I was induced at 39 weeks pregnant on Sunday, March 22^nd, 2020. That was 11 days after Covid-19 was declared a global pandemic, 9 days after it was declared a national emergency, and 2 days after the first stay at home order in the States was issued. At that point in time, our knowledge was small, and the fear was big. The situation was worsening by the day, and as visitor restrictions tightened, I became afraid of having to labor alone. 

We went to the hospital at 7:30pm. At 7:48 the next morning, I told the nurse and my husband that I was nauseous and felt like I was going to faint. They tried repositioning me, but I proceeded to lose consciousness temporarily a few minutes later. I was experiencing respiratory failure, and my oxygen levels were low enough to send me in and out of consciousness. At the same time, my son’s heart rate had dropped to the 60s. I was unplugged from the monitors and quickly moved for an emergency cesarean. My husband was left in the room alone, in shock about what had happened.

 As the C section began, I was poorly responsive and cyanotic. My son, Henry, was delivered within minutes. He was born with an APGAR score of 0– he was blue, limp, and pulseless. He was quickly taken by the NICU team for resuscitation and a prompt cooling treatment, the protocol for babies who have been deprived of oxygen during birth. That would be the last time my son and I would be in the same room for another month due to the pandemic.

The OBs began closing my C section, but before they were finished, I went into cardiac arrest. A Code Blue was called, and they began CPR. The OR filled with 40-50 people who would work together to save my life over the next hour and a half.

I continued to arrest, so a large device called the LUCAS was used to perform chest compressions while the ECMO team was activated. At the same time, I began bleeding profusely from my C section wound. I was experiencing DIC, a condition that causes your blood to clot where it shouldn’t and then hemorrhage where clotting is necessary. A massive transfusion was called for.

Twenty minutes into my arrest, the doctors shocked me 3 times over the course of 5 minutes. Even then, my heart continued to malfunction. They continued CPR while replacing the blood I was losing until the ECMO team arrived. It would ultimately take about 25 units, or 8 liters, of blood products to stabilize me.

The team successfully placed me on ECMO 50 minutes into my arrest. ECMO is the highest form of life support and used for patients in persistent cardiorespiratory failure. On ECMO, my blood was removed from my body, oxygenated by a machine, and then placed back into my body continuously. This bought my heart and lungs the time they needed to recover.

Once ECMO flow was established and my DIC had begun resolving, I was stable enough to leave the OR.

Due to Covid, no one besides my husband had been allowed at the hospital for my delivery, but he was told that my family should come down once I had begun arresting. They wanted my family to have a chance to say goodbye because it didn’t look like I would make it. They all rushed down, were briefed on the events that were transpiring in the OR, then could only stay for a few hours before being asked to leave. It took about a day for my official diagnosis – I had suffered Amniotic Fluid Embolism, a rare, unpredictable birth complication. 

I remained on ECMO for only two days, but I didn’t wake as expected after that. An MRI revealed that I had suffered numerous strokes as a result of my AFE, which were keeping me unconscious. My neurologist assured my family that I would wake in a few days time. He was wrong. Meanwhile, seven days after Henry’s birth, my husband brought my son home from the hospital. We are incredibly fortunate that Henry doesn’t seem to have been impacted by the circumstances of his birth – his MRI was normal, and he is developing beautifully. 

When the Cardiac ICU started receiving Covid patients, I was transferred to the Neuro ICU. My prognosis became worse with each passing day. After two weeks of unresponsiveness and a mess of other complication, the hospital pushed to move me to a long-term care facility, as I would likely have long term physical and cognitive disabilities that would require months of treatment. On April 7^th and 8^th, a tracheostomy and gastrostomy were performed in preparation for that seemingly inevitable transfer. 

But on April 9^th, 16 days after my AFE, I finally began following commands. When I woke, I experienced hemiparesis on my right side. I couldn’t raise my right arm or hold a pen. My processing speed was quite slow. I had no memory of going to the hospital to give birth and believed I had miscarried due to a dream I had while comatose (the fact that Henry couldn’t come to the hospital reinforced this belief – I was no longer pregnant, and there was no baby). My inability to write accompanied by my inability to speak because of my tracheostomy led to days of confusion about where I was and what had happened—being mostly alone due to the pandemic didn’t help either. My husband had fought tooth and nail for an exception to the visitor policy, but he was granted only two hours per day. My anxiety always piqued as the night drew near – I couldn’t sleep, and I hated being alone in that hospital room. It would take about a week for me to remember going to the hospital to have a baby, and weeks to remember anything from my labor.

After 23 days in the ICU, I was approved for an inpatient rehab program. My husband’s visiting privileges would be cut to just an hour three times per week, but he was granted an exception to bring Henry in for the first time.  A compassionate exception they called it (though it feels like that compassion was shown weeks too late). I didn’t want to go to rehab under these circumstances. I wanted to go home.

At check-in, I couldn’t sit myself up, stand, or walk. Movement of my right arm had improved, but I didn’t yet have the dexterity to write my name. I couldn’t put my hair up or brush my teeth on my own. I wasn’t yet approved to eat—all nutrition was still being managed through a feeding tube in my stomach. I was booked in for a 28 day stay with intensive physical, occupational, and speech therapy.

28 conscious days alone in a hospital was a no for me, and there has never been a better time for my stubbornness to shine. On April 21^st, six days after check-in, I walked out of the hospital with no appreciable deficits. I was weak and my balance wasn’t perfect, so I couldn’t yet carry the 10 lb baby waiting for me at home. But I could at least hold him.  Neuroplasticity is incredible.

My first year of motherhood has been unlike anything I could have imagined. A brain injury like the one I have gets better with each month that passes, but I spent the first 2-3 months of my time home too exhausted and weak to really care for my son. I’m also continuing to work through my grief and trauma surrounding Henry’s birth, which sometimes feels like a full-time job in a society that constantly reinforces that the day you give birth will be the “best day of your life.” I continue to be devastated by our month-long separation and the fact that everyone knew of his birth before me. I wish I could’ve been the first person to hold him. I try to balance my grief with gratitude for my survival and near complete recovery, but that can be difficult some days (those days are getting fewer and farther between thankfully). I am, however, so grateful for this birth trauma community – what a light when “normal” motherhood pages feel so dark.