On Friday, December 20, 2019, I rushed out of the DoG Street Pub in Williamsburg to take a phone call. Brimming with nervous energy, I answered the phone hoping the voice on the other end would sound hopeful and encouraging. It was. I was pregnant with our second child.
On Friday, March 13, 2020, I rushed upstairs to our bedroom to take a phone call. Brimming with nervous energy, I answered the phone hoping the voice on the other end would sound hopeful and encouraging. It was not. I was pregnant with our second child, and I tested positive for COVID-19.
My pregnancy before COVID was totally normal.
In the 13 weeks between those Fridays, I did all the normal things. I celebrated Christmas and New Years. I met my old friend morning sickness again, and I found out that my baby was healthy and a boy. At 40 and having had a previous miscarriage, I was over the moon that this much-wanted pregnancy was sailing along. I felt good. I felt happy.
At the beginning of March, I knew COVID-19 was going to be a worldwide issue, but how bad could it be, realistically? It seemed like it was in Italy, so far away. But then I found out that I had been exposed to a positive case. This was before lockdowns, before masks, and when the first cases in our area were being reported.
Getting tested for COVID early into the pandemic was difficult, even while pregnant.
When I found out about my exposure—at 9:00 on a Saturday night—I called my OB’s answering service. Now, many months into the pandemic, that seems ridiculous. But at that time, all I had been hearing was how scary COVID-19 is and how few people had been diagnosed. Also, I hadn’t heard anything about a pregnant woman being infected. My OB, usually calm, sounded a little worried and set out to find how I could get tested.
Then came the next few days of dealing with a bureaucratic nightmare. Even with my OB’s help, my MFM’s help, and the head of an Infectious Disease department’s help, I could not get tested. Mercifully, I had no symptoms but that also meant I couldn’t get a test. I was bounced around through different health departments and heard so many unsettling things. “We’ve never had a pregnant woman exposed.” “You’re the first pregnant woman in the area who has this.” “It probably doesn’t pass through the placenta.”
Finally—mercifully—I was granted a test.
It seemed like a Golden Ticket. And I was certain it would be negative. Since I didn’t have symptoms so I couldn’t possibly have it, right? I was instructed to park at the far end of a parking garage and meet a nurse at the back door who was dressed in what looked like a spacesuit and handed me a mask. When I saw the nurse, I wanted to say, “I’m fine. I feel fine!” Even the doctor noticed my general well-being and informed me I may not be able to get a test after all because I wasn’t sick. I waited in a small, airtight room with only Google and WebMD until a nurse came in and had to read the directions on how to give a COVID test. Then I was done. And the waiting began.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t feel him kick yet. My morning sickness had subsided thanks to the second trimester. My doctors assured me it wouldn’t pass through the placenta but my over-anxious mind wasn’t so sure.
Pregnancy With COVID
Then a call from the health department again. Positive. Contact tracing began. The news reported on my case. I was “a woman in her 40’s” and they shared where I was exposed. (Actually, I was offended by this as I was not “in my 40’s.” I was just 40.) I had to contact friends to let them know. My husband had to contact his employer. We had to contact my daughter’s preschool. Friends offering support while I quarantined with my husband and toddler. Some friends were furious that I exposed them. More calls from the health department. And the scariest thing they said: “We’re not sure what to do.”
My routine OB appointments stopped until I could get two negative tests 24 hours apart. But my county wasn’t offering that best practice. So I waited even longer. Not being able to receive prenatal care was unnerving. Five weeks after I was diagnosed, I suited up in PPE and met an ultrasound tech also in PPE in a room that wasn’t being used. Then I saw him kicking around, flailing his little arms just like he does now. Totally unaware of what was going on outside. And he looked perfect.
Despite a COVID-19 diagnosis, my pregnancy remained healthy and on track.
We went through the summer with more lockdowns, rising cases, and reopenings but I still limited where I went. I had a toddler who touched everything and I still hadn’t found a mask that fit securely over her tiny little face. I felt like the world was out of control, but my Mama Bear instinct wanted to keep my little family in a sterilized cave.
Even though everything looked great, and, sadly, COVID was now just a part of everyone’s life, I still had my experience. It wasn’t at the forefront of my mind, but I needed to see my little boy in order to know that we had made it together. I was patiently waiting for my scheduled c-section date, but little man had other plans. My water broke in the middle of the night while I was watching repeats of The Sopranos. Aside close contractions, my husband and I packed up and called a friend to stay with our daughter. Then, we arrived at the hospital. I got the second COVID-19 test in my life that was mercifully negative. An hour or so later, I met my son. He was perfect and healthy and had a beautiful head of hair. And we made it through COVID. Together.
