Childbirth is so commonplace and Western medicine so advanced that thinking of it as a potentially life-threatening event rarely crosses a parent-to-be’s mind. The U.S., however, has the highest maternal death rate of any developed country, with 26.4 deaths per 100,000 live births – a statistic that is climbing. Although the odds are low, they’re not non-existent.

As a healthy and newly pregnant 33-year-old, my biggest concern was keeping my hips healthy since I’d undergone three hip surgeries between the ages of 31 and 32. I was concerned the pregnancy weight, awkward distribution of the weight and tough birthing positions would re-tear the labrums and capsules I’d worked so hard to rehabilitate. My orthopedic surgeon’s office said many patients had delivered vaginally with no problems – just avoid extreme flexion or torque on the hip joints.

I strived to make healthy choices through my pregnancy, opting for nutritious meals and snacks, staying well hydrated and exercising regularly. My weight was well in check and I left each of my doctor appointments with a glowing report. I was right on track to be a “boring” patient – a run of the mill pregnancy and birth.

Brian and I eagerly counted down the weeks until my due date of May 29, just one day before my own birthday. We prepped the nursery, researched baby gear, took a childbirth class and rejoiced at the thought of adding to our family.

I never considered I might flirt with becoming one of those 26.4 maternal deaths.

The Lead-up

The weekend of April 14, Brian visited his family and former Brazilian Jiu Jitsu students in Ohio and I enjoyed a weekend of solitude at home with Lexi. I went for a hike with one of my nephews, went to the local dairy for an ice cream cone, read a book, watched Wonder and worked more on organizing the baby’s nursery, finally deciding on and ordering farm animal wall decals.

On Sunday morning at church the pastor introduced a new sermon series about the seven deadly sins. I sat in the pew distracted both because I couldn’t stop thinking there was a good possibility I’d have my baby by the time the series wrapped, but also because I had growing pain in my chest, which, despite not having yet experienced it, I attributed to the common pregnancy symptom of heartburn.

The discomfort increased throughout the day and by the time Brian got home that Sunday evening, I was in rare form — grouchy and uncomfortable. I spent a sleepless night trying to alleviate the pain with ginger chews to curb the rising nausea, Tums, a hot shower to relax me and various body positions. Brian slept upstairs in the guest room so my constant tossing didn’t keep both of us awake.

Then around 4 a.m. I started vomiting with such force it even came up and out my nasal cavities. Lexi – ever the sweet dog – ran upstairs several times to try to alert Brian to my distress and otherwise stayed near me. My chest pain continued to escalate.

Come sunrise, Brian and I realized I needed medical attention, but I opted to wait until the doctor’s office opened at 9 a.m. rather than visiting the ER. After I put on a pair of leggings and my favorite maternity hoodie and I wrote my boss a note that I’d be back shortly, we headed to the Butler office, nearly 40 minutes away. With my vomiting nearly uncontrollable and the pain in my chest increasingly suffocating, I began seriously wondering if I was having a heart attack.

Midway through the drive my vision starting deteriorating and the closer we got to Butler the more my right plane of vision diminished until I saw only black or bright swirling kaleidoscopes, very similar to the rainbow-colored wheels that spin on Apple products when a command is processing.

I could hardly see to sign into my appointment using the automated system. My memories of the doctor’s office are foggy. I remember the nurse didn’t even have me step on the scale on my way to the exam room, for which I felt vaguely thankful. I remember she took my blood pressure, which I think was around 172/117 and she said quietly, “That is really high.” I remember lying down on the table before the midwife, also named Laurie, walked in and, when I tried to sit up because lying down felt rude, she told me to lie right back down.

That’s where my memory of April 16 ends.

The Delivery

Laurie told Brian to get me to the hospital, which was right across the street. When we walked in, he found a wheelchair and asked for directions up to the birthing suite. While waiting for the elevator, which happened to be in an area of the hospital under construction and therefore largely vacant, I had my first eclamptic seizure. Brian did his best to stabilize my thrashing head and yelled for help.

The OB on call left the hysterectomy she was performing on another patient to come to my aid. At some point they cut off my shirt, tank top and bra to access my chest as quickly as possible. I didn’t believe they actually cut my nearly brand new tops off until Brian showed me the destroyed garments a few days later. They also tore my FitBit off my left wrist with such force it broke the band. Brian remembers doing chest compressions on me at one point and he tells me there was debate at one point as to whether I had a pulse. The medical team administered magnesium sulfate to prevent another seizure and valium to help relax my body. Brian was tasked with using a tool to clear my lungs. Nevertheless, I seized again.

Hospital records show that the OB consulted via phone with a maternal fetal medicine specialist and that she agreed I needed to have an emergency C-section as soon as I was stabilized. Although they discussed the idea of transferring me to a downtown hospital, Landon’s heart rate dipped into the 80s several times – quite a drop from the 120s it should have been in – and they deemed neither of us stable enough for transport.

After the medical team stabilized me, I had an emergency C-section and Landon was born at 12:12 p.m., weighing in at 4 pounds, 9 ounces and measuring 18 1/2 inches long.

The ICU

I woke up several hours later in the ICU with a 7-inch incision stapled shut across my lower abdomen. My memories are muddy. My mom tells me the pediatrician came in to talk to me, explaining they were going to transfer Landon to the NICU at West Penn Hospital in downtown Pittsburgh. I asked to see him before he left, which I got to do several hours later.

Brian recorded our first meeting in case I didn’t remember it. The photo and video show both of us hooked up to umpteen wires and monitors. Landon was strapped in a heated isolette ready for his transport ambulance, but I got to touch him through the side.

That first meeting remains my greatest sorrow about the experience. I didn’t have a birth plan in place, but I knew once Landon was born I wanted to spend time holding him with Brian – just the three of us – before we welcomed any other family back to see him. Not only did I miss that experience I so wanted, but we spent five days in separate hospitals. It was five days before I could hold my baby. Five days in which my only contact was through photos, video and the webcam West Penn set up so I could log in and watch Landon.

Phlebotomists awakened me several times each night to draw my blood, as well as conduct blood draws throughout the daylight hours so that they could monitor my liver enzymes and to see if I was producing platelets again. Medical cocktails dripped through my IV and they had me breathing into a special contraption to help my lungs. My dangerously high blood pressure prompted them to order an echocardiogram that showed my heart had clearly been working too hard, but was otherwise healthy. A follow up echocardiogram several months later showed my heart was back to its normal size.

The Diagnosis

I had developed preeclampsia within a matter of days, which rapidly progressed to full-blown eclampsia (the seizures). I also had HELLP syndrome, an acronym for the major lab abnormalities of hemolysis, elevated liver enzymes and low platelets. That meant my red blood cells were self-destructing, my liver was inflamed and shutting down – and taking some other internal organs down with it – and low platelets meant I didn’t have the ability to clot blood, which made having a C-section all the scarier, as well as putting me at risk for a hemorrhagic stroke.

HELLP syndrome, classified as a variant of preeclampsia, is quite rare, affecting only 0.2 to 0.6 percent of pregnancies. Eclamptic seizures are even less common. I had several doctors in the practice tell me I was only the third or fourth eclamptic patient they’d seen in their several decades of practice. One in 50 women who have eclamptic seizures die and one in 14 infants are stillborn or die shortly after birth.

My hospital records paint an even scarier picture. My liver enzymes were elevated more than fivefold the upper normal limit. Another test they ran that indicates the likelihood of a blood clot somewhere in your body came back 10 times elevated. The fact my internal organs regained function and that I didn’t have a cardiac arrest, stroke or brain aneurysm truly is a miracle.

The Aftermath

Women who had preeclampsia are at least twice as likely to have heart disease or a stroke and four times as likely to have high blood pressure. Two-thirds of women ultimately die from cardiovascular disease. I can’t find if my odds are even higher since I took it one step further, progressing into full-blown eclampsia, as well as HELLP Syndrome. Whether it does, however, is a moot point. The evidence is clear I need to be extra vigilant about my heart for the rest of my life.

Brian had told me I was at risk of having a stroke in the hospital, but I dismissed it. Even after all that had happened, I still thought that couldn’t possibly have happened to me.

Upon reading USA Today’s investigative piece earlier this summer about maternal mortality in our country, however, it mentioned that once a mother’s blood pressure hits 160/110, or even if one of those numbers climbs so high, she is at risk for having a stroke. In the doctor’s office, my blood pressure was well over that at 172/117. We suspect it may have been higher by the time I seized in the hospital.

With the quote, “I am one of the 50,000,” which is referencing the number of women each year who are injured or have an otherwise very traumatic, near-death birthing experience, USA Today allowed a number of women to tell their story. I identified with the emotions and some exact experiences of many of them. It’s a club I never wanted to join. I am one of the 50,000.

The bad dreams have finally stopped. I’ve finally been able to put all the “what if” questions to rest: What if it had happened less than 24 hours earlier, when I was home alone? What if the Cranberry office had been open and we’d gone there instead of Butler? I would’ve seized in the car precious many minutes away from medical help. What if I had bled out during my C-section since my body couldn’t clot blood?

I’m a religious person. The events of April 16, more than any other moment in my life, proved that God shrouded us in his protection. There simply is no other explanation for why Landon and I are alive and healthy.

Rocky though the beginning of motherhood was, it’s been the most transformative experience of my life. We are so blessed each and every day to get to call Landon our son.