During the final week of my last trimester, I changed my mind about giving birth. The thought of pushing the mysterious being that had been living and growing inside my body out into the world, by way of my vagina, (my vagina!!!!) was terrifying. I did not want to do it. I just didn’t think I had that sort of strength in me. At that point, however, there was no turning back. The only thing I could really do about it was fret. So fret, I did.
When I went to see my obstetrician for a regular prenatal appointment, we spoke casually, as we always did, while he took my vitals. He asked if there was anything troubling me. “Um…no?” I certainly couldn’t say, I’m nine months pregnant and I’ve decided I don’t want to go through with the delivery.
After checking my blood pressure a second time, he told me to relax, to lie down on my left side, then he turned the lights off and left the room. When he returned, he took my vitals again, then he left once more, this time taking my chart with him. I was 23 and naive; I didn’t know enough to worry. Besides, my doctor hadn’t seemed troubled at all; he’d been all smiles. Looking back, I realize that was due to his generally positive attitude and wonderful bedside manner. He returned, still smiling, and said: “I’ve got some great news! You are going to have your baby today!” Suddenly, I was confused. Was I in labor and didn’t know it? How could that be? I’d read all the pregnancy books and taken Lamaze classes. “But I haven’t had any contractions,” I said. “Am I in labor?”
“No,” he replied, explaining that the pregnancy-related condition I had, pre-eclampsia (sometimes called toxemia), had advanced to the point that he and his colleagues felt the pregnancy had to end; I needed to give birth.
“But what if I don’t want to have the baby now?” I asked. I thought of the carefully packed “go” bag in my closet; of the many different scenarios in which I had imagined my water breaking and me frantically telling everyone within earshot that it was time.“What if I just want to wait and go into labor naturally?” My doctor’s smile disappeared. “You could suffer a stroke,” he said, his voice flat. He furrowed his brow. “You could die.”
I suffered through 24 hours of a hard, medically-induced labor before finally pleading for medication. Why? Because those stupid pregnancy books I’d read and the childbirth class I’d taken had me believing that nothing less than a “natural” delivery was acceptable. Natural was repeatedly explained to mean having no medicinal assistance or surgical intervention. I realized that I had to let go of that mindset and fight with everything I had in order to get through this experience. This pregnancy had already been a lesson in self advocacy. One rude awakening after another had taught me to speak up for myself, to fight to have my specific needs met.
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When I discovered I was pregnant, I was uninsured. I went down to the social services (aka welfare) office and applied for the state’s low-income medical assistance program. I was given a list of local ob-gyn doctors who accepted that insurance program and sent on my way. While I can’t speak on all of the doctors that were list, the ones I met with felt very third-rate. They looked through me, and treated me with an indifference that reduced me to tears as soon as I walked out of their offices. It was clear that to them I was just another pregnant Black welfare case!
I’d compiled a list of questions, including a few I’d culled from the book What to Expect When You’re Expecting, which had become something of a bible to me. I asked one doctor about his views on forceps delivery and when he felt they were necessary. He told me that until I received a medical degree he would not engage in such discussions with me; I could either trust him to do his job or I could leave and find another doctor. I chose the latter.
Because my medical coverage was through a public program, I was told I had to deliver at the county hospital. When I visited to take a tour of the facility, there were women in labor in the hallway and, for reasons beyond my comprehension, there were psychiatric patients seated in the same area, some handcuffed to their chairs, a number of them screaming profanities and calling the soon-to-be mothers whores. It was extremely disturbing. There was no way I was having my baby there.
For an entire week, I spent each day at the library reading about the state’s medical program. I read everything I could get my hands on to find out what was permitted, and what was not. This is how I learned that I was not, in fact, relegated to the county hospital. I could actually give birth in any hospital I chose; and I could be treated by doctors who were not on that limited list the case worker had given me.
So this is what I did: I chose the best hospital in the city, the one where all the wealthy people and celebrities went for their appointments and procedures, the one that overlooked the hills and assigned their patients private rooms equipped with televisions and stereo systems. Next, I registered at that hospital’s ambulatory care clinic, where patients were seen by residents. I met a resident that I liked and made sure that my prenatal appointments coincided with his work schedule so that way I saw only him.
He was kind, respectful, with a sense of humor even. I thought the world of him—right up until I reached the 24-hour mark of labor, and then I wanted to kill him.
I was in so much pain that after the doctor administered Demerol through my IV, I accused him, in expletive-rich language, of having given me a placebo. It wasn’t his fault; I’d made him promise to do everything in his power to avoid an epidural, a type of procedure that requires an injection of anesthetic into the space near the spinal cord. Though not common, that procedure does pose a risk of injury, namely temporary or permanent paralysis. Suddenly a needle in the spine didn’t scare me anymore. I received an epidural. It took almost 30 hours of labor before Darling Daughter made her entrance via a vaginal delivery. The doctor allowed me to hold her for a short while before I was then rushed to the Maternity ICU, where I stayed for a couple days.
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Recently, during an appointment with a new naturopath, I told her the story of my pregnancy and delivery. She listened, wide-eyed and drop-jawed. “You’re lucky to be alive,” she said. “I know,” I told her. “I had a wonderful doctor.”
My doctor, who’d already completed one residency and was now on his second, stayed with me the entire time. When his colleagues, anxious to be rid of my high-risk situation, were pressuring him to just perform a Cesarian section and remove the baby, my doctor refused.
He was a Chinese man, the son of immigrants. During my prenatal appointments, we sometimes spoke of immigration and racism and the pressures of assimilation. I believe all of that made a difference in the care that I received. To him, I was not another pregnant Black woman on welfare. I could tell by the way he looked at me, the way he touched me, the tone in which he spoke to me, that he truly saw me. And thank goodness for that.
Black women in America are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than White women. Racism and racial bias in medical treatment are among the top reasons for this high level of maternal mortality.
Whenever I’m afraid to face something, I remember this experience. Being Black and female and poor, the cards were already stacked against me. But from the moment I walked into that social services office it was as though I’d been placed on a deadly obstacle course—from the indifferent case workers and third-rate doctors to the overburdened public hospital. I remind myself that even at the age of 23, when life gave me a bucket of sour lemons, I said “Fuck lemonade,” and, instead, figured out how to make lemon meringue pie. I remind myself that I am strong as hell. I’m strong as a mother.
Another beautifully written story.....Love the t-shirt!!!
Its amazing what we can change once we decide to find the power to do so!!!!!! An inspirational piece