It’s nearly a year late — I can’t believe I’m going to be the mother of a one-year-old in three short weeks — but I finally feel ready to write about Clara’s birth. For months, just thinking or talking about that day made me want to run and hide. Even after eleven plus months, it still brings up fear, but I’ve processed enough of it now to tell the story without falling apart. A few friends suggested writing this as part of the healing, and since this blog has always been our diary, it felt right to share the full experience.
My pregnancy had been wonderful and low risk. No high blood pressure, no strange pains, and after more than 100 days of morning sickness, things settled down and I felt great. I loved feeling her move and reveled in being pregnant. My mom, who is 4’11”, had two fast, natural births, so I expected something similar. I’d taken classes and learned techniques to manage pain, and I tried to stay calm and flexible about whether I’d use medication or not. My main worry was that labor might be so fast I’d end up delivering in the car or at home — birth can run in the family.
John was working downtown and we were a one-car family, which put me on edge. Still, neighbors had offered to drive me if needed, and John spent the final weeks constantly answering his phone, ready to race home. At 39 weeks I was already dilated to 3.5, which surprised me since I wasn’t feeling contractions yet. My doctor thought labor could start any second.
On the morning of May 14th I finally felt contractions for the first time — intense and irregular at first, then establishing a pattern. They quickly became four minutes apart and felt like an eleven on the pain scale. I called John, who was finishing a celebratory lunch at work, and told him to get home immediately. By the time we reached the hospital, contractions were two minutes apart and so intense I struggled to walk from the car. They admitted me to labor and delivery, and while we waited for the doctor my water broke — and it was red. There was a lot of blood. John saw it and went pale. The room immediately filled with nurses and doctors.
They told us I was experiencing a placental abruption, which is when the placenta detaches from the uterine wall. It’s a dangerous complication for both mother and baby: the baby can lose oxygen and the mother can hemorrhage. The team moved quickly. Within minutes I was in the OR and, in about three minutes, baby Clara was delivered by emergency C-section. Their speed saved her life.
Everything after that was a blur. They wheeled me down the hall as if racing time. They called for emergency teams, announced “baby in distress” and “profuse bleeding,” and prepared me for surgery. John was briefly left in the hallway, given scrubs, and was allowed into the OR just as they began. I was in shock, barely able to think, frozen with the desperate plea in my head: just get her out, save her.
Once they opened me, they discovered another complication: the umbilical cord had been pinched — a cord prolapse — so Clara had been deprived of oxygen while the abruption was unfolding. They warned us not to wait for a cry. At first she didn’t cry. I remember the paralysing fear as specialists worked on her and announced she had a low initial Apgar score of 4. That was terrifying; it’s the kind of number that makes every parent’s heart drop. The team had NICU staff on hand and worked swiftly to stabilize her.
After an agonizing minute that felt like an eternity, she let out a faint, fragile sound, and then later a strong, vigorous cry. By the five-minute Apgar she had pinked up and scored a 9 — nearly perfect. That moment shifted everything. They ran tests on her cord blood to check for oxygen deprivation and brain injury; when those results came back clear, the medical staff visibly relaxed. We learned later that infants who survive a placental abruption can have complications in 40–50% of cases, and that some mothers require hysterectomies to control bleeding. The odds of Clara surviving both complications were extremely slim, and that made us feel both grateful and bewildered.
When they finally wrapped her up and brought her near my head, John held her while I, still strapped down and stunned from surgery, stared at her in disbelief and overwhelming love. The relief was immediate and immense. I kept thinking about how different things could have been if the events had unfolded elsewhere or if a different team had been on duty. So many people later told us how remarkable it was that she survived — even staff on other floors had heard about the case and remarked on the unusual combination of cord prolapse and abruption with a positive outcome.
In the following weeks and months I grappled with questions I still sometimes ask: Why did this happen to us? Why were we so lucky? Mostly, though, I feel gratitude. Gratitude for the doctors and nurses who reacted instantly, for the hospital being there when the bleeding began, and for our little fighter who pulled through.
Looking ahead, cord prolapse is considered random and doesn’t make a future pregnancy more likely, but placental abruption does have a higher chance of recurring — around one in four women may experience it again. My doctors advised waiting at least two years between pregnancies to allow my body to heal, which probably means three years or more between Clara and any sibling. I’m okay with that timeline; I want to enjoy this time with her and keep processing the experience. I also know I’ll be more anxious in future pregnancies. I’ll be vigilant for symptoms and less carefree than I was before, and that’s a reality I’m learning to accept.
If another abruption occurs and the baby is far enough along, they’ll likely opt for a planned C-section right away. I’m completely fine with that now — whatever it takes for a healthy baby. After what we went through, I’ll do anything to keep my child safe.
That day was the scariest and the most miraculous of our lives. It explains a lot of my protectiveness and obsession over Clara, and it’s a story I’ll carry with me forever.