As we celebrate Black Maternal Health Week, political analyst Natasha S. Alford shares her complicated road to motherhood
Black, High-Risk, and Expecting. How I Advocated for Myself, and My Pandemic Pregnancy
The day I shared my pregnancy with the world online I was eight months along and sitting in a hospital bed. Despite having a career in journalism and appearing on-camera for theGrio.com and CNN, the cropped, chest-up Zoom frame of remote work afforded me both privacy and protection from anyone knowing about my growing belly.
It’s not that I wanted my pregnancy to be a secret. The pregnancy itself was a dream come true for my partner and I. The night we found out, we celebrated with a toast and by filming a happy, selfie-mode video. But any initial excitement was tempered by concern. I was about to join a demographic I’d previously only reported on: Black, high-risk, expecting moms.
Black women are two to three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related issues than white women, while Black and Latina mothers in places like New York City, where I live, are at a greater risk for severe delivery complications. As an African-American and Puerto Rican woman who also happens to have lupus—a chronic autoimmune illness that may contribute to serious problems during pregnancy, such as diabetes, immune flare ups, or preeclampsia (a blood pressure condition that Beyoncé spoke candidly about to this magazine)— my pregnancy had to be closely monitored.
I had also previously been diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), a hormonal imbalance that can increase the chances of miscarriage (women with PCOS are three times more likely to lose pregnancies), so from day one, I was on a combination of hormones and anti-diabetic medication prescribed to preserve my pregnancy. The pandemic only compounded the tenuousness of the situation, which made me feel as if the possibility of becoming a mother could be snatched away from me in an instant. Instead of feeling the joy I always thought I’d feel during pregnancy, I was consumed by anxiety, fear, and so many questions. Why did I have to fall into a high-risk pregnancy category? What would it mean for my baby—if my baby even made it full term? And with all the sad stories about racial disparities in maternal care, how could I avoid becoming a statistic?
As a journalist, I'm used to tracking down the most relevant sources and getting the best information about any given subject. But when confronted with the overwhelming amount of choices that needed to be made for my own health, I quickly found myself confused, tousled around, and frustrated, by a medical system that takes a diagnostic rather than holistic approach to fetal and maternal care. There was the highly recommended private doctor who charged $13,000 minimum out of pocket for a vaginal delivery (I passed on that); the local midwifery practice that had expecting moms jammed into a small waiting area like sardines (six-feet apart where?); and the highly-ranked hospital that neglected to communicate simple but important details, like partners not being allowed to attend appointments until said partners were sent away right outside the appointment room.
This story originally appeared on: Vogue - Author:Natasha S. Alford
