Pregnant During a Pandemic: A Tale of Lonely Survival

Being pregnant during Covid-19 has been nothing short of a dream. Not like the dream with a beginning and end, no. More like the one that subtly engulfs you into multiple layers like the movie, Inception. Some nights I fight a chimera-like monster chasing me down a field of lemon trees, next I am squinting to communicate with a woman speaking through her eyes; mouth shielded with a red silk scarf and padlock securely hung on the side of her face. And in the following layer, I magically embody Eleven’s (Stranger Things) powers to overcome a catastrophic dark monster before it sucks me into its bottomless vortex. 

I wake up to the sound of a fast heartbeat – both mine and my babies which pulsate within me. Totally nonsensical, wildly erratic and always the same theme. Good vs. Evil. Protector against villain. And all this has meshed into the subconscious part of my brain, mixing various Netflix series, Covid-19 news, fantasy literature and a tiny lifeform dependent on my body for its survival. I feel as though I have entered a video game with various intricate levels, and keep uncovering secret parts of its world with no ending. This is what a pandemic has done to my mind, my sanity, my hope in having conceived in such a bizarre and dangerous time. 

As a pregnant mother in a pandemic; it’s redefined the word endurance for me. I never knew what the pandemic would unleash within me. It’s not rainbows and butterflies; it’s a feeling of survival of the fittest. Fit defined here as- isolation- as a form of protection and one that I have done to protect the life of my unborn child. But this isolation takes its toll on you. The months of no human contact, no family to congregate with, no physical contact or human touch, and not being able to read a person’s expression when they speak behind a mask truly makes you ache in ways you never knew possible. You rely heavily on sound and eye contact. And when you are in your car waiting to be called on your cell, so your physician may see you, you feel this odd sense of displacement. All the pieces of the scenario feel wrong. I’m now a character in Dr. Seuss, book “Oh, the places you’ll go”- I’m stuck in this page – The Waiting Place. Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go, or the mail to come, or the rain to go, or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow, or waiting around for Friday night, or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake, or a pot to boil, or a better break. And that last part is wholeheartedly me – I’m waiting for a better break. 

My cellphone rings and I’m instructed to come in. I put on my mask, look in the rear-view mirror and stare for a moment. I take a deep breath and out the door I go. I stand in the lobby, chairs flipped upside down as if a hurricane blew inside, taped instructions on the floor with arrows that make your head spin. It reads – STOP. I stop there.  I look up. They point the laser gun thermometer to my head and spray my hands with disinfectant. My mouth is dry, I’m nervous and my stomach is in multiple knots. No one to my left, no one to my right. The maternity magazines are safely stowed away in a zip lock bag. A celebrity smiles her pearly whites on the front page, holding her belly; as if mockingly saying “Everything is great! I’m great, we’re great. All is great.” I hear my name and quickly snap out it. I’m directed to my room and I wait. Back to the waiting place. I’m naked in my thin paper robe, I feel vulnerable; skin exposed to disease. I look around at the art on the walls, weird abstract ink drawings – looks like two hands spread into doves’ wings. I think of a fitting title to my real life episode featuring - pregnancy during a pandemic; a tale of lonely survival.

While I wait –which has now been a good twenty minutes – I look at my pregnancy app. My baby is the size of a blueberry; what a cute thought. I search my memory for the feelings when I first became pregnant and then miscarried at 9 weeks. A reflux of bile rises up in my throat. I swallow hard and force it down. Fear and angst creep up behind me, ready for a punching fest. Smiling at each other in jest; ready to make their debut on my fragile state of mind. They’re interrupted by my doctor who walks in, masked and robed – only seeing her piercing blue eyes; reading my chart before looking up at me. I remember the last time I was here; pregnant with my son; my rainbow baby. The first thing she’d done was congratulate both my husband and me with a warm hug. It was so welcomed. No hug this time, no contact period. I wish to be embraced and coddled like a child; patted on the back and told all would be okay. We undergo the usual dialogue. Last date of my period; approximate gestational age, etc. I’m almost 8 weeks and a sonogram is scheduled to take place after our conversation. Through muffled dialogue; we discuss protocol; what to expect now with Covid-19 looming over us. I look down at my dry hands; cracked from the over washing. My nails chipped and jagged; signs of plain old negligence. I am Neanderthal; unwashed hair, dark circles under my eyes and a crippling morning sickness that’s beat the shit out of my spirit.

My doctor leaves; I know the drill. I’ll be back; I’ll stay home and I’ll stay safe. I want to ball my eyes out but I contain it. A mixture of hormonal clamor rises in waves. I have so many emotions fluctuating within me all battling one another; happiness, grief, fear and anger. I try to imagine more positive scenarios. How wonderful it will be to give my son a sibling. The beautiful bond they’d form all the while testing what is left of my sanity. I am eternally grateful to be given a chance to be a Mother once again. I cradle my belly to let little blip know how much I love it already. When I look back to this point in my life; I want my child to know how much she aided their Mother with strength and courage. I smile to myself; pregnancy is never easy but Mothers are built of some real resilient material. My thought is interrupted by the tech who knocks on the door; saying she is ready for me. I go into the adjacent room and de-robe from the waist down as instructed. I feel my heart pounding in my temples. The room is dark, only lit with two dim lights. Here we go little blip; time to meet you, I say tremulously cheering myself on. I lay on my back waiting as the tech is peering at the screen. She tells me to not move while she takes the measurements and looks for its heart beat. I feel my heart sink in my chest with worry; and instinctively reach for what would’ve been my husband’s hand which is clearly not there. I grab the side of the bed instead, digging my nails into the side. 

Nothing but clicks can be heard from the tech as she taps the screen and sways the machine side to side. Those few minutes of silence are true agony. I let out a muffled cry in my mask and shut my eyes tight forcing myself to see pitch black. I take a deep breath trying to steady my senses. I open my eyes; and the tech turns over her screen. There she is; a beating little bean. I let out a cry; followed by a superfluity of tears. I don’t even bother wiping them, I let my mask absorb their bitter saltiness. I thank the tech with trembling lips and a shaky voice. She nods in understanding, under her mask I see she is smiling as the lines on the side of her eyes rise. My baby is perfectly safe and content in my womb. I immediately feel safer knowing she is safe. I absorb this joy for both myself and my husband who was robbed of this moment due to Covid. I snap a photo of our little miracle; mentally praising its vitality. I’m engrossed by the small beats of its heart and in the background Lin Manuel’s Hurricane plays in my head “In the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet, for just a moment”, and in this moment I only see you. A strength surges within me, as if a warm blanket has been gently placed over my shoulders. I am now a boxer who’s ready to enter the ring again; bloodied and gutted after several sucker punches – and to this I say, do your fucking worst. I am greater than my fear. The haunting nightmares that this pandemic has unleashed will plague me no more. I pledge to fight for unbridled joy. The world is in turmoil; diseased with an uproar of chaos but I choose to see those shards of light and grasp control. I choose to cling to my children. I choose to cling to that fragment of hope. In this moment I am shatterproof; and in this moment I am a Mother.  

~Denise A. Castro