It wasn’t supposed to be lonely
Navigating the new realities of birth during a pandemic
As our daughter’s due date approached, we were as “prepared” as any first time parents could be. We’d read the books, attended the classes, bought the gear, handed off the work projects, and even finished the home repairs. We were ready.
Until we weren’t.
Our baby shower, held the last weekend in February, marked the last semblance of normalcy in our well-planned lives. Unbeknownst to us, it was the last time we’d see our friends and family for many months. We discussed trips to visit the new baby that would never happen, and offers were made for babysitting and support that would never come to fruition. Over the weeks that followed, the new realities of the pandemic unfolded. We anxiously watched as our well laid plans went out the window one by one, along with all in-person connection and support.
By the time I was 37 weeks pregnant, COVID-19 cases had been documented on the east coast. It seemed prudent to stop going into my office. I rationalized this decision with my increasing discomfort, rather than acknowledge the growing risks. The office closed completely two weeks later, and stay at home orders quickly followed. Up to that point, I had been feeling pragmatic and nimble — I work in healthcare research and, therefore, understood what was going on. Logic had helped me navigate IVF and pregnancy, surely it could also help me work my way through this. I washed my hands frequently and didn’t touch anyone.
Then panic set in.
At 38 weeks, I was hit with the harsh reality that my husband might not be allowed into the hospital. He had officially been uninvited to my OB appointments already, and some hospitals in Florida and New York had banned birthing partners. I feared the worst for what that meant for D.C. area policies. Since this was our first child, I couldn’t fully comprehend what his absence would mean, but the possibility alone left me uneasy and scared as I tried to process and make a new plan. Looking back, I now realize what I was feeling was an overwhelming sense of loneliness. My one constant might be sidelined and I would be alone.
The next three weeks brought additional blows.
Our doula — birth support we’d carefully selected — wouldn’t be allowed at the hospital.
We should expect to be discharged after 24 hours if the birth was routine.
No visitors would be permitted.
Layer by layer, our support structures were stripped away.
I’d later recount that arrival at the hospital was eerie. The lobby was completely empty except for a security guard and two people screening for symptoms and handing out masks. Thankfully, my husband was with me. The piano that was once there to provide an uplifting ambiance now sat abandoned, setting a different tone. It was lonely.
The rest of our experience at the hospital was equally surreal. Though wonderfully compassionate, our care team kept their distance, only entering the room when necessary or when called. I was required to wear a mask at all times, including during labor. Yet another barrier to veil my raw and emotional experience — hiding my expressions from even my husband.
We opted to have our doula support us virtually. While not ideal, it turned out to be essential since the clinical staff avoided any extra time in our delivery room. Via FaceTime or AirPods, she helped us with positional shifts, comfort measures, support coaching for my husband, and — most importantly — self-advocacy advice when complications arose. After delivery, nurse visits were few and far between. We needed to quickly become self-sufficient with a newborn and get very comfortable using the call button to receive help. We unfortunately got caught up in shift changes during critical transition points (arrival, pushing, and postpartum transfer), which exacerbated the feeling that we were on our own. At least at that point we were lonely together.
Food was also tricky. “No one in or out” not only meant family and friends couldn’t meet the baby, but also that my only post-delivery meal option was a granola bar. Postpartum support services from the nursery to new parent classes were suspended, and the lactation consultants only consulted from the doorway. Discharge was rushed and abbreviated. A week later, I read through the materials that were meant for review at the hospital thinking “wouldn’t that have been helpful?”
We were discharged into a strange world without visitors, hugs, or other means of in-person help. Wearing masks, we loaded our new baby girl into the car and drove home on empty roads during what should have been rush hour. I had no coffee dates or mommy group meetups to look forward to while on leave. The trips we’d planned are now but a distant memory. Even my postpartum check up took place virtually.
This once in a lifetime experience has been one of the lonliest I could imagine. As an extrovert, I continue to struggle with this reality. At the same time, I feel like the luckiest person on the planet. Our daughter is wonderful. She’s here, healthy, and growing. And she has brought joy to our lives we couldn’t have imagined.
We just hope that someday soon we can share the joy she brings with those we love.
