On a sweltering July evening in 2019, I found myself at a wedding on a farm, heavily pregnant and in my eighth month. My partner, John, helped me settle into a shaded lounge chair on the patio, where I spent most of the reception. As laughter and music filled the air, someone captured a Polaroid of us—me, a very pregnant woman, reclined with my feet up, being fanned by my attentive partner. I fantasized about lying down on a nearby picnic table, yearning for sleep. Little did I know that this overwhelming fatigue was a warning sign, indicating that my health and my baby’s life were at risk.
My pregnancy had been anything but ordinary. During my 20-week scan, I learned that my baby had a marginal cord insertion, which can limit fetal growth and lead to other complications. Additionally, the ultrasound revealed that her kidneys were not developing properly, raising concerns about potential urinary tract issues upon her birth. Although she measured in the 20th percentile for growth, the doctors reassured me that monthly ultrasounds would help monitor the situation. They labeled my pregnancy as high risk, citing no specific cause for these complications.
Compounding my anxiety, I have struggled with general anxiety disorder for years. Once I became pregnant, I found myself obsessively checking online miscarriage calculators daily. I became hyper-aware of everything that could potentially affect my pregnancy, adhering strictly to diet, temperature, and even limiting my coffee intake. The pressure to protect my child intensified my anxiety, leaving me ill-equipped to manage it.
Just a week after that wedding, I was preparing for a routine 36-week ultrasound when I broke down in tears in John’s arms. I expressed my fears of dying during childbirth and leaving him to raise our daughter alone. That night, I was overwhelmed by an unshakeable fear of death. At my appointment, when the ultrasound technician hurried out to consult with a doctor, my heart sank, and my anxiety escalated.
The doctor, someone I had grown to trust, entered with a worried look. She informed me that my blood pressure was alarmingly high, nearing 200/120, and my daughter’s growth had plummeted to the 2nd percentile. Struggling to hold back tears, she instructed me to go directly to labor and delivery; there was no time to waste.
John had planned to go to work after the appointment, and we had driven separately. Fortunately, our go-bag was packed, thanks to my anxious nature reminding me to prepare early. Within hours of arriving at the hospital, I received a steroid shot to help develop my baby’s lungs, and I was diagnosed with severe preeclampsia. They started IV medication to lower my blood pressure, and for the first time in weeks, I began to feel a sense of calm.
The following days were filled with uncertainty. My blood pressure continued to rise, and the medical team debated whether to induce labor that day or send me home. By day three, I was no longer responding to the medication, and my induction began. Despite my exhaustion, I was determined to see this through.
The labor room felt overwhelming, like a scene from a sci-fi movie, filled with medical staff preparing for a premature baby. After hours of pushing, I welcomed my daughter, Amelia, into the world at 1:44 AM, weighing 4 pounds 11 ounces. Although she required some assistance, I was able to hold her right away. Unfortunately, we soon learned that she had additional health issues, including a heart condition and difficulty maintaining her temperature.
As they worked to stabilize her, I felt my own health deteriorating. I was soon admitted to the emergency room for postpartum preeclampsia. The following months were filled with anxiety as I coped with the trauma of my birth experience and the health challenges my daughter faced. I sought therapy, trying to process the near-death experience of bringing her into the world.
Despite the relentless pressure from friends and family to have another child—many insisting my preeclampsia was a fluke—I felt resolute about our decision to be ‘one and done.’ When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, my conviction only grew stronger.
This journey led my partner and me to create the Only You: A One and Done Podcast, where we connect with others who have made the same choice for various reasons. Having a child is a deeply personal decision, and society often fails to recognize that.
Welcoming Amelia into my life was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I have no regrets. I find fulfillment in our family of three and have embraced my identity as a parent to one.
For those interested in similar experiences, you might find our other blog post enlightening here. For more authoritative information on related health topics, visit this resource. Additionally, Kindbody offers excellent insights on pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary
This article recounts a traumatic birth experience marked by severe preeclampsia, the challenges of motherhood, and the decision to remain a family of three. It highlights the emotional and physical toll of childbirth, the aftermath of health complications for both mother and child, and the societal pressures surrounding family planning. The narrative culminates in the establishment of a podcast aimed at supporting others who have chosen to have only one child.