How a midlife fertility surge left Louise holding FOUR babies in her 40s (2024)

• Some women have a burst of fertility as they approach the menopause
• Ovaries are stimulated more aggressively as the number of eggs declines
• Live births to mothers aged 40 and over have doubled in the past decade

By Louise Spicer

Published: 22:16 BST, 7 July 2013 | Updated: 13:13 BST, 8 July 2013

A stranger walking into our garden this weekend may well have thought they were entering a nursery. Sitting cross-legged on the grass, five-year-old Leah was showing her giggling baby sisters how to play pat-a-cake, their chubby little hands reaching out towards her with joy.

Meanwhile, two-year-old Ben was pushing his toy Thomas The Tank Engine up and down imaginary hills chuntering: 'All aboard. Choof. Choof.' With the children happily playing, my husband Bernard, 66, and I took the opportunity to make plans for a very special party.

For other couples celebrating their Silver Wedding anniversary, this might include talk of canapés and champagne. But as parents to four children aged under six, we have slightly different requirements when marking our 25th year of marriage.

Leah wants a bouncy castle. Ben - surprise, surprise - is after a Thomas the Tank Engine cake. Twins Amy and Lucy will be happy as long as there's ice cream.

We never set out to become parents so late in life. After 20 years of trying and a series of heartbreaking failed IVF attempts, I'd given up our dream of starting a family when I fell unexpectedly pregnant, not just once - but three times.

It seemed utterly impossible until our GP explained that some women have a brief burst of fertility as they approach the menopause - it seems the body naturally stimulates the ovaries more aggressively as the number of eggs decline as it attempts to keep them working. This phenomenon, however, has not been rigorously examined and confirmed.

Still, recent figures from the Office for National Statistics show that live births to mothers aged 40 and over have nearly doubled in the past decade.

Some scientists believe this is because women over 40 are more fertile than middle-aged women of previous generations. They say that of the women who wait to try, only those genetically predisposed to longer-lasting fertility will be able to conceive. This gene is passed on to their children, who can have babies later in life, too.

Whatever the reason for my mid-life fertility burst, I was delighted.

Instead of seeing out our twilight years in the comfort of our villa in Spain, Bernard and I are now besotted (if exhausted) parents to Leah, Ben, and adorable 14-month-old twins Amy and Lucy.

But it's the fulfilment of my lifelong dream - albeit rather belatedly. I'm now 48, but I had always wanted to be a mother. When my nursery school teacher asked what I was going to do when I grew up, I announced: 'I'm going to be a mummy.'

I was 24 and fresh out of a serious relationship when I met Bernard in a local pub in the summer of 1989. I was working as a hotel housekeeper and living at home with my mother (my father died when I was 14) in Milford-on-Sea - an idyllic seaside town in Hampshire.

A successful businessman with his own building company, Bernard was divorced with three teenage children and I was instantly impressed with his greying hair and immaculate manners. He reminded me of Richard Gere in Pretty Woman.

When he revealed his age - 42, a massive 18 years my senior - I found it hard to believe. He looked and acted so much younger. But he had a certain maturity too, rushing to take my coat when we went out for dinner and knowing exactly which wine to order. By our second date, I knew I was falling for him and my mother and friends adored him, too.

When he proposed just two months after we met, I didn't hesitate and we married in a simple ceremony at Lymington Register Office in November 1989.

When you love someone, age is immaterial, but we wasted no time and decided to start a family straight away. I had long felt ready to be a mum and Bernard was happy to be a father again.

Naively, I expected a baby within the year. Bernard had already fathered three children and I was only 24. So when the months passed with no sign of pregnancy, I started to worry.

We'd been trying for almost a year when my doctor referred me to Southampton General Hospital and tests revealed that both my fallopian tubes were inexplicably blocked. To conceive, I had to have an operation to unblock the tubes and try again quickly, before they had a chance to reseal.

I spent a week in hospital recovering. Despite the pain, I felt hopeful for our chances, but still, we had no joy.

Then, four months later, on Christmas Eve 1991, I felt a stabbing pain in my side before being violently sick. I was rushed to hospital by ambulance, where doctors found I was having an ectopic pregnancy.

Unbeknown to me, I had conceived, but the six-week-old foetus had implanted in my right fallopian tube. Not only was the pregnancy unviable, but to save my life, the tube had to be removed.

Waking up the next day to Christmas carols, I almost wished I had died. Not only had I lost our longed-for baby, but with just one fallopian tube my chances of falling pregnant were now half what they'd ever been.

Although only 29 - an age when many women haven't even found their life partner, let alone started thinking of babies - I couldn't escape my longing. Everywhere I went I was reminded of what I'd lost.

Friends started falling pregnant and I tried to look happy for them, but it was all a façade.

Our last hope was IVF. But we were refused NHS treatment as Bernard already had children. It seemed so unfair, but undeterred, we raised the money ourselves. We sold the car Bernard had given me as a wedding gift and, in late 1994, spent £2,100 on our first round of IVF.

At the time, IVF was still in its infancy and the chances of success were much slimmer. My hopes were dashed once more when none of our embryos implanted.

Over the next 18 months, we made two more unsuccessful attempts, each more devastating than the last. I felt I'd failed at the one thing that should have come naturally to a woman - having a baby. I took detours to avoid baby shops and skirted round pregnant women in the street.

Bernard came into our bedroom one day to find me weeping, my face buried in the tiny baby sleepsuit I'd bought when starting IVF. 'Darling, it's time to let go,' he said. I knew he was right.

I tried to concentrate on all the good things I did have in my life, rather than the one I didn't. I had a loving husband, gorgeous home, fantastic family and friends.

Now 31, I bought a Persian cat to lavish with maternal love and focused on helping Bernard run his building and landscaping business, which became so successful we could afford to retire completely.

When Bernard neared 60 he longed for a quieter pace of life. So, in June 2004, we sold our three-bedroomed house in the village of New Milton, Hampshire, and moved to a villa in Murcia in Southern Spain, with enough money to live comfortably for the rest of our lives.

With the sun beating down, far from the stresses of work and hospital visits, every day seemed like a holiday and my longing for a baby slowly evaporated.

We breakfasted on the terrace, swam in our private pool and enjoyed evenings out sipping Rioja and sharing tapas with other expats. After going through so much together, I felt happier and more relaxed than I ever had.

We'd been in Spain for two years when I started to feel unwell - queasy in the morning and sweaty at night. I was nearly 42, so when my periods stopped, I put it down to an early menopause. My doctor ran some blood tests, then asked me to return for a scan.

Bernard was by my side when the doctor ran the ultrasound over my tummy. 'You do realise you are two months pregnant, don't you?' he asked. Even now, I cannot describe the shock. Shaking, I burst into tears while Bernard grabbed my hand, too stunned to speak.

We had waited 17 years for this moment. We were overjoyed, but it seemed too good to be true. I was petrified something would go wrong.

I barely allowed myself to believe our baby was real, until the moment she arrived in August 2007 at Dorset County Hospital, after returning to the UK for the birth. Bernard cut the cord and as Leah was gently placed in my arms, I knew the wait had been worth it.

I adored our little girl. Watching Bernard cooing over her cot at night, I thought my heart might burst with happiness.

We decided to quit Spain and move back to have the support of our families, renting a house near Lymington. Of course we would have loved a sibling for Leah, but it seemed too much to hope for.

Then in March 2010, I discovered I was pregnant again, at the age of 44. Lightening had struck twice.

When Ben was born in November 2010 we couldn't believe our luck - we had the girl and boy we'd always wanted. My transition from sun-soaked retiree to mum-of-two was hard work, and I often felt my age as I struggled out of bed for Ben's middle-of-the-night feeds, but despite his age, Bernard was always on hand to help.

Life was just returning to an even keel when, in September 2011, a bombshell struck: I was pregnant again. We'd barely come to terms with the news when my 12-week scan revealed two little hearts beating - it was twins. Here I was, a woman who'd spent nearly 20 years trying for a baby, having two at once.

It seemed ungrateful not to be ecstatic but I admit I worried. I was 46 and Bernard was 64 - four babies in five years would be tough on any parents, let alone ones our age.

This time, the pregnancy was even tougher, too. My bump was so huge and I found it hard to walk. After being bed-bound for the last few weeks, Lucy and Amy were delivered by caesarean at 35 weeks in May 2012.

Now we are blissfully happy, if exhausted. We never have a second to ourselves and money is tight. We're living off our savings and Bernard's pension while we wait to sell our Spanish villa. But I wouldn't swap my life for anyone's.

It would have helped if we'd had children earlier. We're thick in nappies and nurseries while our friends plan for retirement. Bernard will be 83 when the twins are 18, and I worry he won't be here to walk them down the aisle.

But you can't change the hand fate deals you. Being older means we're more patient and appreciate every second with the children we never thought we'd have. I'm convinced it was meant to be this way.

As told to Tessa Cunningham