Baby in the Time of Covid-19

According to What to Expect When You’re Expecting, the final month of pregnancy includes jargon like “the penguin waddle” and “lightening crotch”, the importance of nesting and creating a safe space for your new arrival, physical oddities like the appearance of the mucous plug (don’t Google it!) and how to appease edema. Week by week, this bible of expectant mothers describes every possible scenario a woman might come across and the best ways to ease the pain and promote comfort in the final few days of a 9-month pregnancy.

Flipping through the 656 page, 5th Edition of this #1 Best Seller, there isn’t a single chapter on what to expect whilst pregnant during a catastrophe. Specifically, during a worldwide pandemic that has brought the entire globe to its knees.

Because I looked. And I know for damn-sure that I’m not the only expectant mother looking to Heidi Murkoff for some sage advice on how to navigate this craziness.

During what is purported as the most uncomfortable stage of a normal full-term pregnancy, I should be touring the Labor and Delivery ward of my chosen hospital, interviewing pediatricians, discussing my birthing plan with my family, setting up the nursery (which technically I could still be doing if it wasn’t for the teeny issue of my husband and I making settlement on our first home 3 days before my due date ;/ But that’s another story for another time…) and running to the store for the last few baby necessities. I should be bonding with my mother and going to my weekly doctor visits with my husband in tow, bursting with excitement for the baby’s arrival.

Should is the operative word here.

Now, none of the above is even a remote possibility because of the corona virus, or Covid-19—the pandemic that in just three months has stricken over a million worldwide and taken the lives of over a hundred thousand. The virus that has completely saturated society, leaving no normalcy and relegating 6-feet of space between every human-being on the planet. Society and the economy has been crippled; millions have lost their jobs and states have been locked down with no end in sight. Schools have been shuttered and remote learning has been instituted. Hospitals have become ground zero, as they are understaffed and not properly prepared for the overflow of the sick; ventilators and basic protective gear are in limited supply, with government officials squabbling over the “inflated” need for such materials—because that’s a thing. All of it—including the media’s coverage—is pure, unadulterated chaos.

But this isn’t news to you, my dear readers. The world has been talking about nothing else for the last few weeks.

So what of the pregnant population? How do we fit into the statistics and risk categories, when we ourselves can take nothing to mitigate sickness and are—in effect—immunocompromised? Everyday, it seems a new symptom is discovered and the list of high-risk individuals—at first, aligned only to the elderly or those with preexisting conditions—expands. Everyone and their mother has an opinion they want to preach—”my cousin’s, best friend’s, brother is in the military and they told him that we need to…” or something along those lines—but whose opinion should we trust above all others? Is it public opinion or our doctors?

The week that all this came to a head, I had my biweekly appointment with my doctor and I brought up the virus. “You don’t need to take any special precautions,” she said, with a small knowing smile as she had undoubtedly been asked that question over and over again. “Wash your hands repeatedly, cover your mouth when you cough, monitor your temperature, and stay away from sick people,” was her rehearsed advice, aligned completely with the CDC’s warnings. Which was reassuring.

But then that night I went to the supermarket with my husband. And before you say a word, I know it was a bad idea. But when you’re VERY pregnant and your husband is VERY British, sending him to the grocery store with a list doesn’t exactly cut it— the week before, I asked him to stop for some essentials and he walked in the house with a half gallon of milk and a bag of apples. I wish I was joking. So we walked into our local grocery store with the rule that I was not to touch anything, but point and he’d put it in our cart. We barely crossed the threshold when I was stopped by another shopper; “Oh gosh. God bless you and your pregnancy, sweet heart,” she said from six-feet away, sadness welling in her eyes. I nervously laughed and thanked her, thinking it was nice but strange. Then ten minutes later, a similar encounter with another shopper, only this time she didn’t shield her emotion—she looked like she was on the verge of tears. And that broke me. I had to duck down an aisle to hide my face, because I was hysterical. “They’re looking at me like I’m dying,” I sobbed into my husband’s shoulder. We quickly grabbed our last few items, paid, and left.

Mistake #2 was turning to social media for a bit of moral support. I posted something on Facebook about the experience, hoping for kind words from family and friends. And the majority of what I received was just that. But one comment ruined the bunch; a comment that questioned why I’d gone to the grocery store to begin with. That comment—from someone I haven’t spoken to in years—was a swift kick to the groin when I was already in the fetal position. My mind started spinning, questioning if I’d done something wrong. I had followed my doctor’s advice and taken every precaution, but had I? Had I done something so selfish and stupid and as a result, exposed myself and my unborn child to the virus? That night my emotions spiraled out of control, triggering two other breakdowns within the next week.

Which now is pretty much an everyday occurrence. One that I try to beat down by planting a smile on my face and answering texts with, “I’m good! How are you?” It’s not a complete lie. Entering into my 39th week, I physically feel great. I’m not experiencing any of the nightmare late-pregnancy pain and at the most, I’m uncomfortable but its tolerable. But mentally, I’m barely holding on.

I feel like I’m mourning the delivery experience Covid-19 has stolen from me.

I should be excited about the birth of my first child, but instead I’m dreading next week because of all the new regulations. Like most hospitals, a strict no visitor policy has been put in place—meaning my family can’t come to sit in the waiting room. Additionally, my mother cannot be in the delivery room. I expected both, but it doesn’t mean it stings any less. It means my sisters won’t be able to sneak back to the delivery room, or anxiously await my husband to come out and announce the sex of the baby—something we’ve done with every birth in our family. I won’t be able to see my father’s face when I hand my child to him for the first time and worst of all, my mother won’t be with me in the delivery room during the most difficult and rewarding day of my life. I want that experience more than anything and truthfully, I don’t know if I have the strength to do it without her there, coaching me through the pain.

I’m scared.

What’s even scarier is the possibility that my hospital changes their policy on anyone being allowed in the delivery room. That my husband won’t be allowed in, and I’ll be left to deliver alone. Ever since New York and parts of New Jersey prohibited birthing partners in Labor and Delivery (a policy that has since been withdrawn and called barbaric), I’ve gotten daily texts from people asking if my hospital was doing the same. As of right now, I’ve been assured that that isn’t the case. But everyday things change, and if there’s a surge of new Covid cases in the area, they may change their policy. We could literally arrive at the hospital and be separated at the door. I try not to think about it, because it’s something I literally can’t control. But when it sneaks into my consciousness, I end up in a fit of tears (just writing this has produced another onslaught of tears). I need him there, now more than ever.

If all of that wasn’t enough, I’ve also been told that after I deliver my husband and I will need to be quarantined for the foreseeable future. So, no visitors at all. My family will meet my baby through an iPhone screen or a plated window.

It fucking sucks. All of it.

I’m trying my hardest to see the silver lining in this experience—to look at this as a great story to one day look back on and tell my child about. I’ve been told again and again that once I see my baby’s face, nothing else will matter. That I will cherish the solo family time I get with just the three of us. But right now, I can’t see beyond my own disappointment and fear. I just wish things were different; that I’ll wake up tomorrow and the virus has been eradicated and everything can go back to normal. I know I’m not alone in that wish—people around the world are wishing the same thing, for various reasons. And I know my situation is nothing compared to the stricken and those on the front lines of this virus, fighting everyday to keep us safe and healthy. Sympathy and pity is also not what I’m looking to gain; I know everything will turn out okay and no one needs to worry. This is just my outlet to vent and maybe connect with some other pregnant women, who are going through this with me.

I’m looking forward to Covid-19 being a distant memory. And if Heidi Murkoff reads this, hit me up. I think I can write an addendum to your best seller.