Ladies and Gentlemen, let me tell you: there’s never been a more ridiculous time to be anywhere from 3 to 8 weeks away from delivering a newborn.

Only a woman who was diagnosed with and disabled by seizure disorder caused by multiple sclerosis 2 weeks before she was scheduled to take the bar exam could look at this shitshow of a situation and find herself laughing. But, you know, if you can’t laugh at the absurdity of life, you’ll just end up crying. And with these hormones, and the difficult decisions I’ve been faced with, I’ve been doing that too from time to time.

For those of you who are uninitiated in the process of enduring a pregnancy, 34 weeks is damn near done with your pregnancy.  You’re at the point where, if you’re high risk, you have to see your obstetrician every week to check on the baby. If you haven’t packed your hospital bag (I haven’t), you’re behind the curve.  Why? Because you’re likely to give birth anywhere between 37 (early term) and 42 (late term) weeks. And the closer you get to “full term” (39-40 weeks), the more likely it is that you will naturally enter labor. [1]

This is where things get “fun” for high-risk mommies-to-be in this season of imminent doom. While everyone is being told to shelter-in-place to avoid contracting and spreading COVID-19, we are still expected to come to the hospital for weekly check ups for the health and well-being of our babies.

We know, every time we go to the hospital, that it means risking infection, and that even if we’re asymptomatic and otherwise do not leave our homes, we may still transmit the virus to our spouses and/or children.   We also know that every time we go to the hospital, it might be the day where they say that there’s an issue with our little one, and that the baby needs to be delivered immediately. As someone with primary immune deficiency, I am hyper-aware of how likely it is that I will be come infected, and thus wear a N95 mask anytime I’m at the hospital.

For our family, it also means I cannot drop my 4 year old son off at his grandparents’ house and have my husband by my side for any of these appointments. My in-laws (grandmother, grandfather, and great aunt) are in their 60s and 70s, and they have too many medical complications that would mean a higher likelihood of death if any of us were to accidentally transmit the virus to them.

Of course, I also cannot drive because of seizure disorder. My husband is the only person who can drive me the 45 minutes to the hospital, safely. This also means that without any other family living with us, my son has to come along for the ride and wait with him for at least an hour in the car. While I still am allowed to bring my husband with me (as my 1 support person) to the ultrasound test, with the current protections for COVID-19 in place, my son is not even allowed in the hospital to go to the bathroom.

[Edit: Less than 12 hours after I wrote this, I received a phone call from the hospital, informing me that I am no longer allowed to bring my husband with me to ultrasound tests, and that they anticipate in the coming weeks, that he will not be allowed in for delivery or recovery.]

Normally, at 34 weeks, my high-risk obstetrician would have me do a weekly non-stress test to make sure that the baby is getting enough oxygen. Typically, a non-stress test is recommended when it’s believed that the baby is at an increased risk of death because of a mother’s physical condition.[2]

We started the NST process at week 30, but by week 32, the coronavirus had reared its ugly head in Chicago, and processes were changed. Now, we only do an ultrasound to check fetal movement, heart function, and to see if the baby is taking “practice breaths.” If the baby doesn’t pass, I would move to NST, and if that fails, to delivery.  But if the baby wiggles in the right ways, I head home without a non-stress test and without seeing a doctor.

Apparently, I won’t be seeing a doctor until week 36. At that point, I’ll have gone 6 full weeks without seeing a doctor. For someone with seizures, chronic hypertension, and immune deficiency, it is an unusually long time to go without in-person care — longer than any other time during my pregnancy, including first trimester.

When I do finally see a doctor, it’s not going to be the high-risk OB who I have a relationship with. Even though Dr. I was the practitioner my husband and I chose for my care — the same amazing physician who delivered my son in 2015 — he is old, in his 60s at least, and is entirely avoiding the hospital to remain safe from the virus.  So, I will be meeting someone new at the beginning of April, who will, ostensibly, be responsible for helping me to deliver.

Of course, it’s customary around Week 36, whether you’re healthy or not, to be talking with your OB about your “birth plan.” If there’s anything I’ve learned from living with multiple comorbidities, it’s that the Universe laughs when we make plans.  Flexibility is the key to survival (and maybe even happiness) and rigidity to expectations equates only to pain and unnecessary suffering.  Guidance from that lesson is exactly why I’m changing the “birth plan” that’s on my chart.

See, because of COVID-19, partners are not allowed in the operating room if you’re having a c-section.  There’s no PPE (personal protective equipment) for them. To be entirely fair, there’s not enough PPE in the hospital for the staff, let alone birth partners. Things have gotten so bad that my hospital is begging for donations. I will be sewing some masks for them. My only fear is that the fabric I have is too porous — but considering that the CDC is telling nurses to wear bandanas over their one-a-day N95 mask, I figure something is better than nothing.

Anyway, current protocol at the hospital allows for one support person for women who are attempting a vaginal trial of labor (traditional delivery), and even though Dr. I said that there are some very scary possible problems that can occur when a woman goes for a vaginal delivery after a cesarean, I have a reasonable chance of success.

I feel, strongly, that I owe it to my husband to at least try to make it possible for him to be there for the birth of our daughter.  The way I figure it, the most likely worst-case scenario is that I endure the pain of labor until they end up choosing to move me to the OR for an emergency cesarean, which was initially our preference anyway. Arguably, VBAC is a safer bet than a second cesarean anyway, since I only had the 1st one because Henry was breach.  It also would get us out of the hospital 2 days earlier, which, during a pandemic, really matters.

Of course, there are no visitors allowed, and hospital protocol is changing daily. If, suddenly, women are told that they will have to labor on their own (as they are in NYC currently), you can bet your ass I’m going to be signing up for a planned second cesarean in a millisecond. I can withstand pain, but I doubt my ability to withstand the pain of labor without any emotional support.

[Edited to add: Oh yeah! I forgot that they cancelled all labor prep classes, so I’m learning breathing techniques and labor positions from YouTube videos!]

And then there’s other stuff to consider that we had not previously had to deal with: since COVID-19 has made travel unsafe (every gas station and hotel posing its own dangers), my parents cannot come in from Colorado to meet their granddaughter. This also means that they won’t be here to watch Henry. It means for their safety and for ours, I’ve had to ask them to stay home. It feels gross for all of us. I want them here. My mom was going to stay with us the whole first month. But now, my mother worries she’ll transmit the virus to me or the baby… and I worry for her and Dad picking it up in the first place, either on the road, on an airplane, at a hotel, or from us. I couldn’t live with myself if either of my parents died because of this birth.

When it comes time, and I go into labor, what are we going to do with our toddler?  Because of the weekly checkups, I worry infecting anyone who would help us. What family members do we believe are healthy enough that we would ask them to care for him for at least 3 days?  Do we trouble my husband’s brother who has 2 children and a wife who is enduring her own medical problems?  They’re already stir-crazy from the lockdown. Do we ask his other brother who has no kids? He still has to leave the house to go to work at a place with other people who have family members who have been exposed to the virus. Do we pray for the best and leave him with his grandparents?  There’s really no good answer.

And then there’s the existential dread: What if I die giving birth? I’m nearly 40, and according to the CDC, I’m more than 7 times more likely to die in childbirth than someone under the age of 25.  Women aged 40 and older die at a rate of 81.9 per 100,000 births. [3] I’m 39 and a half.

What if I survive labor and delivery and contract COVID-19 while in recovery at the hospital?  As someone with so many comorbidities, would they save me because I’m a new mother? Or would they decide that since I have multiple sclerosis, I’m not worth saving?  My home state of TN has already made the decision that folks with MS don’t deserve to live if they’re rationing care.

And then there’s this nightmare fuel: a NICU nurse tested positive for COVID-19, and now newborns on her wing are being placed in isolation. So, I not only get to worry about me picking it up, about anyone in my family getting it because I’ve got to go to the hospital instead of staying home, but I get to worry about whether or not my newborn will be tended to by a nurse who has it.  And with the lack of PPE, the likelihood of that is significant.

I’ve never, in my life, thought that a home birth sounded sane, let alone safer than a hospital birth… but here we are. And I am not a candidate.

So, for everyone who has hit me up over FB Messenger or text and asked, “How are you doin?”  This is the real answer.  This is what “fine” means.

It means I’m sitting with all of this, and I’m still raising a precocious, headstrong toddler and rationing the food in our home and helping friends whose mental health is failing them because they haven’t spent this many days in one place before.

It means I’m treading these waters while sharing information on Facebook about the mathematic reality of the oncoming storm and while vetting fact-checked, peer-reviewed studies and articles about the virus.  And advocating to free the prisoners in the concentration camps before they become death camps. And sharing funny memes.

It means that literally everything about life is harder and more frightening than it needs to be, not just for me, but for every mother-to-be with a disability while idiots (and by idiots, I’m talking about President Trump) still talk about how this is “just a flu” and that it only affects people who are old or sick (as though our lives are worthless).

It means I’m growing life inside me and protecting it, while privileged idiots like the governor of Mississippi actively work to make our lives more dangerous. While the talking heads on FoxNews act like it’s more important for people to get their hair cut and their nails done than for me to live. While the President tells people we’re going to have to “let people die” to maintain the economy.

It means that every day, multiple times a day, my existence is attacked, and I am charged with the sacred duty of standing up for my right to live.

“Fine” or “okay” is the only word I have for it.  Because “furious” or “disheartened” or “lost in grief” or “hopeless” are not good options for how to be while you’re gestating.  You know, stress isn’t good for the baby. (Really, it’s not. It affects their neurological development and likelihood to experience anxiety as they age.) So, paying attention to what’s going on, while it’s not optional, is also objectively harmful. And I get to feel guilty about that. (But, hey, I’m Jewish, so I’m practiced in this arena.)

So, I try to take breaks and do some yoga. I color and play games with my son. I cook some food. I take a not-too-hot bath. I focus on maintaining good mental health. I call my parents and remind them that I love them, because I never know when it will be the last time. And, for whatever good it does, I pray – not just for myself, but for the safety and well-being of us all.