Nikki Kay is a 37-year-old from the suburbs of Boston, Massachusetts. She is about to give birth to her third child as she navigates a hospital system overwhelmed by the coronavirus, while also grieving over the death of a beloved family member.
My due date is this week, and the world is upside down. Three months ago, I knew just what my life would look like today. One night, I’d go into labor. My husband would drive me to the hospital, where we’d meet my doula, and after a few hours, we would have a baby. After our requisite two-day hospital stay, we’d have a get-together with friends and family to meet the baby. My older two kids would still be in school for a few months, leaving me plenty of time to bond with the baby while they were away.
That was then. Now I’m set to give birth during the middle of a global pandemic of exponential proportions. Schools are closed, gatherings are strongly discouraged, and the hospital is the last place anybody wants to be.
It’s possible my local hospital will be overwhelmed by the time the baby comes. Medical resources across the state are already strained, both personnel and protective gear being stretched to the limit.
Every local hospital has responded with a policy that only allows for one support person to be present inside delivery rooms, which means I have to choose who to bring: my partner or my doula.
In some places, even partners aren’t allowed in, leaving laboring mothers to give birth without a single familiar face nearby. My husband and my doula are my support team. Going without one of them would be difficult; the possibility that I might need to go without them both is terrifying.
But I’m not just worried about being on my own. Nearly no one is being tested for the virus, despite the warning that a huge number of people could be asymptomatic carriers. Health care professionals at hospitals across the state are coming down with it. All of a sudden, the idea of giving birth in a hospital seems foolish. How can I be sure I’m not walking into a sick den, bringing the virus to my husband, my children, my new baby?
Two weeks ago, my husband was diagnosed with pneumonia. We were already nervous; now we are vigilant to the point of being obsessive. He doesn’t want to leave the house — in case he has the virus, so he doesn’t pass it along, and in case he doesn’t have it, so he doesn’t get it and suffer severe respiratory complications.
My husband doesn’t want to miss the birth of his last baby. But he also doesn’t want to contract a virus that could kill him or someone he loves.
It doesn’t help that the kids and I also got sick. It was a run-of-the-mill cold, we think, but we are self-isolating anyway, just in case. Ordinarily, a school closure would mean extra gymnastics classes, trips to the park or the pool, playdates with friends. During a pandemic, it means we are in the house together, all day, with maybe a drive around the block if we’re lucky.
There’s no one to care for my kids if I need to go to a doctor’s appointment or to the grocery store, but I don’t want them in either of those places. I don’t want to go there myself, to be honest. I can only imagine all the ways I could be picking up and passing along the virus.
Compounding our already difficult circumstances, my husband got a call last week that blindsided us all. My father-in-law hadn’t woken up that morning. He had passed away in his sleep, and now my husband’s obligation to his family trumps the laws of social distancing. He’s gone from spending all his time in our house to spending hours each day with his mother and siblings as they plan funeral services and estate arrangements.
Three months ago, the thought never occurred to me that I’d need a dress for a funeral at nine months pregnant. But it’s not like I can go out and buy one right now, so what’s in my closet will have to work, reasonable or not.
Because of the coronavirus, the funeral service was graveside and limited to 25 people. Meanwhile, the military has all funeral ceremonies on hold. My husband’s childhood friends mourned from their homes, unable to join us in celebrating the life of someone who was like a second dad to all of us. We couldn’t shake the feeling that this great man missed out on the send-off he earned and deserved.
During the service, I kept my distance from family members I wanted nothing more than to lean on. Against my better judgment, I shook two hands and hugged three people, making sure to hold my face away from theirs and scrub my hands as soon as I got home. That’s something I never would have kept track of before. But this is our new normal.
People keep asking me if I’m ready to have this baby, and the truth is I don’t know. Do I want to give birth today and just get it over with before the world turns even more unrecognizable? Or would I rather keep the baby in for another week or two in the probably misplaced hope that, by then, the world will have become more settled?
What I do know is that I don’t want to walk into a hospital right now. I don’t want to have to choose which of my support providers can accompany me, and I don’t want to risk that, despite nine months of careful planning, my support team will be turned away at the door. My husband doesn’t want to miss the birth of his last baby. But he also doesn’t want to contract a virus that could kill him or someone he loves.
So, we’ve decided to have this baby at home. With my strong health history and all the testing and imaging that’s been done on this baby, it seems like the most predictable and comfortable choice. We’ll have the support of two midwives and two doulas, with the option of a hospital transfer if necessary — likely without my husband. We have a plan A, B, C, and more.
We are nervous, more for what the world will look like when we all emerge from our home than for what might happen during the few hours before and after the baby comes.
I used to think my belly and the new life it contained would be joyfully front and center; instead it’s a source of anxiety at worst and an afterthought at best. During these days when I feel the need to be surrounded by loved ones, sharing in our grief and celebrating a man who meant so much to us, I am left to process my loss alone from the other side of self-quarantine.
This virus has stolen so much from so many, but our losses are not limited to the relative health and comfort we took for granted before. Our joy and our grief, indeed our very connections to our fellow humans, are muted in the shadow of the global crisis that now rules us all. I can only hope that once this cloud eventually lifts, we can find a way back to each other again.