It’s almost a year late — I can’t believe I’ll be the mother of a one-year-old in just a few weeks. The delay in writing this is simple: thinking, typing, or talking about the day Clara was born still frightens me. Even after eleven-plus months, the memory of her dramatic entrance is intense.
The day Clara arrived was the most amazing, life-changing day of my life — and easily the most terrifying. I’ve shared bits of the story in comments and other posts, but now that she’s nearly a year old I’ve processed enough to tell it fully. I’m not entirely “over it” and I’m not sure I ever will be, but I can discuss it now without breaking down, which feels like progress. Some friends suggested writing this as part of the healing process. Our blog is, after all, an online diary of sorts, and putting the experience into words felt right. How Clara came into the world will influence future pregnancies and how nervous I’ll be if any similar complications recur, so documenting this has value beyond just storytelling. Deep breaths.
I had an otherwise low-risk, wonderful pregnancy. No high blood pressure, no odd pains, and yes — more than 100 days of morning sickness (I counted). Once that passed, everything else felt great. I loved feeling my baby kick and enjoyed being pregnant. I even joked I could do it ten more times. My mom, at 4’11”, had two fast natural births, so I expected a straightforward labor — maybe without drugs, maybe with them. I’d taken pain-management classes and read about the Bradley Method and felt ready to face labor calmly. My mantra was simple: “In the end the baby will be out and I’ll meet her, so keep fear out of it.”
John worked downtown and we were a one-car family, so I spent the days without a car and relied on neighbors if something urgent happened. He was only a 15-minute drive away, and for the last two weeks of my pregnancy he answered his phone on the first half-ring — on high alert. At 39 weeks I was dilated to 3.5 and my doctor expected labor to start any time, which kept John ready to rush home.
On the morning of May 14th, a Friday, I finally felt contractions — the first I’d ever felt. At first they were irregular and I didn’t tell John to avoid a false alarm, but they quickly formed a pattern and were four minutes apart and extremely painful — an 11 on the scale. I called him while he was at a celebratory lunch on his last day at the office; he got home fast. By the time we reached the hospital the contractions were about two minutes apart, and they sent me straight into labor and delivery.
While waiting for the doctor, my water broke in the hospital bed — but instead of clear fluid it was red. There was a lot of blood. The room changed instantly: nurses and doctors rushed in and someone said I was having a placental abruption, where the placenta detaches from the uterine wall. It explained the ripping pain and was an extremely serious complication for both baby and mother. The team moved with urgency.
Within about a minute they had me in the OR and within three minutes they performed an emergency C-section and got Clara out. It was all a blur: the gurney, the frantic pace, the people running up and down corridors. I wasn’t thinking about myself — only about the baby. I remember a silent, internal scream: “Just cut her out.” They prepared me so quickly that John was briefly left behind in the hallway, stunned and alone, until someone fetched him. He was handed scrubs and walked into the OR holding my hand as they began the operation.
When they opened me, they discovered a second problem: the umbilical cord had prolapsed, pinched and reducing Clara’s oxygen supply while the abruption compromised the placenta. They warned me she might not cry. That was the moment my heart truly broke. I couldn’t see anything because of the surgical drape, but hearing “cord prolapse” and “baby in distress” made everything terrifyingly real.
Clara didn’t cry immediately. She moaned faintly, like a tiny kitty. That weak sound felt both hopeful and agonizing — I wanted a strong wail to reassure me she was okay. Her initial Apgar score was a 4, which was worrying, but the medical team worked quickly. I learned later that the five-minute Apgar is the most important — by then she had pinked up, cried loudly, and scored a 9. The relief was immense.
They had NICU specialists standing by and ran tests on her cord blood to check for oxygen deprivation. When those results came back clear, the team visibly relaxed and we began to breathe again. It turns out infants who survive placental abruption face a 40–50% chance of complications, and mothers can require interventions like a hysterectomy in severe bleeding cases. Realizing how lucky we were started to sink in.
After what felt like forever, they wrapped Clara up and brought her over. My arms were still strapped from surgery, so John held her near my head while I stared at the tiny, perfect baby I could hardly believe was ours. I was exhausted, swollen from IV fluids, still in shock — and overflowing with love and gratitude.
We were told staff members talked about our case for days — apparently surviving both a cord prolapse and placental abruption is very rare. Friends who were staying in the hospital that day later recognized the story and told us the nurses had mentioned “that woman.” It still gives me chills to think how close things came to a different outcome and how fortunate we were to be in the right place with an attentive team.
So that’s our story of the scariest and best day of our lives. Whew. No wonder we’re obsessed with our girl.
Looking ahead, cord prolapse is a largely random event and doesn’t necessarily make future occurrences more likely, but placental abruption has a higher chance of recurring — roughly one in four women may experience it again. It can happen early in pregnancy and be devastating. My doctors advised waiting at least two years between pregnancies to allow proper healing, which likely means more than three years between Clara and any siblings. I’m okay with the wait. I want to enjoy Clara and take time to process the birth and rebuild my confidence.
When I become pregnant again, I’ll be more cautious and vigilant — that’s inevitable. John wants me to enjoy it the way I did before Clara, but I expect to be on high alert for any signs of trouble. Knowing what an abruption feels like may help me identify it sooner, and my medical team will have the full history. If another abruption occurs when the baby is old enough to survive outside the womb, they’ll likely opt for a planned C-section. I’m fine with that: whatever it takes for a healthy baby.
Will I be petrified next time? Yes. But I’ll also be hopeful, better informed, and forever grateful for the team that saved our little fighter.