What Are the Odds?: The Unexpected Labor of Giving Birth

It’s been over three years since my son came into the world, and I still haven’t felt fully ready to document the experience. I still have nightmares about it. I still fear the experience of labor above most things in life. I still have scars — both physical and emotional — beyond just my C-section scar. But I recently became aware that this week is Black Maternal Health Week, so now seemed like as good a time as any to dip my toes into sharing a bit about my experiences.

Before I even dreamt of becoming pregnant and bringing a child into the world, I knew the stats. I knew that Black mothers were three times as likely to die from childbirth than white mothers. Partly because of this knowledge, I have always feared giving birth. I would have listed it to you as one of my biggest fears before I was even a teenager.

Then, as my husband and I set down the road on a journey toward having a baby, my anxieties grew as statistics became tangible things to fear. I lost my first baby right around the six-week mark, which was devastating enough. I thought there was no way, statistically, that I would lose a second baby. While 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage, the odds of having two consecutive miscarriages are roughly 2%. So you can imagine my shock and horror when I became one of those 2%. I lost my second baby right around the 11-week mark.

My anxiety was through the roof for the entirety of my third pregnancy. Though just 1% of women suffer three or more pregnancy losses in a row, I no longer took comfort in statistics. What people said would never happen to me now seemed not only possible, but probable. While pregnant with #3, I did everything “right.” And I put the word “right” in quotes because I took all pregnancy rules and recommendations to the extreme. Well-meaning people in my life had already dipped their toes into trying to “figure out” what had gone wrong for me to lose two pregnancies. And I internalized all of those comments I heard. I felt pressure to be perfect so that I would finally carry a healthy baby. And if that baby did not live to draw breath, then in my mind, my extreme adherence to precautions could help me not to feel it was my fault.

I was lucky that my third pregnancy was mostly smooth sailing with just a couple of scares along the way. I had an amazing (Puerto Rican) doctor whom I trusted, and a wonderful (white) nurse practitioner who had been an ally and a huge source of comfort since my first loss. And I had an amazing new therapist to help guide me through my third time around.

By the time I reached 40 weeks, I was as ready as I could be to deliver. My husband and I had taken courses to prepare for the labor and delivery. I had read (too many) books on the topic. I had begun a meditation practice that I planned on continuing through labor. I had all the tools and aromatherapy a pregnant lady could need. I had created the most detailed birth plan you’ve ever seen. So when I went into labor (finally) at 41 weeks, I was more excited than scared. I had used preparation to get me past crippling anxiety.

We arrived at the hospital around 3am. My contractions were less than 3 minutes apart and I was already 4 centimeters dilated. It seemed like we might have a baby on our hands pretty quickly. My birth plan had detailed that I had wanted to try nitrous oxide as a tool to help manage the pain of contractions, so I asked for it. The nurse on duty, an annoyed white woman who gave off the air that I was bothering her with my labor, told me that if I waited for the gas that I’d never get my epidural.

“You’ll wait for hours to get your epidural if you get the gas first,” she said. “And by then, it will be too late. You’ll be pushing.”

I didn’t think much of it since I’ve found it a general rule in life to trust the people who know more than I do. And I was in a lot of pain already. Though the gas had been the only ‘sure bet’ pain management tool on my birth plan, I quickly let that slip away as the nurse put the order in for my epidural.

Shortly thereafter, a nervous-looking white male nurse came in to talk to me about the epidural. My gut immediately warned me that I shouldn’t trust this man. But I overruled myself because I didn’t want to judge anyone based on a gut feeling I had. I wanted to be polite and give this nurse the benefit of the doubt. My nurse and epidural guy forced my husband to go wait outside (claiming it was hospital policy), so my support system was gone.

I’ll fast forward through the rougher details of this traumatic encounter, but minutes later, I was slumped over in the lap of my miffed nurse who told me the needle would be in after 2 or 3 deep breaths. So I counted. One, two, three — the feeling was unbearable, and contractions were making it impossible to sit still — four, five, six — it had to be done, why wasn’t it done?

“Stay still,” the nurse scolded me.

Seven, eight — is it done? is it done? — Nine.

“We have to try again.” This time, the voice came from the guy with the needle. “I couldn’t get it in the right spot.”

I was completely dumbfounded. After that excruciating experience, the epidural wasn’t even in? What were the statistics on that happening?

The second attempt was no better, and in my fury and pain, I forgot about being polite and I forgot about not judging people. My gut had been right. I demanded another nurse come to administer my epidural. After two failed attempts, the new nurse, a confident-looking man, was able to get me set up on my epidural without further issue.

Relief swept through my body, my husband was allowed to return to the room, and my annoyed nurse was done with her shift. So a wonderfully kind new nurse came in to replace her. Things were looking up. However, we were in for a really long wait. For some reason, my baby was stalled at 7 centimeters dilated and was not budging. We waited all day long. My doctor for the day (unfortunately, my original doctor, with whom I felt so safe, was not on duty), finally introduced herself. She was a kind, high-energy white woman who seemed a bit baffled by my baby’s stubbornness. She, and my nurse, tried turning my body every which way, adding amniotic fluid back into my uterus, inserting Pitocin into my IV to try to get labor going. Nothing worked. Then, my baby’s heart rate started to drop.

It happened every time I had a contraction. I couldn’t feel the contractions because of the epidural, but I could see the jumping lines indicating them on the screen next to my bed. And every time my contraction lines went up, baby’s heart rate lines went down. The machine would start beeping and several other nurses would rush in. My husband, my mom (who was now in the room too), and I didn’t need the doctor to tell us that what was happening was troubling.

A slow panic was building up inside of me. All of my careful preparation had led to this disaster of a day, and now, all I could think was that I needed to get this baby out. Immediately. The next time the doctor came in to discuss more methods, and the risks of waiting for baby to move, I told her to get the baby out. She agreed. We prepared for a C-section.

This is where my memory gets a bit foggy, and that’s because I fully went into shock. I had not prepared for a C-section. I was terrified that something was wrong with my baby. I couldn’t believe that I had to be the one to recommend the C-section in the first place.

They wheeled me into the operating room, my husband at my side. And though I had indicated on my birth forms that I didn’t want students or interns to be present during my delivery (I was giving birth at a teaching hospital), the room was full of nurses, students and interns.

I’ll skip the details of the C-section as well for the benefit of any squeamish readers. But suffice it to say, I felt everything. I had not prepared for a C-section, but I had always assumed that the spinal tap they give you would prevent you from feeling any pain. In my case, I was wrong.

After about ten minutes that felt like an eternity, they pulled out our beautiful baby boy. He didn’t cry right away, which terrified the both of us.

“Oh my goodness, he’s so beautiful!” we heard the doctors say.

“Is he okay?” My husband asked. No one answered him, busy fawning over our baby.

“IS HE OKAY?” My husband now yelled. Then we heard that wonderful cry.

After pulling him out, they had found the culprit of the constant heart rate dips. The umbilical cord had been wrapped twice around his neck, and after they removed it, he could scream loudly and freely. A doctor brought him over and placed him high on my chest. My son’s lips met mine in what would become the only sweet moment of my labor story.

The doctors then encouraged my husband to go with our baby. This is supposedly standard practice when it came to C-sections. But I was in shock and in so much pain, so he thankfully opted to stay with me.

The pain only intensified as they stitched me up and put my organs back into place. I kept saying, “I can feel it!” as the doctor worked. I felt like I was screaming (though my husband tells me I wasn’t yelling that loudly). But though there was a room full of people, no one seemed to know or care how much pain I was feeling.

It was then, at the moment when I knew my baby was born and healthy and safe, that the statistic I feared crept back into my mind. Black women are 3 times more likely to die in childbirth. Statistics had never been on my side before. Why should they be now? My brain started spiraling. Was I safe? Would this room of mostly-white medical professionals know or care if something went wrong while putting me back together? Why was I feeling so much pain?

My husband finally had to be the one to tell the nurse who was administering my pain relief to up the dosage. And I had to contend with the fact that had my supportive husband not broken protocol and stayed with me, I may not have been heard at all, and I would have struggled alone.

I was finally wheeled into a recovery room where a very grumpy nurse began pushing on my belly to get my organs back into place. It was torture. And, clear as day, I remember what that nurse said to me.

“You don’t have a high tolerance for pain, do you?” I wish I were making this up.

Finally, they brought my son in. He latched beautifully when I breastfed him for the first time. The grandparents were all finally allowed in to meet him, and everyone instantly fell in love. My labor journey would go on the back burner of my mind as I was launched headfirst into the new challenges of motherhood (on 2 hours of sleep in the last 48 hours).

And though I’ve made outstanding progress in recovering from the trauma of my labor and delivery, I’m still coming to terms with it. I still fear it. And it complicated my already difficult transition into motherhood (the epidural complications alone resulted in an excruciating week-long spinal headache). It certainly contributed to the postpartum depression and anxiety I would experience later.

Takeaways

When I stepped foot into that hospital on March 6th, 2018, I trusted that there were people in that building who would advocate for me. I trusted that my nurses and doctors would glance at my birth plan. I trusted that medical professionals knew better than me when it came to the best steps to take along the way. I believed I would be taken care of. I feel differently now. I am different now.

I survived (in retrospect, I was never in any real danger), and I gave birth to a perfectly healthy baby. But every step of the way, I felt disrespected, unheard, and unseen. And it’s no wonder that the statistics about Black women came to mind when I was at my lowest. As soon as I questioned my own safety, thoughts just began to spiral. Though I logically knew that the team around me cared about me as a patient, I was vulnerable and terrified. And while I do not believe that being Black had much to do with my terrible labor and delivery experience, it is inexpressibly sad and unfair that the statistics even came into my mind at such a vulnerable time.

The most important thing I learned from my birth experience is that I am my best, and fiercest, advocate. And just because medical professionals know more about medicine than I do, that doesn’t mean that they know me best. I’ve learned (especially since becoming a mother), that it is essential to trust one’s gut. It gives warnings for a reason.

And most importantly, I’ve learned that no one knows me like I do. Especially in fragile and fraught moments, like struggling through my first labor after pregnancy loss. I needed to be the first to care for myself in those moments by speaking up for myself and letting my voice be heard. I needed to trust myself (which I luckily, ultimately, did when it came time to get my son out).

While I was lucky enough to have my husband at my side for most of the time (and having him advocate for me helped alleviate my pain toward the end), I’ve learned that it’s not enough to just trust professionals to know what they are doing. It’s not enough to be polite and minimize your own suffering in order to not hurt other people’s feelings. I needed to drop the fear of being seen as the “angry Black woman” stereotype and be exactly her, in the name of my physical health, my mental health, and my baby’s life.