“Huh. That’s intriguing. I’ll be right back.” Those were the last words from my obstetrician before everything took a drastic turn.
“You have an enlarged placenta. We’re uncertain about its implications. It could be nothing, but we need to monitor it.”
Oh.
Unbeknownst to me, that decision to “monitor” likely saved both my son’s life and my own. From the onset of my pregnancy, we had the medical and financial backing to ensure not just our health, but our survival. Unfortunately, that’s not the case for many women worldwide.
It was my first pregnancy, and I was a healthy 30-year-old—not exactly a spring chicken, but not quite in the high-risk category either. Every expectant parent frets until they hear that first heartbeat, until the 12-week milestone is reached, and then for the rest of their lives, really. I was nervous, yet optimistic—even if “monitoring” meant I’d require fetal non-stress tests three times a week starting at 32 weeks, alongside my regular prenatal checkups, to assess the baby’s heart rate. Still, despite my enlarged placenta, I considered this extra monitoring a mere formality.
After all, I was relatively young and healthy. I maintained a nutritious diet, exercised regularly, and followed all the guidelines. By the time I reached 32 weeks, my pregnancy had been quite steady. I never experienced morning sickness. I had some headaches, but nothing compared to the migraines I had endured prior. Sure, my feet were slightly swollen, but didn’t that happen to every pregnant woman?
So, on that balmy September afternoon, as I settled into a large chair at the maternal-fetal medicine clinic, book in hand and groceries in the car ready for a weekend barbecue, I felt content. The nurse attached electrodes to my belly and a blood pressure cuff to my arm. My blood pressure had traditionally been on the low side—this should be straightforward.
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Little did I realize that within 48 hours, I would require an emergency c-section to safeguard both our lives. My son would be born prematurely, weighing so little that he would spend the initial five weeks of his life in intensive care.
Initially, my blood pressure readings started high and quickly escalated. The nurse’s demeanor shifted as she began to scrutinize my charts. By the time my blood pressure reached 160/90, I began to feel panic creep in.
A quick search online revealed that those seemingly innocent headaches and swollen limbs could be indicators of preeclampsia—a serious condition characterized by high blood pressure that appears after the 20th week of pregnancy or shortly after giving birth. It’s uncommon but severe, affecting 2-8% of pregnancies globally. Preeclampsia can cause damage to various organs, including the kidneys and liver. If untreated, it can lead to life-threatening complications such as seizures for both mother and child.
While preeclampsia can be managed, the only definitive treatment is delivery.
“We need to admit you, and if your blood pressure continues to rise, we will have to deliver the baby.”
Oh.
In my hospital room, things deteriorated rapidly. My blood pressure surged while my liver enzymes increased, and my blood platelets began to decline—indicators of a dangerous form of preeclampsia. My baby could die. I could die.
They prepared me for delivery.
My husband, always calm and collected, called my in-laws: “Do you want to be grandparents?” Well, obviously, they did. “No. Now.” They rushed up from Virginia, while my father drove in from New Jersey.
A few hours later, our son was born, weighing just 2 pounds, 14 ounces.
But he was alive.
Years later, my husband shared that when our son was born, he was silent and gray. Medical staff hurried him to a nearby table, trying to get him to breathe. I don’t recall any of this. My husband said I asked, “Is he okay? What are they doing?” “He’s fine!” he replied, though he was secretly terrified.
Then, our son began to cry. Relief flooded through us.
He shared the NICU with a rotation of newborns—many born even earlier, some in worse condition, and some so small they hardly looked human. The atmosphere was often dim and eerily quiet, punctuated only by the beeping of machines and the occasional distress signal from a baby or a parent’s quiet sobs.
I couldn’t help but reflect on what could have happened had I not attended my prenatal appointments due to financial constraints or inability to leave work.
Now I understand that my prenatal care was crucial. We survived because my doctor identified something amiss during the first ultrasound and chose to monitor it closely. Because I went for the fetal non-stress test, even when I felt perfectly fine. Because we received some of the best care at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. Because my doctors were knowledgeable and acted promptly. Because they ensured our son not only survived but thrived.
Two weeks before what would have been his due date, he finally came home.
We received a hospital bill of just $1,000, with insurance covering the remaining costs. Three nights in the hospital, five weeks in the NICU, major surgery—all for a thousand dollars—not insignificant, but manageable for us.
However, many parents across the country cannot afford the prenatal and postnatal care that safeguarded our lives. They can’t easily leave work for doctor visits or arrange childcare for older children.
The United States has one of the highest rates of pregnancy-related deaths in the industrialized world. Black women face a 3-4 times greater risk of pregnancy-related fatalities. Babies whose mothers lack prenatal care are three times more likely to have low birth weights and five times more likely to die than those whose mothers receive care.
In fact, 15% of American women do not receive adequate prenatal care. Women on Medicaid are more likely than those with private insurance to miss postpartum visits and report less emotional and practical support at home, often returning to work within two months of giving birth. Nearly one in four mothers is back at work within two weeks of delivery.
Two weeks after my delivery, our son was still in the NICU. Thankfully, I enjoyed 12 weeks of paid leave, with ample flexibility for follow-up appointments and in-home occupational therapy to support our son’s development. We incurred no costs.
The U.S. is one of the few countries that does not guarantee paid family leave—only allowing for 12 weeks of unpaid leave, if one qualifies. A staggering 95% of low-wage workers lack access to paid family leave.
If all parents had access to paid family leave, it could reduce infant deaths by approximately 600 annually, enhancing child development, maternal health, paternal involvement, and financial stability.
President Biden’s American Families Plan proposes partial wage replacement for parents after delivery—up to $4,000 monthly—and guarantees 12 weeks of paid family leave. Enacting this plan could significantly improve maternal care in the U.S.
Today, our son is a vibrant, joyful eight-year-old who loves Roblox, gaga ball, and ‘Diary of a Wimpy Kid’ books. The fact that he was born prematurely hardly registers with him.
I remain somewhat at risk—especially if we decide to have another child. Thankfully, if we did, my prenatal care would be well-supported by our family, doctors, jobs, and health insurance. We were fortunate, but many are not, and I will always be grateful for our experience.
For more information on related topics, check out this post on youth initiatives at Home Insemination Kit and learn about fertility boosters at Make a Mom. For excellent resources on pregnancy, visit Healthline.
Summary:
In this personal account, Emily Carter reflects on her sudden and terrifying experience with preeclampsia during her first pregnancy. Despite initially feeling healthy, a routine check revealed complications that led to an emergency c-section to save both her and her premature son. She emphasizes the importance of prenatal care and highlights the disparities in healthcare access for women, particularly in the U.S. Today, her son is thriving, but she remains aware of the systemic issues that affect many families.
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What I Gained from My Sudden (and Frightening) Encounter with Preeclampsia, Emily Carter, Preeclampsia, Prenatal Care, Maternal Health, Emergency C-Section, Healthcare Disparities, American Families Plan
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