Because no two paths to parenthood look the same, “How I Got This Baby” is a series that invites parents to share their stories.
When Melissa and her boyfriend, John, learned she was pregnant in January 2023, they were surprised and thrilled. John proposed two months later, and they quickly settled on a May wedding date, with a gender reveal baked into the celebratory weekend.
For the next few months, Melissa enjoyed her pregnancy. She worked out regularly, either at home or at the gym. One Friday in May, when Melissa was 20 weeks along, she completed an easy cardio YouTube workout in the late afternoon. Then she and John ate dinner, turned down the house, and slipped into bed to watch TV before going to sleep.
Melissa had been dozing for less than an hour when a discomfiting sensation and sound in her chest suddenly roused her. Here, she recounts the harrowing medical event that ensued and how it transformed her path to parenthood.
On waking up with terrifying symptoms
I’d only been sleeping for a little while when I woke up. Something didn’t feel right. I was gasping for air. I kind of shot up in bed, and it went away, so I thought it was a fluke. I lay down again and it came right back. I was wheezing. I could feel this gurgle in my chest, from my lungs. You know when a kettle boils, that bubbling sound? That’s kind of what it was like. Every time I breathed in when I was lying down, there was the sound. But whenever I sat up again, the sound and the feeling disappeared.
John was snoring when I elbowed him and told him to wake up. He put his ear to my chest, and he could hear the sound too. By then I was scared and could feel my heart racing. I had no idea what was happening, but I was worried about the baby. I thought maybe my body was rejecting the pregnancy.
I tried to stay calm. I told myself it was probably nothing, just the baby kicking, waking me up, or that maybe I was having spring allergies and was congested. John got the humidifier out and put that on, and I sat in front of it for a while. After about ten minutes of that, I lay back down and tried to go back to sleep.
But the sound came right back as soon as I was horizontal. By then it was close to midnight. John and I are both pretty levelheaded people — we don’t have a lot of health anxiety — but we were starting to get really nervous. We decided to drive to the hospital where he works in an administrative role so I could go to the emergency room.
On her shocking diagnosis
We waited about a half-hour before they put me into a bay and started me on IV fluids. At first, the doctors weren’t seeing anything wrong with me. My heart rate was pretty high, but they couldn’t hear the sound I was describing. Then, after the bag of fluid was almost done, some doctors came in and had me lie down again. That’s when they heard it.
One of the doctors looked at me and told me something was going on with my heart. He immediately ordered a consult from the cardiology department and an echocardiogram. The cardiologist came pretty quickly, before the test. She was nice, but she had a serious expression. My symptoms were signs of heart failure, she said; it appeared something was wrong with my mitral valve, a gate in your heart, between two of the chambers. My valve wasn’t opening all the way, and blood was pooling in one of the chambers and backfilling into my lungs. My heart was working overtime, trying to pump blood throughout my body and to the baby. That’s why my heart rate was so high.
A flurry of specialists streamed in and out over the next few hours. One of them asked if I’d been born in the United States; apparently my mitral-valve problem tends to be more common in people in countries with higher rates of rheumatic fever, a condition caused by streptococcal infection. Here in the States, strep is usually caught and treated quickly with antibiotics. But when it isn’t caught and treated quickly, the doctor explained, it can damage the mitral valve, leading to scarring that can narrow the valve opening. “The condition is called mitral stenosis,” he said.
I told him I remembered having a severe, stubborn case of strep once when I was really young. He and his colleagues thought that was probably the thing that triggered the problem — that the illness damaged my mitral valve, and it had been deteriorating since I was a kid. I’d lived with it for a long time without knowing.
The doctors told me they were going to get me into the intensive-care unit as soon as a bed became available. I was going to need two procedures: one in the short term, to restore the flow of blood in my heart, and another, more permanent fix after I gave birth. They planned to watch me in the ICU at the hospital until they could transfer me to another hospital — one of the top cardiac hospitals in the state — so I could undergo the first procedure.
Throughout the night, I couldn’t stop crying. I was willing myself to calm down for the baby, but I couldn’t believe what was happening. Heart failure — like, how? I’d been a swimmer in college. I’d just worked out earlier that day. I didn’t understand how I could suddenly be in heart failure. And I was terrified for the baby.
On the excruciating wait in the ICU
When they transferred me to the ICU, I got to see the baby on an ultrasound. Thank God, all looked fine. We kept reminding the nurses and techs not to say anything about the sex because we had a gender reveal planned. It was a huge relief to see the baby onscreen.
Soon we learned that it would take a few days to be transferred to the other hospital. We tried hard to distract ourselves. I managed to stay away from Google by watching a lot of Netflix and calling my best friend, my sister, and my parents on FaceTime. My husband told his manager what was going on, and she told him to just take off work and concentrate on taking care of me and keeping me company. I could tell he was stressed. He has these tells. He wasn’t saying anything, but he was blinking a lot, clenching his jaw. I could see it in his eyes.
I’m a little prone to stir-craziness. When you’re in the ICU, you’re among a lot of really sick, immobile people. But when I was upright I felt like I could walk around. It felt weird to stay in bed. When I would get up to go to the bathroom, my heart rate would shoot up to 120 on the heart monitor — not what the nurses wanted. They kept telling me to just sit down. If anything happened to me, they said, they wouldn’t be able to save the baby. As the baby grew, my heart was only going to have to work harder for both of us. It was a lot to take in.
On changes to their wedding plans
At first, we thought I might get out of the hospital in time to keep our wedding plans. The following weekend, we had family and friends coming in from all over — North Carolina, Georgia, New Jersey, upstate New York. The wedding was going to be on Saturday, and our sex-reveal party was going to follow right after, during the reception.
But as the days wore on, and I was still waiting for a transfer, it started to sink in that I wouldn’t be discharged in time. It was disappointing, to say the least. I had a dress I was going to wear, and John had rented a tux. It was only going to be a town-hall wedding, but we’d still made a bunch of plans and were sad to scrap them.
A couple of days into my hospital stay, John and I kind of looked at each other and said, “Why don’t we just do it? Let’s get married in the hospital.” It sounded a little bit crazy but also fun. The nurses liked us. We had a feeling they’d be into it. We started getting excited and told our parents. John’s family lives near us. My mom and stepdad were still in upstate New York, where I’m from, and my dad was in North Carolina, where he lived; they all were still planning on coming in at the end of the week. We called them and let them in on our idea, and they thought it was great.
The nurses sprung into action. John and I are Catholic, and the hospital happened to have a Catholic chaplain. The nurses got him involved. He was funny — he’d never performed a hospital wedding before, so he had to look into the logistics to make sure the marriage would be recognized by the Church.
On a Tuesday morning, we had the wedding in my hospital room. One of my doctors gave me her white coat to wear, and one of the nurses pinned a pillowcase to my hair as a veil. They put flowers in my hair and gave me a little bouquet, and someone even ordered a custom cake from the cafeteria and got some ginger ale to stand in for Champagne. We called my parents on FaceTime, and John’s family was able to be there in person.
Everyone on the floor flooded our room to watch. John’s mom made a little speech about how proud she was of us, and how excited she was for what was to come. We both cried. John’s parents cried. I’m pretty sure a lot of the nurses cried. Then we had a little first dance. When John tried to pick me up, the doctors were like, “No!” That made everyone laugh.
And that was it. The staff was all like, “Okay, party’s over, you’re getting transferred.” They’d actually delayed my transfer to the other hospital slightly to accommodate the ceremony.
It was unforgettable, honestly. Not what we’d wanted, and I wished my family had been there, but we were so happy.
On finally getting her heart procedure
The first procedure I needed was going to be relatively noninvasive. They were going to thread a catheter with a tiny balloon through a blood vessel in my groin and up into the heart. Once they reached the mitral valve, they’d inflate the balloon to widen the valve opening. It would be a temporary solution, but it would hopefully hold for the remainder of the pregnancy. Then I’d follow up with a cardiologist after delivery to schedule the second procedure.
On Thursday, May 11, it was finally time. I kissed John good-bye. I’d had surgeries before — I’d torn my ACL twice before I was 18 and had to have it fixed. But this was obviously different. I was trembling as they wheeled me into the catheterization lab. The anesthesiologist injected the medicine into my IV line. Then someone put the oxygen mask on me and I went to sleep.
When I woke up in recovery, I felt okay. The incision site at my groin hurt a little, but the pain was manageable. I think I cried again. We were so relieved. And I felt 100 percent better. I could take big deep breaths without gasping.
My doctors ordered another ultrasound to check on the baby. By then my parents had arrived, so they were able to be there and see the baby onscreen for the first time too. I can’t tell you the relief I felt then. The baby was okay. We were going to be okay.
On her return home
We were discharged the next day. For the rest of the pregnancy, I wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than ten pounds or work out at all. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I wasn’t about to take any risks. I also had to be checked regularly by a cardiologist and a maternal-fetal-medicine specialist until I delivered.
The day after we got home, we held the reveal party as planned. Our family handled everything. Our sisters baked a bunch of cupcakes and put together a mystery box. John and I opened it, and pink paper butterflies fluttered out.
On giving birth
There was some debate between my cardiologist and maternal-fetal-medicine specialist (MFM) about whether I should deliver vaginally or via C-section; the cardiologist wanted me to have a vaginal birth, to expel as much fluid as possible during the delivery. Heart failure can cause swelling, and that swelling can cause high blood pressure and put additional pressure on your heart. You lose way more fluid during a vaginal birth than during a C-section. My MFM, though, wanted me to deliver via C-section. He figured he could control more variables that way. I think he was worried that labor would put too much of a strain on my heart.
My cardiologist won out. He and my MFM decided it best to induce my labor when I hit 38-and-a-half weeks. They wanted me to be monitored from the outset of labor, so they didn’t want to risk my water breaking on its own. My heart rate got really high a few times while I was pushing. But then she came out. Ruth, our daughter, was born less than 24 hours after the induction began.
She was quiet, so I looked at my husband to read his face. He was smiling and crying. She was fine. She was just her usual chill self, looking at everything. We were in love.
On her recovery from birth
After Ruthie was born, I had to continue following up with my cardiologist every two months and prepare for my second surgery. I was told that I could exercise if I wanted to, but if I felt any lightheadedness or other symptoms, I should stop. For Ruthie’s entire first year, I was too afraid to try. The idea of exercising became pretty loaded.
I think I projected my anxiety onto Ruthie a little bit. Making sure she was nursing, sleeping — I became kind of obsessive about everything around her. I didn’t feel out of control, but my health scare kind of changed my baseline a little bit.
On learning she needed open-heart surgery
I was under the impression that my second procedure would be somewhat like the first — another catheterization. So a few months after Ruthie’s birth, when my cardiologist and I started planning to move ahead with it within the next year, I was taken aback when he recommended open-heart surgery. He could do a catheterization and put a stent in to prop open the valve, he said, but I’d eventually need a valve replacement anyway. Whether now or later, I’d have to have the surgery.
He explained that they’d have to crack my chest open to replace the valve and that I had a choice between a synthetic valve, which would last the longest, or one derived from an animal, which would last ten to 15 years. Both options carried risks, but the synthetic valve would require me to take more long-term medication, which could complicate future pregnancies. If I got the animal-derived type, I’d likely need it replaced, the doctor said, in a second open-heart surgery ten or so years down the line. My body could also reject either valve type.
It was pretty overwhelming and scary, digesting all of that. I freaked out a little bit. In the end, I decided to go with a bovine valve replacement, even though it meant I’d need another open-heart surgery someday. John and I know we want at least one more kid. I didn’t want to run the risk of jeopardizing another pregnancy.
We talked about when to do it. I decided to put it off until after Ruthie’s 1st birthday to give us all time to acclimate as a family of three, and also so I could accrue more family-leave time to recover afterward. I used all my available time in 2023 for maternity leave, so I had to go back to work to accrue more time for my recovery. I also wanted Ruthie to be a little bigger, not so needy. We decided to schedule the surgery for September 2024.
On healing from her surgery
After a four-day hospitalization, I recovered at my mom and stepdad’s house upstate for a couple of weeks. They were a godsend. My mom took care of everything for me and Ruthie. I needed a lot of help in the beginning just getting to the bathroom and in and out of the shower. It was rough. For the first three months after my surgery, I wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than ten pounds. It was hard to resist picking Ruthie up.
I moved back home in mid-October and had my first post-op appointments with my surgeon and my cardiologist in December. I was nervous; I wear an Apple Watch, which monitors my heart rate, and I had a couple of episodes when it crept up again to about 120. But luckily everything looked okay. My cardiologist says the valve replacement is working, although my heart still shows signs of stress. She says that’s to be expected and that it may continue to show stress for a while.
I won’t need to see my surgeon again until it’s time to start planning my third surgery. I’m not really thinking about that right now. Who knows? Even my surgeon said that there could be advancements in the next ten years that could help me avoid another open-heart surgery. I’m trying to stay optimistic and live in the moment.
On her life today
Self-esteem-wise, I’m not feeling great, but I’m trying to take it in stride. The scar is huge, probably a foot long, a straight line down my chest that starts right under my collarbone and ends at the bottom of my ribs. After having avoided regular exercise for so long, I’m no longer in great shape. Recently, I tried on a pair of work pants I got at the beginning of my pregnancy and they didn’t fit. That didn’t feel great.
I know I’m still recovering, so I’m doing my best to give myself some leeway. I’m cleared for light exercise now, so I might start trying to work more activity into my day. I can walk Ruthie in the stroller, but hills are hard, and carrying a heavy load of laundry still takes the breath out of me. I’m trying to be patient. I’m young; when the time comes, I’m confident I’ll bounce back.
This summer I’m hoping to get back in the pool and to get Ruthie into swimming lessons, too. I’m hoping she wants to swim competitively, like I did. John used to be an athlete, too — a football player. She’s got athletic genes. She’s 16 months old now and so feisty, into everything. I think she’ll be great in the pool.
I always tell people that Ruthie saved my life. If I wasn’t pregnant with her, who knows what would’ve happened to me. I might not have found out for years, and then what? I don’t even want to imagine it.
She’s my angel. We’re lucky — I think about that every day.
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