When I Was Eighteen, My Mother Had Her Uterus Removed

My father always wanted the traditionally big Catholic family, but originally my mother never wanted any children. They compromised and agreed to have one child. After about ten months, my parents learned they were pregnant. They lived in Missouri at the time, and my mother planned to have an all-natural water birth, but those plans changed very quickly. My father was in the U.S. Army and received orders to report to a base in California. My mother was almost eight and half weeks pregnant and had to find a new doctor within weeks of giving birth. The doctor on base was already booked and my mother spent the last weeks of her pregnancy looking for any doctor who would be willing to take a patient as far into her pregnancy as she was. Eventually, she found a doctor and my brother was born safely in a hospital after five hours of labor. Upon holding my brother in her arms, my mother knew she wanted another child. She loved being a mother.

My parents spent nearly the next decade trying to have another baby. It was incredibly painful. Four years after my brother, Guy, was born, my mother learned she was pregnant again. This time, she carried my brother, Joseph Ignatius. She was overjoyed; but it would not last. Seven months into the pregnancy, my mother became very ill with an e-coli infection. She was hospitalized and developed a very high fever. The fever was so high, my mother’s water broke, and despite the doctors doing everything they could to save the baby, Joseph Ignatius was born stillborn. The loss of Joseph broke my mother’s heart, but her hope of having another child was not diminished. After grieving, my parents continued to try for another baby, but despite my mother having recovered from the infection, she was unable to carry a pregnancy to full-term. Twice my mother received the joyous news that she was once again pregnant. She carried both babies long enough to know they were both boys, but each time, my mother miscarried. Eventually, the doctors told my mother that she should give up on her dream of having another child. Her fever most likely made her infertile and it would only be detrimental to her health and well-being for her to try again; however, my parents, trusting in God, decided to try one more time to have another child.

After trying for about two more years, they learned they were once again pregnant. This news at once filled them with both joy and trepidation. The doctors were equally cautious. My mother was constantly going to the hospital for various tests and examinations. My mother underwent three alpha-fetal protein tests, two pregnancy glucosamine, and one amniocentesis. The alpha-fetal protein tests consistently returned abnormal results, and after the amniocentesis, the doctors told my mother that I might have down syndrome. As if this pregnancy was not stressful enough, my father received orders to be stationed in Germany so he could serve in Bosnia-Herzegovina. At three and a half months pregnant, my mother had to pack up all the household belongings and move to the other side of the world. With my father in Bosnia most of the time, my mother was basically on her own with my brother. She quickly found a job as a civilian in the Navy and worked until she went on maternity leave.

March 10, 1996 was both my mother’s due date and my father’s 33rd birthday; however, March 10, 1996, came and went leaving my mother still pregnant. She went to the hospital, but the doctors informed her the baby would come when ready. Every week, my mother went to the hospital. Every week, she left the hospital still extremely pregnant, and every week, her belly grew bigger. Finally, the doctors set an induction date for April 4, 1996, but the baby decided it was ready to be born two days before that date.

On April 2, 1996, I finally decided I was ready to brace the harsh reality of the world that existed outside of my mother’s comforting womb. The doctors were worried that I might be born breached, but I turned myself around just in time to be born. After a very short time in labor, I was born, taking my mother’s uterus with me. I must have held onto it when I realized the outside world was a bit too chilly for my liking. I weighed nine pounds and eleven ounces. A very heavy newborn, but just the right size for a three-week-old which I should have been at that time. My umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck and my face was completely purple. The nurse cut the cord and saved my life while the doctor pushed my mother’s uterus back inside her. Eventually, my mother needed to have a hysterectomy because of the damage caused by my birth.

The stories of my mother’s many pregnancies speak volumes about her character. She was surprised by how much she loved being a mother, and she loved being a mother so much, she wanted desperately to be a mother to more children. My mother is a spring of hope. She never gave up hope that she would have another child. My mother perseveres. She experienced many difficulties throughout her journey to have children, but she never let those difficulties stop her from going after what she wanted. She never let those difficulties depress her. She never let anyone tell her what she was capable of. She did not listen when the doctors told her that her precious baby girl was likely to be born disabled. She trusted in a higher power. She even proved the doctors wrong when her daughter was born without any of the disabilities or deformations the doctors claimed she would have. My mother went through tremendous amounts of pain to deliver me and she has suffered tremendous amounts of pain due to giving me life. She is the strongest woman I have ever known. To love, to hope, to persevere, to trust, and to be strong: these are some of the many things my mother has taught me throughout my life. I am incredibly blessed to be able to call her my mother and I would not be the woman I am today without her. I am so thankful that I can share my love for her with the world this Women’s History Month.