I Survived the Black Maternal Health Crisis. My Friend Didn’t

I was shocked and angry when rumors of Tori Bowie’s death began to circulate. My brain refused to believe that someone I’d stood on top of the world with was gone, and that she may have died alone.

Tori had the most joyful spirit and the most radiant smile. Her country accent punctuated a beautiful laugh. I felt the loss deeply. I used the remainder of my frequent flier miles to attend her funeral.

Red, white, and blue flowers framed a closed casket that I couldn’t believe she was in. I opened the program and began to read the obituary written inside for her. And it was then, in the pew at her funeral, as the choir sang an upbeat worship song, I learned that my teammate Tori had been pregnant.

I was already devastated about losing Tori. Upon learning the news of her pregnancy, I was completely shattered.

I learned of my own pregnancy after failing to make the 2020 Olympic Team, and I experienced a whole gamut of emotions.

I saw my entire plan and career fall apart as I stared at the word “yes” on the pregnancy test. Plus I knew all too well what the Black maternity mortality rate was and about unequal outcomes for black women in the healthcare system.

As a social work student, and especially having already survived my own horrifying experience with dismissive doctors, I was unwilling to risk putting myself in the hands of that system again.

Two years prior, I had become severely anemic due to extreme blood loss. For months the doctors wished only to treat the anemia with iron infusions. I had to fight to get a transvaginal ultrasound, which revealed a large hemorrhaging tumor in my uterus. I had emergency surgery three hours later.

As terrified as I was of being pregnant, I was more frightened by childbirth and the stark reality that I may not survive it. And so, just as soon as I learned I was pregnant, I made an appointment to terminate the pregnancy.

However, in the days leading up to the appointment, I began to feel strongly that this baby was meant to be mine; I was meant to be their mama. So my partner and I began to focus on how to survive childbirth in America.

When I called to set my first appointment, after answering a few of her questions about my age and race, my OBGYN tried to schedule my c-section over the phone.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

I wanted to have the baby vaginally. I was shocked to not have been given the option, and for this to have been decided without my input and before I’d ever stepped foot in the office or met any of the care team for the first time.

I knew that finding a doula and a new doctor would take time, so I decided not to move on from my current doctor right away. I wanted there to be as little disruption in my prenatal care as possible.

I was just about to make arrangements to tour a new hospital and birthing center when I went into labor at 26 weeks.

I had a contraction in the shower and as I dried my body I noticed there was blood on my towel. I wasn’t in pain and had I not been aware of the risks that so many Black women face, I could have been tempted to go lie down and try to sleep it off.

But I knew better. Even if it turned out to be nothing, it was better to be safe than sorry.

I was 6cm dilated when we were admitted. Doctors rushed in and out of the room preparing us for the likelihood that I’d be giving birth that night.

“Ideally, you’d stay pregnant,” one doctor said to me in passing. I held on to that. I needed to stay pregnant for a minimum of two more days to get the baby the full course of steroids needed to help kickstart his premature lungs.

The team put me in the Trendelenburg position, legs higher than my head, with the hopes that gravity could help keep the baby inside. I was not allowed food or drink because I could be rushed into surgery at any moment.

I developed a migraine and my breathing became labored, but my vitals were fine each time they checked, so they gave me painkillers and sleeping pills.