She Was Supposed to Be Born Today…

Today was supposed to be the day. The perfectly circled date on the calendar.

Induction Day.

The day we were going to calmly waltz into the hospital — bags packed, playlists curated, baby-prep videos freshly watched — and bring our daughter into the world on our terms.

Instead, she came three weeks early.

And let me tell you, she did not waltz. She crashed in, in true dramatic fashion — taking my plans, my timeline, and my sanity with her.

Let’s rewind.

The week she arrived, I had a to-do list so color-coded it could’ve been a Pinterest board. I was supposed to pack my hospital bag. And my husband’s. I was going to binge all the baby prep videos I had procrastinated for months. I was finally going to school myself on what a C-section actually entailed — just in case.

Spoiler: I didn’t get to any of it.

Because on the morning of what was supposed to be my last OBGYN appointment before transitioning into weekly visits, I had a very explosive encounter.

Literally.

I stopped to get gas.

Innocent enough, right?

Until the gas pump malfunctioned and drenched me from head to toe in fuel. Like some twisted slapstick comedy, there I was — nine months pregnant, soaked in gasoline, and completely in shock. The attendant was useless. People stared. I didn’t know whether to cry or combust.

But I was already late for my appointment, so I sped to my OB’s office, reeking of danger. The moment I walked in, heads turned. One nurse actually asked, “Do you smell that?” I raised my hand in shame. “It’s me. Sorry. I’ve just been baptized in Shell.”

They rushed me in, took my blood pressure (which, shocker, was high), and decided to monitor me. The baby was doing great. I was… not.

That night, after the chaos settled, I climbed into bed with my Kindle, trying to find a sliver of calm. And that’s when my water broke. At first, I thought, Great. I’ve peed myself. But when it didn’t stop, the panic set in. I yelled for my husband, who, to his credit, asked for a photo as proof (I have a reputation, okay?).

Minutes later, we were speeding to the hospital. No bags. No snacks. No game plan.

Labor started fast. Triage was a brief pitstop. Soon I was in labor and delivery, begging for an epidural. And bless the anesthesiologist — an actual angel in scrubs — who showed up with the calm of a seasoned therapist and the precision of a Navy SEAL. She kept me grounded, held my hand, whispered encouragement, and even took photos when my baby arrived.

I’ll never forget her. In that cold, intimidating OR, where my OB looked serious and I felt like I was dangling over the edge of a cliff, she was my anchor.

People in medicine with true bedside manner? They are the unsung heroes of childbirth. They don’t just monitor your vitals — they hold your soul together when it’s fracturing.

And I needed that comfort because things quickly took a turn.

After 2.5 hours of pushing, the OB informed me that our daughter was in a compound breech position — meaning her head was down, but her hand was stubbornly tucked above her head like she was doing some sort of Olympic salute. Every push made her heart rate drop. They tried to get her to move her arm. She refused. She’s already got my attitude.

So we were rushed into a C-section.

It was cold.

Clinical.

And terrifying.

The lights were blinding, and the energy was heavy. But once she arrived — 5 lbs 4 oz of pure resilience — and I heard that first cry, my body collapsed in gratitude.

We thought the hard part was over. But preemies don’t just walk out of the hospital like newborns in the movies. Ours had weight issues, struggled to regulate her body temperature, and had elevated bilirubin levels (which can lead to jaundice and other complications). She spent her first days under a bili-blanket, and I spent mine watching the numbers rise and fall like a heartbeat I couldn’t control.

It was terrifying.

No one can prepare you for the emotional gymnastics of being handed your baby and simultaneously being told, “Something’s not right, but we’re watching it.”

We’re doing better now. But our journey into parenthood wasn’t smooth. It was rugged. Raw. And deeply human.

And while we did everything we could to prepare — research, budget, stock up — it wasn’t enough. Because babies don’t follow bullet points. They show up uninvited and early and remind you that control is an illusion.

So, yes — we’re still catching up.

We’ve leaned into secondhand gear and gently used everything. We’ve been scrappy and resourceful and unbelievably grateful. But there are still a few things left on our baby registry, and if you’ve been following our story, if you’ve smiled at our chaos, cried at our honesty, or simply want to help — it would mean the world.

Not out of pity.

Not out of obligation.

But out of love — for a little girl who came early, and a family doing their best to rise to the occasion.

From our hearts, thank you.

For reading.

For showing up.

And for being part of a story that’s just getting started.

Our baby registry

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UPDATED BIO:

Hi, I’m Fiona — a writer in the midst of an unexpected chapter.

In April 2024, I lost my job. Since then, my husband and I have been getting by on his modest income as a medical resident. After stepping away from IVF, we were shocked — and overjoyed — to find out we were pregnant naturally. While it was the happiest surprise, it also brought new financial stress as we prepared for our growing family.

Then, our baby arrived early — on April 29th, 2025, instead of the expected due date in late May. With no paid maternity leave and no room in our budget for childcare, I’ve returned to part-time jobs and writing just a week after giving birth to help cover essentials like groceries, bills, and a few things for our 🌈 miracle baby.

If you’d like to support my writing — and by extension, our little family — your kindness would mean the world. Every bit helps: $1, $2, whatever you can give.

Donate here (Venmo).

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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