Thinking about my upcoming delivery is really starting to get me down. In my case, it will be a scheduled C-section—my fourth.th. For a host of reasons and circumstances, life has led me to give birth to our children this way. So I’ve gotten used to the process—it’s always the same OB-GYN who performs the procedure. At least that’s reassuring. My boyfriend and I know how everything will go; there aren’t really any surprises left at this point, now that we’re on our 4thth times. However, with the global pandemic we’re currently experiencing, I have to resign myself to facing the unknown, and the closer it gets, the more terrified I am.
I think about it constantly, day and night; I’m looking for solutions or ideas that could change the course of events, but I have to face the fact that there’s no other option but this one: I’ll have to go to the hospital alone for the entire duration of our stay—the baby and me. Many hospitals already prohibit having a companion, especially for C-sections. In our case, it was already a headache figuring out where we’d have our three little ones looked after during my hospital stay, since my oldest is very anxious and can’t sleep anywhere but at home. So, for me, there was no way my boyfriend would stay overnight at the hospital—I’d planned on spending the nights alone. That was already a lot to process. I wondered where I’d find the energy to get through my first night alone when I could barely even sit up in bed. But I always find the energy for my kids. So I told myself it would be okay and that it was the best solution for everyone.
Now it’s different. Not only do I have to plan on spending my nights there alone, figuring out how to care for my little one while I recover from surgery, but I also have to accept that I’ll be going through the whole process on my own. I’ll arrive in the wee hours of the morning, head to the gynecologist’s office where the nurse will draw my blood, make me drink some suspicious-looking liquid, and shave my belly. Then she’ll park my bed right next to the swinging doors of the operating rooms, and I’ll wait for someone to come get me for what will feel like hours. Finally, I’ll be wheeled into a room, given an epidural, and I’ll see a dozen people dressed in sage green bustling around me, getting everything ready (wearing masks and gloves this time), while the anesthesiologist chats nonstop about this and that just to see if I’m out of it or still lucid. They’ll lay out the warm blankets to welcome the baby, have me pick out a little woolen hat for her, and once I’m completely numb, the OB-GYN will make his entrance. Normally, this is when a nurse would go get my boyfriend to bring him in, but not this time. I’ll have to keep staring at the big lamp hanging above me with its hundreds of white, green, and blue bulbs while holding back my tears of panic. Since my OB-GYN is pretty quick at performing C-sections, I’ll soon feel intense pressure on my stomach that will take my breath away for a few long seconds before I hear my newborn let out her first cry. I’ll then feel a massive electric shock of infinite love coursing through my entire body, but I won’t be able to share it through my partner’s eyes. He won’t be able to film the baby’s first minutes of life, when she’ll have her eyes wide open, wondering where all this blinding light and these strange noises are coming from. Will I even be able to get photos of these precious moments that will never come again? Will there be anyone available to do that?
Then the unknown begins. Normally, my boyfriend leaves with the baby and the nurse while they close my incision and transfer me to the recovery room. I have no idea how things will go—who’ll take care of my little girl while I can’t get out of bed? Or where will my bags be during all that time? How am I going to stop myself from wondering for the rest of my life if they mixed up the babies in the nursery? (I admit, it’s a ridiculous fear. I know it is, but I can’t help it!) How will I change diapers and breastfeed my little one when I spend several hours throwing up my guts out after I get to my room? How will I get home at the end of our stay, in a wheelchair with the infant carrier on my lap, our suitcases, and everything else?! If I start running a fever or coughing, will they separate me from my little one while they wait to test me for COVID-19? And if a nurse or doctor who comes to see us passes the virus on to me, what will happen?
I have way too many questions running through my mind during the day and especially at night. Since it’s still three weeks away, I’m in a complete state of limbo because it’s impossible to predict what restrictions will be in place by my due date. Things are changing so quickly that I can’t rely on the experiences of women who’ve just given birth. I have to be patient and hope that everything turns out for the best. What terrifies me most about all this is the profound loneliness I’ll feel during this whole time. I’m afraid I’ll break down and won’t be strong enough. I’m afraid my little princess will sense my distress through my energy instead of feeling all my love. I’m afraid my C-section won’t go as smoothly as the other three and that I’ll be panicking, alone and helpless. I’m afraid that if the little one has a problem, I won’t be able to go with her to check on her condition, and no one from her family will be by her side to send her love. I’m afraid of being afraid. If there’s one thing we can’t predict—and that can’t be soothed with “It’ll be okay”—it’s the possibility that she or I might have complications after the birth. I’ll be bedridden for a few hours, so my helplessness terrifies me. I know I have immense inner strength, but for once in my life, I’m afraid I won’t be able to handle it.
I know that many moms have already given birth alone—single moms or those whose partners couldn’t make it in time. I know it’s possible to get through it. I can already hear comments like, “Yeah, but back in the day, women gave birth alone and they didn’t complain about it.” I agree, but there’s a reason why social norms change—over time, things improve—and in any case, dads aren’t nearly as involved as they were 50 years ago. So I don’t see the point in comparing different eras at all.
I have to admit that, on top of all that, spending several days and nights without my older kids is really hard for me. I’ve never been separated from them for more than one night, and this time I just have to accept that I won’t see them until I get home. I know deep down that my absence will throw them off balance; they’re already feeling quite lost with the schools closed and everything we’ve been going through for the past several weeks. Of course, we’ll make the most of FaceTime and sending photos and videos, but just the thought of not being able to hug them, feel them, and kiss them for so long breaks my heart. When I get back, their lives will be changed forever with this new member of our family.
The exhaustion of late pregnancy, combined with the overwhelming worries about this darn virus and everything it entails, is making me panic. I hope to find the strength and energy deep within myself to get through all of this, and I hope that it will simply become a funny little story when we tell people about our little one’s arrival. This little surprise princess will be special right to the very end! From day one until her arrival in this world, she’s been showing me that I don’t control everything, and that sometimes life decides for us how things will turn out—and that’s okay. I’ll probably understand the reasons behind all of this later. After all, I’m so lucky to be able to bring new life into the world again and to spend a few days in a bubble of love that will belong only to her and me. I’m certain it will be filled with a new kind of magic that will make this birth unique and different—just like every birth, really!