by Ginger Rudolph

EXCERPT //

...During the height of the pandemic, it was intensely alienating and isolating for most of us. The changes your body goes through to make another human adds another layer—in other words, exactly the kind of mental state you don’t want to be in during an already stressful situation. Prenatal appointments were made a solo affair. If you were admitted to the hospital overnight due to complications, you were allowed one visitor. Choose one person to hold your hand, advocate for you, witness the birth. Was that my doula or my partner?

Six months into my pregnancy, during a routine prenatal visit, a doctor who subbed for my regular doctor told me that my blood count was too low. “I’ve always had a low blood count,” I replied. “The doctor put me on a course of iron pills.” She pivoted away from her computer screen and looked at me in disbelief, “This is your count on iron pills? Currently, you don’t have enough blood to survive a natural birth.” The horror on her face was palpable when she realized no one had told me or contacted me to start the months of iron infusions I needed for the impending birth.

Weeks later, during a prenatal visit, the baby’s heart rate dropped. I was admitted to the hospital for 24-hour monitoring. During this overnight visit, I learned from the on-duty OB-GYN that my natural birth plan was kaput; a vaginal birth presented a risk to the baby, my health, and even our survival. There was a massive fibroid blocking the birth canal.

They discovered that I hadn’t been privy to those results from a scan taken weeks ago until that moment.

Several hours later, the doctor brought in two other doctors to break the news that they wanted to extend my stay for a possible emergency cesarean section. I had multiple uterine fibroids, and, because of the baby’s positioning, the cesarean would be an old-fashioned vertical cut traveling from my lower abdomen along the center of the stomach toward my belly button. The nurses and doctors said my monitor was registering major contractions—only I didn’t feel anything. They didn’t understand why I couldn’t feel them, why I wasn’t in pain. It became a cause for concern among the staff, and they were starting to plan how best to save the baby. I was seven months along, only halfway through my required twice-a-week iron infusions. My blood count was still too low to give birth, let alone chance major surgery.

For full text and images, consider reading RQ in print, on a Sunday afternoon, sun streaming through your window, coffee in hand, and nary a phone alert within sight or in earshot… just fine words, fine design, and the opportunity to make a stitch in time. // Subscribe or buy a single issue today. // Print is dead. Long live print. //

SWITCHBACKS // ‘Motherhood Is an Evolving Truth’