your wish. Six weeks pregnant. The due date is 17 September 2020. It's going to be a tough ride, especially at this age. But cheer up! I wish you strength and as much joint mobility as possible for the future!

I thanked him for his words of encouragement and made an appointment for prenatal care with a female gynecologist.