The Birth Story of Azaliah Lareese Wilson

If you know me, you know that writing a birth story for each child is important to me. I usually try to write a detailed birth story by the time baby is 6 weeks, but that didn’t happen this time. Even still, what you do for one child, you do for the next, so if you would like to know the story of Azaliah, join me for the journey. 

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Shamarrie and I had talked for years about having a fourth child. It has always been my heart’s desire to have 4 children (really 5-7 but 4 was the compromise with hubs) but we struggled to commit to the idea whole heartedly.  Anyone close to me after having Alaiah knew how much I struggled with anxiety and I don’t know that I 100% found the light in my eyes and heart after that experience. Even so, the drive to make children is strong for me, and the loud ticking of my biological clock drove me to pester my husband into firmly committing to having a 4th child. 

I often grapple with the realization that it seems to be relatively easy for us to get pregnant.  I know it can be difficult for others, but we decided in November 2020 that we would go forward with our plan to have a 4th and the last period I had was Thanksgiving weekend 2020.  We got pregnant right away in the month of December, and by December 27th, I had a handful of positive pregnancy tests to confirm it. 

From the beginning of this pregnancy journey, I felt guarded.  It is difficult to explain.  I felt like something was seeking to rob me of my joy about this pregnancy.  I felt like I can’t quite put it into words.  I fought against that feeling by speaking my fears out loud to most folks who would listen. The statistics are known; 1 in every 4 pregnancies ends in some sort of loss.  I felt like 4 healthy pregnancies and live births was unattainable and that I was due for disaster.  I began to feel uneasy when my doctor told me how rare it was to have had 3 pregnancies, 3 live births, no miscarriages and to be pregnant with my 4th. I was able to talk through my uneasiness with those in my circle who understood my angst.  

I thought this pregnancy would be a breeze because it was my 4th afterall. I scheduled my appointments with providers based on my availability, so I knew right away that I would be seeing several different providers in the practice. Early on, I realized that this might not be the most optimal arrangement.  I have a history of 4th degree tears with all my deliveries.  People often wince when they hear this, but honestly, it’s all I know as far as labor and delivery is concerned.  I heal pretty well apparently, and have retained most of my functionality. 

At my 12 week appointment,  I was scheduled to see a different provider than my actual provider.  I could tell right away that it wasn’t a good fit.  The appointment went as expected for the most part until I asked her some questions about delivery.  After my 3rd, my former doctor suggested that I strongly consider no further vaginal deliveries, although he wasn’t clear on why exactly. So I asked her what was in my chart.  She was patient and took time to look through my chart and share what was written there. But then she immediately started pressuring me to have a c-section.  When I told her that I wasn’t comfortable with that idea, she took that tone… you know the tone I’m talking about. It’s the tone providers use with combative patients, unreasonable folks and those that don’t believe in science.  She went on, “honey.. Sometimes we have to consider things we don’t want. We have to look at what’s best.” I told her I wanted to speak with a pelvic floor therapist and make my decision at a later date and she eventually threw her hands up and retreated to her proverbial corner.  When I went to the car, I cried.  I shared the experience with my doula-friend and she reassured me that the choice was ultimately mine.  I did not need to feel bullied into having a c-section if I didn’t want one. I spoke with my midwife friend who confirmed all of this and pointed me in the direction of a pelvic floor PT. 

Early on in this pregnancy, I was teaching chemistry from my home office as we had started the 2020/2021 school year fully remote. Because vaccines were not readily available, I thought that we would not rush to resume in person learning for quite some time.  I was wrong.  It was a major miscalculation on my part and by March, we were expected to return to the classroom and teach in person full time. Students would be split into 2 cohorts and switch days of attendance to reduce the number of kids in the school building. My classroom was a windowless classroom in the basement of the building.  The room only had one door and there was not adequate ventilation. My family and I discussed double masking, but I could barely keep two masks on for my doctor appointments, so it seemed impossible that I would be able to teach, pregnant, through two masks all day long. During this time, I began the application and interview process for a different full remote position on the reference of a close friend.  I continued to show up the best way I could.  My school was also in the middle of trying to resolve toxic culture issues that were woven deep into their Southern foundation. I knew that our staff needed to be working towards inclusion and away from white supremacy, harm, erasure and microaggressions, but in yet another miscalculation, I gravely underestimated how much would be required of Black and brown staff members to make this happen.  In short, I.WAS.TIRED. I was suddenly reminded of how the year before, I told God that I wanted year 10 of teaching to be my last year and that I was ready for something new. All at once, I realized this is what I prayed for. I talked it over with my family and ultimately quit teaching a couple weeks later… before I had officially been offered the other job I was interviewing for. 

As this pregnancy progressed, I was deliberately active.  I taught a virtual Zumba class once a week, taught prenatal yoga twice a week and also did prenatal workouts almost daily. During the summer months, I also rode bikes with the kids and we often took walks as a family. Movement felt good and it somehow allowed me to feel in control of what was happening in my body.  

At 18 weeks, it was time for the anatomy scan.  I knew I didn’t want to find out what I was carrying, but aside from that, I didn’t think much about the appointment.  I definitely didn’t think about my weight.  I had to do a level 2 ultrasound because of my advanced maternal age.  I had to go to an unfamiliar location which was fine.  But when they called my name, they had me step on the scale before my ultrasound and it all went downhill.  When I stepped on the scale, I realized I was heavier at 18 weeks than I was at delivery with my previous pregnancy. It may seem like a small thing, but I just couldn’t move past it.  I knew I had put on weight during the pandemic before I got pregnant, but I had completely lost track of my weight gain.  Although a chunk of my despair was rooted in desire to control the experience of this pregnancy, including how much weight I gained, the other part of me was upset because I know how much providers can bother a pregnant person about their weight gain. 
Pregnant people are “supposed” to gain between 25 and 35 lbs during pregnancy.  The number is arbitrary it seems and uses the BMI scale (which is crap) to determine what weight gain is “healthy”.  With my first 2 kids, I gained about 50 lbs with both pregnancies.  The first pregnancy I was harassed about my weight gain to no avail.  I still kept putting on weight until my body decided the baby was done. With my second child, I didn’t receive the harassment that I did with my first, but I still felt wrong in gaining the weight. When I got pregnant with Alaiah, I was the most active I had been in my life.  I was working on obtaining my 200 hour yoga teacher certification.  I practiced hot yoga several days a week in addition to my training.  I also attended prenatal yoga classes with fidelity.  I only gained 27 lbs with her and never heard any mention of my weight at my appointments.  

When I had appointments with my actual doctor she would tell me, “I won’t belabor you about your weight.  You told me you’re active and that you don’t have any trouble losing weight.  Just do your best to move 30 minutes a day.”  And she kept her word.  The problems for me arose when I was scheduled to see other doctors for the sake of scheduling.  I repeatedly had such negative experiences with other providers.  Everyone gave me flack about my weight.  And I don’t mean just mentioning that I was over what I was supposed to gain.  I mean asking question after question that led me to believe that I wasn’t believed about my activity level or my diet. I actually started recording my workouts as a means of proving to my doctors that I was actually exercising.  This happened no matter what provider I saw.  The only two that “saw” me was my own provider and a Nurse practitioner that eventually couldn’t see me as she was pregnant and went on maternity leave. What was most concerning was that the majority of these providers were Black women.  These are people that should know of the struggles of black birthing persons and be able to empathize with our plight. It was like they completely missed it and doubled down in all the wrong places.  At one appointment, when I was sharing with the provider that I had been exercising daily she replied, “yes, but I mean rigorous exercise.”  

When I took the 1 hour test for gestational diabetes, I was still within the passing range, but I believe because of the narrative around my weight, they made me take the 3 hour test. The 3 hour test must be taken fasting.  I passed with flying colors and wasted 3 hours of my life. As I got bigger, I was so tired.  I figured it was just fatigue, but as it turned out, I was quite anemic.  My doctor advised me to start taking a supplement but it took a full 6 weeks to decide that wasn’t working and I began receiving iron infusions and vitamin B12 shots.  At some point, I realized how much of my joy was being stolen by this narrative of a lazy, overweight, old mother that I felt was following me.  I eventually decided to do my best to enjoy what was left of my pregnancy but it was so difficult.  I was already carrying so large and that was the topic of discussion anywhere I went.  

During this time, I also took care to practice a number of things to try to prepare my body, namely my pelvic floor, for labor.  I went to see a pelvic floor therapist who did a detailed intake process.  She listened to me and validated that ultimately, my mode of delivery was my choice.  She also validated that my experience with my first child what not how things should've been handled and it likely led to the trauma I experienced during birth. She gave me a toolkit of things to do. I did exercises daily and practiced perineal massage to stretch my tissues.  I found some supplements that would help with tissue elasticity and took collagen daily. I made sure to eat lots of protein as well in hopes of keeping my water from breaking before the onset of labor like it did with Alaiah.  Time carried on and by 37 weeks, I was so exhausted that I knew I wouldn’t make it to 40 weeks.  I was sure I would deliver early, but I was also panicked as my mother was supposed to be out of town and anyone else who could help us was quarantining from a COVID exposure.  I think everyone saw the writing on the wall, and my mother canceled her trip to help my sister move.  My sister found someone else to fulfill my mother’s duties and I waited for this baby to make their debut. 

Starting at about Wednesday, September 1st, I was experiencing contractions every 12 minutes or so.  This would happen for a good portion of the day and then taper off in the evening.  Contractions never got beyond being a little uncomfortable and never got closer together or super regular to signal active labor. Friday morning, September 3rd, I went to the chiropractor to get an adjustment that would encourage labor.  It was an uncomfortable adjustment where pressure is applied to the sacrum for about a minute.  It felt like having  pressure applied to my crack and close to my anus lol. But at this point, I was ready to have this baby.  I also arranged for a quickie during lunchtime before Shamarrie went to get the kids from school.  I continued contracting during the early afternoon and then things simply stopped.  I know that regardless of how many babies one has had, if you reach 5:00 in the afternoon with no signs of active labor, chances are that you won’t have a baby by day’s end.  Surrender is an ever-present theme with labor, and so I should’ve been attuned to that.  Instead, I threw my arms up in the air and lamented, “I guess we’re not having a baby today.”  

On Fridays we order out to make life simple.  I had been pressuring Shamarrie to order the pizza for several hours.  He told me firmly that he would order the pizza and asked me why I was pressuring him so much.  I could only tell him that I had a feeling that I wouldn’t get to eat.  I don’t know why that was a worry, as I had already decided I wasn’t going to have a baby that night, but it felt instinctively urgent that I eat, and as soon as possible.  The pizza came and I asked Jaren to bring me some.  He packed 4 pieces of pizza onto a plate and brought it to me.  When I asked him why he put so many pieces on there, he remarked that he didn’t want the baby to be underweight.  This, although thoughtful, was hilarious because I was so large at this point.  As the evening progressed and 6:00 rolled around, I started to experience a few more intense contractions.  I had an app on my phone to track them, so I started recording their beginning and end.  The app did all the math to determine how close together the contractions were for the last hour, 6 hours and 24 hours.  The last 24 hours prior, I had been experiencing contractions every 15-20 min on average, so I suspected the night would be more of the same. 

As I recorded my contractions, I had about 3 contractions that were 12 minutes apart. Then I had 2 or 3 contractions that were 11 minutes apart.  Then 3 that were 10 minutes apart.  I was getting suspicious that perhaps labor was picking up, but I was taken aback by my own presence.  In past labors, as the contractions increased in intensity, more of me was required to get through each contraction and less of me was available for being present.  I was unable to have conversations with nursing staff, engage with my phone or even be present enough to know what time it was or what was happening at any given time.  But this time, although labor seemed to be progressing, I was still sending text messages, talking with my children, even engaging in FaceTime conversations, which made me doubt that this was really active labor.  For weeks before this date, I kept having a vision of me delivering my baby in my bathtub.  When contractions picked up, I thought, “I really could use a shower,” but I stopped short, mostly because of the vision I kept seeing. 

I sent Shamarrie a text message (as he was on the first floor of our house and I wasn’t going to climb down the stairs), but he didn’t respond. When my contractions continued to shave a minute or so off in between them, I summoned one of my children to get him for me. He came upstairs nonchalantly, and asked me what I needed while he talked to his step mother on the phone.  I answered between my teeth, “I need you to get off the phone.”  After he ended the call, I felt compelled to call my mother to come be with the children.  When she asked me if I needed her to come over, I had to talk myself through the whole thing.  I told her that my mind was telling me  to say, “no,” but the fact that I picked up the phone to call her meant that my body knew I needed her to come.  She told me that she would be there shortly.  By this time, contractions were about 7-8 min apart.  

My mother lives 13 minutes away and she didn’t take long to get to our house.  However, by the time she got there, my contractions were about 4 minutes apart.  Sometimes they seemed like they were one right on top of the other and I couldn’t understand why they were so close together.  It was about half past 10 at this point, so I had not been laboring long.  My mother got a sense of how close contractions were to each other and basically shoved us out the door.  The ride to the hospital took about 8 minutes and I got a rare break from contractions during our transit. That 8 min break was just enough time for me to doubt that I was actually in labor as I had thought before we left.  However, as soon as we pulled into the hospital parking lot, the contractions began one right after the other again. Even still, I was able to engage with the details of the moment in a way I never have been with the others.  I was aware that I was going to carry my own backpack until Shamarrie let me know he would carry it.  I was aware of the security guard making eye contact and asking if I needed a wheelchair as they checked my purse.  I was aware of the lobby of the ER and the number of people there (many sitting on the floor, presumably because of the COVID crisis).  I didn’t think I needed a wheelchair, but the others knew the wiser and got me one anyway.  I was present as I got checked in with the front desk attendant who asked if we had called ahead or not. I began to feel a bit concerned as contractions were 2-3 minutes apart at this time.  As the front desk person gave us directions to the elevators that would take us to Labor and Delivery, I also was present enough to remember one of the ladies sitting on the floor wishing us good luck.  

As we got the Labor and Delivery floor, it seemed quiet and abandoned. It took a while before they were able to find a room for us as 5 other people had come in to deliver that same night.  Around 11:45, we were showed to a room and I was given a gown to change into.  The room was bare.  There weren’t any towels and it didn’t yet look like they were expecting us.  The nurse left after getting us the gown.  She assured us that she would be back soon to ask a bunch of questions to admit me.  During the time she was gone, my contractions got stronger and even closer together.  At one point, Shamarrie remarked that they had to be no more than 1-2 minutes apart.  At that point, I was looking around the room, creating a plan for what we would do should we have to deliver our own baby lol.  The nurse, Rachel returned and immediately became aware of the situation.  She got on the phone and requested that the attending make his way to my room expeditiously.  She finished the call with, “Yeah… it’s her 4th.  Okay thanks!”  I knew that meant that she wanted him to hurry.  

By this time, the contractions had reached a point where I had to vocalize to make my way through them, but they were still less intense than I remembered from other babies.  The attending made his way in and told me he was going to check my cervix.  He informed me that I was 9 cm dilated and they were going to break the bed down because it wouldn’t be long.  I told him to “shutup” because I was in total disbelief that I had progressed so quickly.  The nurse then called another nurse in to help get an IV while the broke the bed down.  I stood still during a contraction for them to get the IV, although I vocalized a lot.  I remember the attending saying, “we can probably still get you an epidural if you would like.” and I shook my head no while I navigated an intense contraction. 

I thought the attending was going to deliver me, which I would have been fine with because I liked him, although I had never met him before.  Much to my chagrin, the one doctor in the practice that I liked the least (read disliked the most) walked in ready to deliver my baby.  I was supposed to have an appointment with her the following week as nobody else would have been available for my 40 week appointment.  I was trying to signal to Shamarrie that this was the Dr. I hated and so I joked with her, “he doc, I don’t think I’m going to make it to my appointment this coming Wednesday.” I’m unsure if she missed the punchline but she carried on, unappreciative of the fact that a woman in transition had taken time to make a funny.  

When we had arrived at the hospital, I had talked to nurse Rachel about my wishes to push in any other position than on my back.  I was open to side-lying or squatting or all 4s.  I told her that I had a history of 4th degree tears and big babies and I wanted to give myself the best chance and coming out of this labor close to intact.  This was part of the plan that my doctor and I had come up with and she was supportive of the idea.  As we prepared to go into the pushing phase of this labor, she shared this information with the crusty doctor.  The doctor had told her to grab my leg and she responded that I told her I would like the opportunity to push in a different position.  The doctor shot the nurse a long, strong side eye that was both combative and dismissive in nature and then she repeated herself… “Grab her leg.”  The nurse remarked that I was in the middle of an intense contraction and that she was going to give me a moment before she grabbed my leg.”  Even in the throws of labor, I could tell that the doctor was attempting to invalidate the nurse.  I appreciated the manner in which the nurse continued to do her best to advocate for my wishes.  

By this time, my water still had not broken.  If you remember, my water broke spontaneously while I was in yoga class with Alaiah, and I craved a bit more control over that process.  As I laid there on my back, the doctor told me she was going to break my water.  The nurse told me that things were going to get intense in a moment.  The doctor broke my water and I heard them announce that there was meconium in the fluid.  Meconium alone isn’t enough to imply that the baby is in distress, but it caused a bit of concern.  As soon as my water broke, the intensity of labor increased 10 fold and I entered that space of harnessing the intense, out-of-control energy of transition.  In that moment, I’m not going to lie.  Every fiber of my being wanted to kick my legs to get folks hands off of them.  I wanted to roll myself out of the bed, stand on my feet while holding onto the side of the bed and deliver my baby standing up.  It felt like the strongest urge I’ve ever had.  And yet, I have to thank my yoga and breathwork practices.  I felt like I had just about a single breath space that kept me from actually carrying out that action.  In that moment, I became aware that I wasn’t going to have the birth I wanted.  I did not feel empowered to just roll over, or get up, even though in my mind, I should have felt that way.  

With my water broken, labor intensifying and my cervix completely dilated, I was given the go ahead to push. Pushing provided immediate relief from the intensity of labor as I was experiencing it before.  I pushed harder than I remember pushing with any baby (apart from Jamil).  I don’t do counting with pushing so I simply pushed when I felt compelled and breathed when I didn’t.  I was hyper aware of the fact that I was birthing a big baby and stressing compromised tissues.  The doctor continued to yell at me to push even when I wasn’t contracting.  It was bizarre. Nobody had the presence to argue at that point.  I made eye contact, and continued breathing evenly, blowing my breath away, until my body told me it was time to push again. I was birthing my 4th child and couldn’t imagine what my experience would be like if I didn’t have the connection to my body, the confidence and lived experience to know what to expect. 

As my baby began to emerge, I felt a lot of tugging from the doctor. It was such a weird sensation, and it felt as though she was being so rough with my half-born child.  I have delivered big babies before, and this felt so much different that the methodical, careful pushing that brought Jaren forth.  Pushing him out was like a game of red light, green light that I excelled at. My labor had progressed so quickly that I struggled to understand why she was essentially rushing me.  I understand if she was worried because of the meconium, but I was treated almost as though I was at some sort of landmark… like my water had been broken for 24 hours and I was in danger of needing an emergency cesarean if I didn't get the baby out immediately.  It didn’t take many more pushes before the baby was out!  We started cleaning off the baby, and Shamarrie and I both tried to get someone to tell us the baby’s gender.  Finally, the nurse spun the baby around on my chest and gave us a good look.  It was validating because although we hadn’t found out the gender, I had a deep feeling I was carrying a little female baby the entire pregnancy.  

I had barely delivered the baby when the doctor announced that she was going to deliver the placenta.  In the past, this happened after the baby had been cleaned up and weighed, after some pictures had been taken and maybe even after the baby was at the breast for the first feed.  This time, it felt rushed.  The doctor pressed so hard on my belly while tugging at the umbilical cord to get the placenta to come loose.  Again, this is not my first rodeo, as this has happened after every birth, but it was the manner in which she did it.  It was extremely painful and it seemed as though she didn’t care.  It got so painful that I began to cry out every time she pressed on my belly.  My nurse, Rachel stepped in and offered to take over for a bit.  Her massaging of my belly was more along the lines of what I was used to from previous babies and it was uncomfortable, but tolerable.  Eventually, the doctor jumped back in, using excessive force once again.  

I feel like I should add a content warning here, because what I experienced next felt like violence to me. 
When she finally got the placenta out, she informed me that I had “retained” a piece of the placenta and she needed to retrieve it.  My first thought was, “of course I retained a piece, you yanked this thing out of me!”  She pressed very firmly on my belly to press my uterus down toward my vagina, then used her fingers/hand to reach up and scrape the remaining part of the placenta out.  This felt more painful than all of the other parts of labor combined.  It was awful. I could honestly barely take the pain and eventually, my whole body began to quiver and my teeth chattered.  After that, I couldn’t get warm and required 4 blankets to stop shivering.  I know that some folks shiver after the epidural or after a c-section, but I had neither of those things.  My body has never reacted in that manner following delivery.  

Once things settled down a bit, I learned that the baby was 9 lbs 5 oz. and 21 inches long.  I also realized how quickly things had progressed.  We got to our labor room around 11:45pm on Friday night.  She was born at 12:22 Saturday morning, September 4th.  She was a carbon copy of Jaren.  She was our only baby born with some vernix still on her. She looked so similar to Jaren, but also looked so different. It is always so sobering how differently it feels to have a warm, heavy, baby on your chest instead of in the belly.  I always go down the rabbit hole of how weird it is that this person wasn’t known or witnessed yet before that moment.  Being the first to witness them, know them, feel them, smell them, hold them, bond with them; it is something I have never been able to find words around. Those first moments with all of my babies are among my most precious and it was no different this time around. 

Feeding didn’t come naturally to her.  She had a lot of fluid and mucus that she would spit up.  She was also congested and so it seemed difficult for her to feed comfortably.  We were fortunate to have some skilled nurses that helped her practice her sucking. One nurse was an IBCLC and was able to coach us on how to latch her properly. Before being discharged, we saw another lactation consultant to give us additional support.   Baby and I had different blood types, and so she began having elevated bilirubin levels as did Jaren and Alaiah when they were born.  They put her under the bili light and kept her naked to increase the absorption of the light on her skin. The worst part of all of this was that when she was under the bili lights, parents are not supposed to sleep.  I would normally ask for baby to be brought to the nursery or to the nurse’s station so I could get just a bit of sleep, but because of staffing shortages, that was not an option.  I sat the second night upright in the bed with my left hand on her chest, trying to keep her from startling herself awake, while I valiantly fought sleep myself. I have never been more tired in my life.  Had this been my first rodeo, I likely would’ve had a major crying meltdown over the lack of sleep.  It was only my experience from raising 3 other kids that assured me that this too, would pass. One thing this baby did was poop!  It seemed like several times a day for the first few days.  This was good, as it enabled her to clear the excess bilirubin and she was able to ditch the lights after the second night. 

This was the only baby we didn’t have a name for right away.  With our lives being so full of responsibilities, it felt like we could never find enough time to get on the same page about names.  We would both make suggestions from time to time during the pregnancy, but neither one liked the other’s suggestions. We got some input from family and by the end of day 2, we had decided on Azaliah Lareese.  Azaliah, which means “close to God” was a name suggested by Jamil early on in my pregnancy.  I immediately liked it, but Shamarrie was not sold.  Shamarrie asked if we could make her middle name a tribute to his late mother, Demetress Delareese Wilkerson. We have rules when naming our kids. Boys’ initials are J and I for first and middle name  and girls are A and L respectively. So we crafted “Lareese” as her middle name.  We filled out our birth certificate form to make it official. 

Despite being the tiredest I ever remember being in my life, our time in the hospital was so special as always.  This time around, because of Covid restrictions, the kids weren’t able to come see us at the hospital. Because my mom stayed with the kids, Shamarrie was able to spend a lot more time at the hospital with me than in the past.  And we got to stay an extra day because the pediatrician on call wanted to make sure our baby girl was good to go since she was born over Labor Day weekend. By the time we were discharged, the kids were so impatient and facetime calling repeatedly.  They were so excited to meet their baby sister. 

Watching the kids interact with their new baby did not disappoint.  They were so excited and just stared at her for awhile before taking turns holding her.  Jamil is our self-proclaimed baby whisperer, so he helped his siblings adjust their bodies for the most optimal experience holding their newest sibling.  Nana got to meet her baby also and was enamored immediately. Azaliah met her PawPaw as well. 

We began settling in nicely as a family of 6.  Shamarrie took on an amazing amount of responsibility dropping off and picking up all the kids for school.  Additionally, he chose and provided meal options for the family.  Our friends were amazing and provided us with meals by contributing to our meal train or preparing meals for us. It seemed like all was well until about 10 days postpartum.  As a rule, I was taking my blood pressure readings each day because I began experiencing high blood pressure about 10 days after having Alaiah.  Around the 10th day after having Azaliah, I began to just feel gross.  I felt out of breath and tired.  As I was preparing to go to bed, I decided to take my blood pressure.  It was 155/90.  I began to get concerned, but I decided to go to bed and see how things shook up in the morning.  When I laid down to go to sleep, I couldn’t catch my breath.  We have an adjustable bed, so I asked my husband if he would raise the head of the bed some.  This seemed to help some, but I was still having some difficulty breathing.  I woke up at one point to feed the baby and I had a terrible pain in my side and belly.  One she was fed, burped and changed, I tried to lay back down to go to sleep, but the pain in my abdomen kept me from being able to sleep.  I couldn’t take a deep breath without excruciating pain.  I went downstairs to check my blood pressure and it was up to 166/98 or something of the like.  I immediately began to cry.  I knew that I needed to go to urgent care or somewhere to be seen, but I didn’t want to wake anyone sleeping in my house.  I didn’t want to have to trouble my mother, yet again, to have to help us.  When I woke Shamarrie, I couldn’t even give him the breakdown without tears.  He immediately got up and called my mom who said to take to the ER.  For some reason, that was hard for me to hear, but she made the right call.  When she arrived at our house, I was in so much pain and had to move super slowly.  

Shamarrie took me to the ER and they got me in a room quickly.  They gave me some pain medication to take the edge off and asked me a bunch of questions.  By this time, my blood pressure was very high; something like 182/102.  My body was in distress; my postpartum bleeding increased and for some reason, emptying my bladder was when the pain in my abdomen was the very worst.  It was so painful.  I was talked to by the doctor who was there that morning, then taken to get a CT scan of my chest and abdomen. After some time, when the doctor returned, he seemed surprised.  He told me the CT scan of my abdomen was clean, but that the scan of my chest showed that my heart was enlarged.  He also said that my bloodwork showed I was in heart failure.  It was a lot to take in at once.  He asked me if I had contracted COVID which I said no, but he ordered a COVID test just to be sure.  Because this was a free-standing ER that was not attached to a hospital, once they got my pain under control, I was discharged.  I was instructed to call my Dr. office immediately to let them know what was happening and see what they recommend.  

I did as instructed and not long after getting home, I was instructed to go back to the hospital I delivered at and to bypass the ER and go straight to Labor and Delivery. I was admitted to the hospital that night.  My feet and legs were swollen and my abdomen was still painful.  The doctor seemed genuinely concerned.  My blood pressure had come down some but was still holding steady in the 150s.  That night, I had an ultrasound to ensure that there was not more of the placenta still being retained.  I was moved to a different part of the hospital to a telemetry unit where my heart could be monitored.  I was given IV diuretics, and that helped to get some of the fluid off me.  The nurses worked very hard to get me a breast pump and the appropriate parts and I pumped and stored milk in their fridge.  I was still experiencing quite a bit of pain, but it was getting better.  The next morning, I was given an ECG (I think) and told that it would be read later that day by a doctor. 
Later that day, the heart doctor came to see me.  He told me my test results were promising and showed that it seemed my heart was recovering from the stress that caused it to go into failure. He also told me that he wanted to talk to me about my birth almost 5 years before.  He said that he was aware that I had experienced a similar episode after giving birth to Alaiah.  He said that he saw that I followed up with a cardiologist after her birth and that I had been given a similar test to what I had undergone that day.  He went on to explain that based on those results, I should have continued to be seen.  The test showed that Alaiah’s pregnancy had caused damage that compromised my heart function. I should have been put on a treatment plan and received medication and care. And, they also would’ve advised me not to have any more children.  He could offer no explanation as to why nobody ever followed up with me, but I respect his honesty.  I was stunned.  The next day, I was discharged.

Since being discharged, I have seen the cardiologist a couple times.  He seems thoroughly baffled by the rebounding of my heart. He didn’t feel comfortable with any of the diagnoses available based on my quick recovery and took back what he said about more kids.  So, I am still not exactly sure what happened with my heart and it seems that neither is anyone else.  I saw a local bodyworker who is amazing and his body work helped to stabilize my blood pressures.  Slowly, things have gotten back to some weird version of normal.  We have a new kid on the block and we’re smitten with her.  She is feisty, beautiful and so much fun.  She’s the perfect final piece to our family puzzle.