Jeanne’s story – Four Babies, Five Kids

As the newest member of the Every Mother Counts team and probably the one with the most kids, I volunteered to tell my tale of oh-so-many pregnancies.

I was 12-years old when I witnessed my first birth  - a home birth on the kitchen table. From then on I knew, I’d found my calling.  I intended to become a midwife, but veered into labor and delivery nursing and a two-decade career helping thousands of women have their babies.  Every birth had a story and during those years, I had four pregnancies of my own.

Baby number one

I was 27, in nursing school, and watching my mother slip away to Alzheimer’s disease, when it became critical to me that I become a mother while my own mother was still vaguely aware of who I was.  It was crazy, considering how rigorous school was and how impaired Mom was, but no matter…I needed that baby. My sisters helped Mom stitch a baby blanket, guiding her hands for every stitch, reminding her it was for my baby.  I wrapped every one of my babies in that pale yellow flannel on their first day of life.

Baby number two

Nine months after my first daughter was born and thanks to a magnificent crisis with a broken condom (the Pill didn’t work with breastfeeding back then), I was pregnant again. I was still in nursing school and despite having a baby at home, a job, and a sick mother I made it to the hospital for every single shift. One of my patients, a bullet-ridden gang kid said I was “stronger than rocks with balls of steel” and I was so flattered I blushed. 

Graduation was six days past my due date. I strapped on an extra-large Kotex (in case my water broke), waddled across the stage and received two diplomas - one for me, and one for my baby, who was born three days later.   Since we didn’t have medical insurance or money, a midwife agreed to deliver her at her birth center for a few hundred bucks.  It was a 4-hour, un-medicated labor and I was home two hours later, tucked into bed with my newborn and one-year-old daughters who bonded so tightly they were dubbed The Velcro Sisters. 

Baby number three

My husband and I decided it might be nice to have just one more and 20 minutes later, I was pregnant. I worked full time delivering babies from 7PM to 7AM, got home in time to get the girls to school, slept until school let out, got up and did it all over again. My ancient father lived nearby and required constant tending. My mother was gone and my sister had recently died leaving us a grief-stricken 10-year-old daughter. I was 35 and remember the fatigue the most, but I also remember that pregnancy as being profoundly precious, because the anticipation of another new baby offset my grief so acutely. 

I argued it was because of the fatigue and having so many people to care for, but in all honesty, it was the astounding number on the scale.  I was anxious and had a mini-tantrum until my midwife agreed to an induction that would allow me to nail down childcare and elder care and save my self-esteem from an ungodly weight.  When my giant-sized son was born his umbilical cord snapped in two as I delivered his head.  After a brief resuscitation, he was fine, but that birth complication could have ended his life.  In hindsight, I wonder if my anxiety was my own instincts telling me to get him delivered before a cord accident killed him.  

 Baby number four.

The kids ranged between preschool and middle school.  My father was 85 and lived with us.  My husband and I were done having kids, but our insurance required a mandatory waiting period before they’d authorize a vasectomy.  I don’t even remember having sex that month, but when my period was late and I complained about bad smells in the kitchen, we knew we were screwed. 

I was 39, worked full time and chalked the high blood pressure and weariness to having too much on my plate.  My doctor attributed my pregnancy complications to advanced maternal age. 

The girls watched their sister’s birth and my oldest daughter cut her cord.  We named her Olivia, and from the start, called her Liv.  Three months later, I was diagnosed with the same cancer that killed my sister. The oncologist wasn’t optimistic.  During surgery, chemo and radiation the irony was not lost on my husband and I that we’d named our daughter “live.”  

In the middle of tremendous stress in an already overburdened family, that baby girl joined our family like a desperately needed ray of sunshine, as if God and Mother Nature cooked up a plan. “Jeanne’s been such a great sport and she still has some shit to get through. Let’s send Olivia her way. That ought to cheer her up.”  Delightful from day one, Olivia’s 12 now and I’m fine.  

Two planned babies, two gift babies, one beloved niece, a woman that reminds herself daily that she's stronger than rocks with balls of steel, a man who stands up for his clan every single day and a family I couldn’t be more thrilled with if I’d planned it myself. That's my story.