I Gave Birth in a Time of Death

I got pregnant last year, and as my belly swelled, so too did my hopes and dreams of what would come this year.

A pandemic was not included. Neither was hypertension, a placental malformation, or an induction at 37 weeks.

I was expectant. I expected a baby, as well as a world that was safe for her. Filled with visits from grandparents and friends. Nevertheless, I was anxious for my entire pregnancy. As soon as my eyes met the positive test, I knew I would never not be afraid that my child would die. The possibility of this life leaving me would haunt me. Around every corner of possibility, there was a taunting ghost waiting for me. I was chained to it, and try as I might, I could not escape. I thought of death every day for nine months.

At my 20 week ultrasound, we joyfully found out that our baby was a little girl. At the same time, we found out that the placenta wasn’t attached correctly. It was folded at the edge. It created for her a little pillow on which she rested her head. But this pillow could kill her, or me, or both. It could cut off blood flow, or it could rip off too early. I could bleed out, or she could suffocate. My doctor wasn’t concerned, but I was. She had seen it dozens of times without any harm to mother or baby. But I had never seen it at all.

At 26 weeks my blood pressure reading was 154/92. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it wasn’t good. I took many tests as my doctor assured me “your baby is viable.” The realization that I could give birth four months too soon stole my breath for weeks as I watched and waited for my blood pressure to read high or low. At 30 weeks, it made the decision to remain high. High enough to watch me closely, but not high enough for immediate alarm. If it elevated it 160/100, I would be immediately induced. The closest I ever got was 158/92. I had gestational hypertension, would be induced three weeks before my due date at the latest and would return to my doctor twice a week for non-stress tests. Every four weeks I would have an ultrasound. The technicians began to recognize me. The nurses knew me well.

In March, the pandemic hit. I was suddenly fearful that Paul wouldn’t be allowed in the delivery room with me. I had nightmares of testing positive with the virus in my last two weeks of pregnancy, my baby being scooped from my arms after delivering her, being unable to touch her until I was well again. I cowered at the thought of a microscopic strand of RNA coming too near. Thankfully, it did not come too near. It just kept all our family and friends far. So far.

I was induced the day I turned 37 weeks. I held my baby at her first cry, and my husband remained by my side. I had an easy, albeit long, labor. With all the potential for life-threatening complications, my labor was surprisingly uneventful. We recovered for two days at the hospital and then we were sent home. I cradled my child as the world around me seemed to be set aflame. It felt wrong to be so joyful at such a time. It also felt wrong to be so sorrowful with a babe resting on my chest.

There is a time for birth and a time for death, as the Ecclesiastical teacher informs us. For me, those times were one and the same. Concurrent. I heard death counts heralded each day as I counted how many days old my baby now was. Each day was a wonder to me, but it was filtered through a continued reminder of death. Her life, in some ways, is a metric of how long we have been locked down from the world around us. Her life, in some ways, reveals a tangible picture of the razed world in which we now live. She’s a portrait of life in death. A likeness of hope in mortality.

I spent nine months afraid of death, with very real and tangible complications at my fingertips. Now, I’ve spent three months watching death wrap its spindled fingers around the globe. I’ve been lucky or blessed, or whatever you want to call it, to experience life in a time of death. I’ve been enabled to look at my daughter, speculating the color of her eyes. I’ve been able to complain about postpartum recovery and all that it entails. I’ve been able to listen as her squeals turn slowly into a giggle. And I’ve done so while we are reminded of death every day.

I still do not know what this time is supposed to look like, and I weep when thinking of all that has been stolen from each of us worldwide. When the time to give birth is the same time to die, I can do nothing more than look at my child’s lips as they curl into a smile, knowing that in some way birth partners with death, weeping partners with laughing, and mourning is a companion to dancing. I can do nothing more than take heart that as much as death is real, so too is life.