Seasons of COVID: My Pregnancy and Postpartum Journey
This week’s story comes from Laura in Washington State. She reflects on her pregnancy and postpartum period surrounding the birth of her fourth child, a daughter, who was born in June.
It was a chilly winter afternoon on the preschool playground when I first heard about the novel coronavirus. I listened to a worried mom tell me about what was happening in China and how concerned she was. I tried to comfort her as I spoke of other new viruses in recent decades and how none seemed to impact us. We chatted as we watched the children on the playground at our cooperative preschool, a sight and experience I had taken for granted and which would soon feel like a distant memory.
I was five months pregnant with my fourth baby and looking forward to spring, when little bits of green started poking through the cold bare earth in my garden. We waited a little longer to have this baby. We weren’t sure we could handle another little one, but we always wanted four. We’d had our first three babies amid more tumultuous circumstances, including a failed business venture, multiple jobs worked between us, debt, and postpartum depression. But now, our life looked very different.
My mental health was stable.
Home ownership had led to drastic improvement in our finances.
I was building a small business that I loved and that brought in a little extra money.
My husband’s job was secure.
In addition, our children were getting bigger and we were starting to see that they wouldn’t always need us for every single thing, every second of the day.
On top of that, for the first time, the whole family would be able to take twelve weeks to adjust to our new life together. My state had recently passed a paid family leave program. My pregnancy proceeded smoothly, and our daughter would join us in June.
We felt so blessed.
After picking up my first grader from the bus stop one early spring day, my two preschoolers hugged him and held hands as we walked home.
The next day was suddenly his last. Quarantining began. My husband started working from home.
We were all together with nowhere to be. All day. Every day.
We spent the days watching the garden turn green and planting flowers. The timing of quarantine was ideal for me as my nesting instincts were urging me to close in my world and ready my home and garden for the changing season. But at the time, we thought this season would be short and that life would get back to normal soon enough.
Spring flowers began to bloom. Remote learning for my first grader wasn’t so bad. And my husband had the flexibility to help with the more demanding tasks of parenting as well as household and garden chores.
Mother’s Day brought an influx of orders for my little flower business, as the world was desperate for ways to send love to those they couldn’t be with. The country was erupting after the death of George Floyd. My body began to contract regularly as it had with prior pregnancies, leading me to wonder if she was coming early, but mostly making me very sleep-deprived.
Something wasn’t right in my garden. It was like the little plants stopped production along with the rest of the world. Was it the weird spring weather? I went to labor and delivery a few times with regular contractions. They sent me home twice because I wasn’t progressing into active labor. This was a familiar story for me — I’d needed to have Pitocin to augment my labor every pregnancy. At last a midwife advocated for me to be admitted. Early the next morning my daughter was born — a few days late, but perfectly healthy.
We held our new baby close. I recovered easily and we went home. Her siblings were smitten.
I looked forward to the long summer of rest and bonding ahead of us.
The summer garden finally woke up and began to stretch toward the sky and show its color. My parents were supposed to come visit soon. They were staying in a nearby state with my sister’s family, waiting to come meet the baby. We were hesitant — my sister’s small town was not taking precautions with COVID.
And then, the week before they were supposed to come, my mom tested positive.
She was hospitalized a few days later with kidney complications. It was excruciating to not be able to visit her. I imagined the awful scenarios that I had heard others going through: losing a loved one, knowing that they are suffering, and not being able to be with them in their last moments. The familiar worst-case-scenario factory in my head that has accompanied my anxiety and depression in the past jolted back into production. Every story of loss from COVID flooded back into my mind. I escaped to the garden, channeling my worries into weeding and watering.
Yet, despite my mother’s comorbidities, she did not develop severe breathing issues. Her kidneys recovered and she was released. I scheduled an appointment with my therapist for the first time in a long while.
Buckets of flowers are flowing from the garden, despite many stunted plants. My parents tested negative and made the three day journey back home. We don’t know when they will get to meet our new daughter.
Despite unprecedented circumstances, I have much to be grateful for. Most notably, the simplicity of our routines and paid family leave contributed to a healthier postpartum experience. I am also grateful that my family is safe, healthy, and financially secure — which I know is not the case for so many.
The days are numbered until the frost comes and my garden goes to sleep.
We have a few weeks left of paid family leave.
Schools continue to remain closed.
We are cooped up indoors because of the smoke from wildfires in the region.
Despite all of this, I will soon plant bulbs in the garden for the winter. The season will change — as it always does — presenting its own challenges and gifts.
