It’s been a little more than eight years. And I forget. I actually forgot after the first year. And the second. I always forget because I don’t want to remember. 

A little more than eight years ago, we were excited about a pregnancy. Our overall thought was: “Look how great this little one is; let’s make another one.” My daughter was absolutely adorable, healthy and a fairly easy baby. We can do this again, right? I also think it was the oxytocin talking.

We got pregnant again and were happy about it. The drug store test revealed good news, so we went to my obstetrician to confirm. My beloved obstetrician wasn’t available, so we saw his partner. I had seen her once before and thought her bedside manner was …. not the warmth I prefer. Which was made worse by the news she delivered: “I don’t see anything.” 

And the mourning began. We returned home with a page of medical instructions and heavy hearts. Our days, maybe a couple weeks, of excitement were dashed. Again. Not our first time traveling this path. 

A week later, I was in Minnesota giving a series of lectures. Preparing for the lectures was a temporary distraction from my grief. I was excited to share about ideas I found meaningful. I brought my still-nursing toddler with me, and the hosting institution provided her a plane ticket and nanny. The afternoon of the largest lecture, I began to feel sick. I had just gotten my active little one down for a nap; I was re-reading my lecture notes, and I felt like something was wrong. Right then, my sister texted to say hi. I texted back that I wasn’t feeling well. She asked for more information. I shared my symptoms. She said that I should call my doctor. I said that I thought I would be ok. She asked me for my doctor’s phone number and I shared the contact. A couple minutes later she texted back and said I should go to the ER.  But what about my lecture?

I called my host, told her that I wasn’t feeling well and maybe we should swing by the ER after the lecture. And could the nanny stay with my child at the hotel? (In previous days, the nanny came with us.) I got dressed, lecture ready, got in my host’s car and before we finished the 10-minute drive to the lecture hall, I asked her to pull over so I could vomit. 

Let’s not talk about why I gave the lecture instead of going right to the hospital. Or why I still thought I could sign books and take pictures with the person who endowed the lecture series after the lecture. What I will say is that I was in the worst pain of my life by the time I finished signing books. I got to the hospital at 9 pm, and within an hour, they knew I had an ectopic pregnancy. I was terrified because I knew that people die from ectopoic pregnancies. I welcomed the morphine, and waited while the doctors monitored my blood loss to see if and when they would do surgery, and whether or not I would lose any organs in the process.

There is no one to blame for an ectopic pregnancy. It can happen. But why didn’t I know about it until I was horribly sick? Did this happen because I was Black? Or the bad-bedside-manner OB was incompetent? Or because I gave a lecture before going to the ER? I don’t know.

I do know that the love of my friends made all the difference. When I went to the hospital at 9 pm, I called my sister to tell her. She made arrangements for the care of her three children and got on a plane to greet me in the hospital by 11 am the next day. She relieved the nanny and loved on my girl. My pastor offered to fly 2000 miles to check on me. One Minnesota colleague called her in-law who was a doctor and made sure I went to the hospital that got me in immediately. Another Minnesota friend sat with me for hours – or was it days? – while I waited on the maybe-surgery. Another friend flew 2000 miles to relieve my sister and fly home with me because I was too weak to take care of my daughter when I was discharged from the hospital. Yet another friend did hours of childcare once I got home because as it turns out … internal bleeding and recovery from it hurts a lot and serious painkillers are needed. 

I didn’t lose or organ, or even need surgery. But I was afraid I would die. 

I’m sharing this, in part, because it’s Black Maternal Health Week, and Black women in the U.S. die from childbirth at a rate of three times that of White women. There are a ton of reasons why this happens – a lot of which has to do with structural racism (often of health care providers) and access to quality healthcare (which we know is tied to race and class). But there are things we can do to help. Awareness, advocacy, giving. 

I don’t share this story often. I’m not ashamed of it; it’s just a painful story that lives in my bones. I share it because pregnancy loss and maternal death are not just numbers. They are the stories of women you know. Whether or not they ever told you.

The best part of this story is that I had help. I had the deep love and presence and advocacy of my loved ones. Especially when I couldn’t or wasn’t making the best decisions for my own health. I also had speedy access to quality healthcare when it was most crucial. 

If you have the time, learn a bit more about Black Maternal Health here

Support organizations that work for reproductive justice: Sister Song​

Help Black mothers get access to Black doulas and midwives: Kindred Space in Los Angeles

​Dr. Monica