The Death of A Child
Dear My Would’ve Been Future Daughter,
They just wouldn’t listen. I knew something was wrong and they didn’t listen. Of course they thought I was an overreacting colored woman having a baby for the first time. I knew I was losing you and of course, of course they didn’t care, didn’t listen, didn’t worry. I knew that the pain wasn’t normal this early, but no they said I had just gone into labor early and to wait for my water to break.
That never happened, I lost you, my baby. I wanted to see you, get to know you, and watch you grow up around me but no they just couldn’t care if I died or if you died, they just continued to rush around the rest of the patients they deemed more important.
But I knew the stats were never meant to be in my favor, “Black, American Indian, and Alaska Native women are two to three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women — and this disparity increases with age, researchers from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) report in the Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report. Most pregnancy-related deaths are preventable. Racial and ethnic disparities in pregnancy-related deaths have persisted over time.” And knowing that I still was still so excited to hold a baby especially after each ultrasound, after each new outfit I bought you, after setting up your nursery.
After every appointment for the ultrasounds, I couldn’t wait to see you when you were born, letting our whole family know how you were doing, how you were growing, and what a wonderful pretty girl you were going to be.
Seeing your little fingers form, hearing your heart beat, knowing that I was going to have a baby girl, it was the brightest time of my life. Now I’m hearing sitting in bed, trying to listen to my therapist to write to who you would’ve been, what we would’ve had, and the PTSD I wouldn’t have to endure.
I know that the doctors, nurses, and everyone else was overworked but I still deserved better, I deserved to see you alive, to see you grow, and they took that away from me because they were tired, had too many patients, whatever excuse they wanted to give me, we deserved better.
All the sorry’s, all the ‘oh we should’ve listened’ straight up didn’t matter. I had lost what had made me so happy the last seven months, and now I wish that I had been part of the 43.5/100,000 deaths of pregnancy mortalities for colored women. I just wish one of the many leading causes of death; cardiovascular conditions in addition to cardiomyopathy, pre-eclampsia, and eclampsia (hypertensive disorders) had done me in, so I could be with you.
But no instead the preeclampsia killed you, why couldn’t they just save you, my baby girl, Estelle, I’m so sorry that they couldn’t do better, that we couldn’t do better. I hope to see you soon my beloved.
Signed,
Not A New Mom Rachelle
