I Gave Birth To My Children In A Car. When I Finally Made It To The Hospital, I Was Shocked.

Even as a first-time mother, I thought I understood childbirth. I’d spent my pregnancy preparing for every possibility, and I was convinced I knew what to expect. I had watched the movies, read the books, and listened to the stories of long, drawn-out labors that stretched for hours, even days. I was told this was especially true for first births. 

I imagined the build-up ― the contractions, the dramatic rush to the hospital, the delivery room filled with medical professionals guiding me safely through it. 

I imagined labor as something gradual, a controlled journey to meeting my baby. 

But in the end, none of that mattered. 

Because sometimes, birth has its own plan. 

It was a Friday morning in the thick of NYC rush hour traffic on the FDR Drive. 

Maurice, my partner, was driving us from the Bronx to a hospital in Manhattan ― a decision I made early on, out of fear that a local hospital wouldn’t take me seriously as a Black woman giving birth in The Bronx. That fear had haunted and loomed over me my entire pregnancy. 

I was pregnant at the height of COVID-19, when hospital restrictions were still in place. Maurice couldn’t attend doctor’s appointments with me, and at every visit, I felt the weight of being on my own. At the same time, stories of Black mothers being dismissed during pregnancy and childbirth haunted me ― none more than Amber Isaac’s (#JusticeForAmber). Amber was just 26 years old when she died at Montefiore Medical Center, the same Bronx hospital closest to me. She had raised concerns for months about her care, confiding in her family and even tweeting about her fears. She was admitted for low platelet levels, induced three days later, and died the next day. The warning signs were there, but she wasn’t heard.

Her story was a devastating reminder of what was at stake. As a lifelong Manhattanite, I had only lived in the Bronx for three months before becoming pregnant, but I had already heard enough firsthand experiences to make my decision nonnegotiable.

But I never even made it to the delivery room. 

That morning, we had been in touch with my doula, someone I had hired early in my pregnancy and considered essential to my journey into motherhood. She checked in on my symptoms (which were mild at the time) and reminded me of what we had previously discussed: going to the hospital too early could “start the clock” on potential interventions. So, I labored at home a little longer, as planned.

But something felt different. There was a “popping” feeling internally. My contractions didn’t start out slow and gradually build up; they started one minute apart.

By the time Maurice ran to get the car (which, thanks to city life, was parked in a garage seven minutes away), I was alone on our bathroom floor, in active labor, praying I wouldn’t give birth right there.

We were 40 blocks away when I felt it, an unmistakable pressure that stole my breath with its intensity. It wasn’t a contraction. It wasn’t a warning. It was his head. 

My baby was coming. Now. 

I turned to Maurice, my voice shaky but the urgency absolute. 

“Pull over. I can feel his head.” 

I didn’t scream like they do in the movies. This was the time to conserve my energy. I felt the weight of Maurice’s hand in mine and gripped it tightly. I mentally recited from memory the affirmations I had printed just two days before but never got a chance to use. The pain was all-consuming, but I focused on my breathing, reminding myself that “I can do hard things.” 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. And yet, somehow, I knew we were protected. My mother, who had passed away years before, was with me. Guiding me. Holding me. Ensuring that despite everything, I would survive. 

Maurice swerved off the nearest exit, threw the car into park, and ran around to the passenger side. But by the time he reached me, five seconds later, maybe less, our son was already being born into his hands. 

Avery Santana was here. Born on Nov. 5, 2021. 

Five seconds. That’s all it took to change everything. In those five seconds we went from being just us to becoming parents.

When the ambulance arrived, I was clutching Avery to my chest, still attached to me by the cord that had carried him here. His cries were strong. We did it ― alone, together. We were OK. We were alive. 

The funny thing? One of my biggest fears had been going into labor and giving birth in an Uber. But we had just purchased our own car that Monday, installed the car seat on Wednesday, and on Friday, Avery had made his grand entrance in the front seat.

I learned I should probably be more specific with my wishes.