The day I shared my pregnancy with the world online I was eight months along and sitting in a hospital bed. Despite having a career in journalism and appearing on-camera for TheGrio.com and CNN, the cropped, chest-up Zoom frame of remote work afforded me both privacy and protection from anyone knowing about my growing belly.
It’s not that I wanted my pregnancy to be a secret. The pregnancy itself was a dream come true for my partner and me. The night we found out, we celebrated with a toast and by filming a happy, selfie-mode video. But any initial excitement was tempered by concern. I was about to join a demographic I’d previously only reported on: Black, high-risk, expecting moms.
Black women are two to three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related issues than white women, while Black and Latina mothers in places like New York City, where I live, are at a greater risk for severe delivery complications. As an African-American and Puerto Rican woman who also happens to have lupus—a chronic autoimmune illness that may contribute to serious problems during pregnancy, such as diabetes, immune flare ups, or preeclampsia (a blood pressure condition that Beyoncé spoke candidly about to this magazine)— my pregnancy had to be closely monitored.
I had also previously been diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), a hormonal imbalance that can increase the chances of miscarriage (women with PCOS are three times more likely to lose pregnancies), so from day one, I was on a combination of hormones and anti-diabetic medication prescribed to preserve my pregnancy. The pandemic only compounded the tenuousness of the situation, which made me feel as if the possibility of becoming a mother could be snatched away from me in an instant. Instead of feeling the joy I always thought I’d feel during pregnancy, I was consumed by anxiety, fear, and so many questions. Why did I have to fall into a high-risk pregnancy category? What would it mean for my baby—if my baby even made it full term? And with all the sad stories about racial disparities in maternal care, how could I avoid becoming a statistic?
As a journalist, I’m used to tracking down the most relevant sources and getting the best information about any given subject. But when confronted with the overwhelming amount of choices that needed to be made for my own health, I quickly found myself confused, tousled around, and frustrated, by a medical system that takes a diagnostic rather than holistic approach to fetal and maternal care. There was the highly recommended private doctor who charged $13,000 minimum out of pocket for a vaginal delivery (I passed on that); the local midwifery practice that had expecting moms jammed into a small waiting area like sardines (six-feet apart where?); and the highly-ranked hospital that neglected to communicate simple but important details, like partners not being allowed to attend appointments until said partners were sent away right outside the appointment room.
These were minor inconveniences in the grand scheme of things, but it was hard to not see them as a part of the bigger narrative I couldn’t stop thinking about: Expectant Black mothers are more likely to die—no matter their education or income level. Our babies are also more likely to die. Simple miscommunications, under-resourced facilities, pre-existing conditions, and bias against listening to our concerns or pain have all added up to an inequitable system. Now, instead of telling these stories from the sidelines, I was the story—and I was terrified that it would not have a happy ending.
As a coping mechanism, I found myself doing what many other Black patients have reported doing to counter implicit bias or obstacles in healthcare— dressing up for doctor visits; code switching to sound “professional” during every phone conversation; not pushing back too forcefully in appointments where I was alone and uncomfortable or confused.
Ultimately my search led me to one of the best high-risk maternity practices in the city, thanks to a referral from my lupus doctor. It would require hour-long travel and expensive cab rides to another borough, but it was worth it. Then, more concerning news: During my second trimester my doctors observed a marginal cord insertion during an ultrasound, which meant my baby’s umbilical cord was off-center and impacting access to my placenta. They couldn’t explain why, but it could affect my baby’s growth.
The next few weeks were a similar rollercoaster of cautious excitement and managed expectations. It didn’t help that being pregnant as COVID-19 continued to spread added to the isolation I already felt. I couldn’t hug my parents or safely attend in-person meet-ups for expectant parents. Instead, I scrolled past other happy pregnancy announcements on social media hoping one day I’d be ready to celebrate out loud, too.
I told as few people as possible about my pregnancy and went about life, surviving on an endless stream of emails, Zooms and phone calls, quietly hoping for the best but still fearing the worst. While I was still in a prison of morning sickness, a producer from CNN called and asked me to appear as a panel guest. “Would you be free to join us tomorrow to talk news?” I nearly dropped the phone with excitement. It was a phenomenal opportunity to ensure perspectives from Black-owned media companies, like theGrio, were represented nationally, but I was also tempted to say no given everything on my plate. Then, my pre-pregnancy instincts kicked in. “Absolutely!” I responded, pepping up my voice in hopes that my tired body would follow suit.
Before the segment, hormones had me running to the bathroom to dry heave just minutes before we went live. I was hot and my heart was beating faster than I could keep count of, but I fixed my hair, took a sip of water and suddenly dove into talking politics. I loved it. That same week CNN called me back. Then they called me back again. And yet that nagging voice of doubt came back again, this time stronger than before.
What if this turns into something more? Can you juggle a full-job time, TV appearances and a high-risk pregnancy?
Fear was trying to sabotage the life I’d worked for, both personally and professionally. It was telling me that the good things before me weren’t in fact real. But with every small win at work, and every doctor’s appointment, I was able to tap into the self-advocacy and perseverance that had helped me manage my lupus diagnosis, those early days of couch-surfing while freelancing in New York, and building my career.
The progress inspired me to call mentors and women in media who were mothers, comb my network for expertise, lean more on therapy and my partner, and slowly build the confidence to leave my bubble of isolation. In December, when I officially got an offer to join CNN as a contributor, the baby growing inside me—a boy!— no longer seemed like a far off dream. But around 32 weeks, just as I was coming around to planning a virtual baby shower and sharing the good news publicly, we learned our baby had restricted fetal growth (FGR), registering only in the 6th percentile for babies at his gestational age. Instantly my monitoring at the hospital doubled, and I started to fail non-stress tests designed to monitor the baby’s heart rate.
“We’re going to deliver this baby at 37 weeks,” my doctors informed me, laying out an intervention plan that had been determined without my buy in. I was told that an induction would need to take place almost a month before my due date to improve the baby’s chances of survival. I love a good deadline, but I felt powerless. Losing this much of the time that I had been counting on to mentally and physically prepare for giving birth was too much.
I sobbed tears under my mask as I was admitted to the hospital for extended monitoring, and I contemplated how we didn’t even have a car seat at home. By day four at the hospital, it dawned on me that this baby was coming, no matter what challenges lay ahead. I channeled my inner Serena Williams, who saved her own life after giving birth by advocating for medical intervention, and I asked a friend who was a doctor to listen in on all my conversations with the doctors via speakerphone, so we could tag team with questions. I also found a doula—a Black woman—who insisted on being by my side for delivery, after I told her I was just planing to “power through” induction and labor on my own. I was determined to fight for my pregnancy before it was over.
As an IV dripped into my hand and I listened to my baby’s heart on a monitor, I queued up a series of Instagram photos, featuring my growing bump and the beautiful surprise proposal my partner planned for me the month before. I thought of every phone call I’d made in search of answers, every sacrifice and decision I’d made with this baby’s well-being in mind. My finger hovered over the publish button, and as I pressed down I felt a sense of relief and freedom. While likes and congratulations began to pour in, I turned off my phone and set it down next to me. Sharing my pregnancy had never really been about the world’s reaction. It was about allowing myself to believe that my small miracle—a healthy baby boy, born via C-section a few weeks ago—was real enough to share.
