“Can you feel this?” a nurse asks as she glides a frigid washcloth across my back. I nod. “But is it cold?” she probes. “Yes,” I reply. She appears puzzled as she discusses my response with the other nurses. “We’ll need to increase the dosage,” she announces.
I’m in the operating room, preparing for an unexpected C-section. After 28 hours of labor, all the medications begin to kick in simultaneously. Suddenly, I envision my future: a healthy, wriggling baby is pulled from my lifeless body. Each year on my daughter’s birthday, my husband will don black attire and deny her a celebration.
“Am I going to die?” I voice my fear, my heart racing.
Eight nurses surround me, many offering reassuring words like, “Everything will be okay, dear.” But one nurse, appearing somewhat exasperated, grasps my shoulders. “Why do you think you’re going to die?” she asks, prompting tears to spill down my cheeks.
My anxiety about childbirth can be traced back to a year earlier when my partner and I began discussing starting a family. I had always wanted children, but my apprehensions grew with time. I became so consumed by my fears that I opted for genetic carrier screening, which thankfully showed no issues. Yet, I couldn’t shake the nagging thought that something could go wrong.
Amidst this turmoil, a new, haunting fear settled in: the possibility of dying during childbirth. Until then, it was an abstract concept. After all, I wasn’t living in the 1800s or a developing country; women in the U.S. in 2018 didn’t typically perish during delivery. But then, a friend of a friend tragically passed away.
Her GoFundMe page circulated widely on social media, filled with images from her baby shower just a week prior—she looked vibrant, surrounded by friends, her hair a trendy faded purple that I long admired. Just an hour after giving birth, she had died, leaving her husband to care for their newborn while grappling with the immense grief of losing his wife. It was heart-wrenching.
This incident hit me hard because it transformed an unimaginable concept into a real person with a face and a story. Sure, I could read statistics on the rarity of maternal death, but here was a tangible example from that 0.02%. I could visualize her life, her happiness, and it overshadowed the cold numbers. I began to question if my desire for motherhood was worth the risk—was I ready to potentially sacrifice my life for this dream?
In response, I deleted Facebook and sought therapy for my anxiety. Later, I discovered that this woman had been a heart transplant recipient, which provided a more defined reason for her passing. As I pondered my fixation on her story, I realized that with a thousand Facebook friends, each connected to another thousand, I had a million friends of friends. Thus, something appearing common could actually be as rare as “one in a million.”
In that vulnerable state, I attempted to convey this thought to the nurse, still gripping my shoulders. “What was her complication?” I asked, slurring my words. “She had a heart transplant,” I murmured. “Have you had a heart transplant?” she replied flatly. “No,” she continued, “you haven’t.” With that, she resumed her task, and as they raised the curtain, my husband mistakenly peeked over. Moments later, I held my slimy, perfect daughter in my arms.
At this point, my anxiety transformed into the euphoric confusion of someone experiencing a high. “I’m so sorry,” I blurted to the nurses, laughing and crying simultaneously. “It’s okay,” the nurse assured me. “You all are definitely going to tease me later in the nurses’ lounge.” “We would never do that,” she replied, though I suspected they might.
In sum, my journey through the anxiety of childbirth showcased how social media can magnify fears, but also how facing those fears can lead to unexpected joy.
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