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Even as a mother for the first time, I thought I understood the birth. I spent my pregnancy to prepare for every possibility, and I was convinced that I knew what to expect. I watched the films, read the books, and listened to the long -term workers’ stories that spanned hours, and even days. I was told that this is especially true for the first births.
I imagined the accumulation-contractions, the dramatic rush to the hospital, the birth room full of medical professionals who direct me safely through it.
The Labor Party was gradually imagined, a controlled journey to meet my child.
But in the end, nothing of this is.
Because sometimes, birth has its own plan.
On Friday morning, the Rush Hour Traffic Movement in New York City was on the FDR drive.
Morris, my partner, was leading us from Bronx to a hospital in Manhattan – a decision I made early, for fear that the local hospital would not take me seriously as a black woman giving birth in Bronx. This fear was inhabited and waved on the horizon with my entire campaign.
I was pregnant at the height of Covid-19, when the hospital restrictions were still in place. Morris was unable to attend the doctor’s appointments with me, and on every visit, I felt the weight of being alone. At the same time, the stories of black mothers who were rejected during pregnancy and childbirth were chasing me – nothing more than Amber ISAAC’s (#justiceforamber). The amber was only 26 years old when She died at the Montefior Medical CenterThe same bronx hospital is closest to me. She had raised fears for several months of her patronage, hesitated in her family and even tweeting her fears. It was accepted for low platelet levels, induced after three days, and died the next day. The warning signs were there, but she did not hear.
Her story was a devastating reminder of what was at stake. As a lifetime Manhathanite, I only lived in Bronx for three months before pregnancy, but I have already heard enough direct experiences to make my decision unprecedable.
But I did not reach the birth room.
On that morning, we were in contact with Doula, a person I rented early in pregnancy and considered necessary for my journey to motherhood. I have reviewed my opinion (which was moderate at the time) and reminded me of what we previously discussed: “going to the hospital very early” can “start the hour” on possible interventions. Therefore, I worked at home for a little longer, as planned.
But there is something different. There was a “back” feeling internally. My contractions did not start slowly and constructing; they Start One minute.
By the time Maurice ran to get the car (which, thanks to the city’s life, was parked in a garage seven minutes away), I was alone on the bathroom floor, in active labor, and I prayed I will not be born there.
We were 40 pieces when I felt it, which is an unambiguous pressure that stole my breath heavily. It was not shrinking. It was not a warning. His head was.
My child was coming. now.
He turned to Morris, fragile, but absolute urgency.
“I can feel his head.”
I did not shout as they do in movies. This was the time to keep my energy. I felt Maurice’s hand in Li and grabbed it tightly. This was mentally followed by the memory of the assurances that I printed only two days ago, but I did not get a chance to use. The pain was completely consumed, but I focused on my breath, and I remember myself “I can do difficult things.”
This was not what was supposed to happen. However, somehow, I knew that we were protected. My mother, who died years ago, was with me. He guides me. Hold me. Ensure that despite everything, I am alive.
Morris moved from the nearest exit, threw the car in the garden, and ran alongside the passengers. But by the time he reached, after five seconds, perhaps less, our son was already born in his hands.
Affiri Santana was here. He was born on November 5, 2021.
Five seconds. That’s all it takes to change everything. In those five seconds we only went from our universe we To become Fathers.
When the ambulance arrived, I was holding Afeiri on my chest, I am still associated with me by the rope that I carried here. His screams were strong. We did it alone, together. We were fine. We were alive.
The funny thing? It was one of my biggest fears in labor and childbirth in Uber. But we just bought our private car on Monday, and we installed the car seat on Wednesday, and on Friday, AVEY made his large entrance in the front seat.
I learned that I may be more specific with my wishes.
