Preparing for Birth in Japan

A Supposedly Wonderful Thing I’ll Never Do Again

I wrote extensively about my hopes and expectations for my first birth here and here, but to recap: I wanted to be as “natural” as possible and employed a doula to help make that happen. Aside from breastfeeding, exactly none of it occurred. 

In the aftermath of my traumatic birth experience, I had two opposing desires: 1) to have another birth experience and have it align with my original expectations—a do-over, a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) and 2) to never ever be pregnant and give birth again. The first wish was pure fantasy, essentially going back in time to right a wrong; the second desire was closer to my reality. And it often seemed as if I wasn’t allowed to want it.

I began the very first post in this series clearly stating that remaining child free is a valid and wonderful choice for many. But the same busybodies who would question or critique someone for not having children won’t rest after you produce a baby. Before that one is even out of diapers they’re asking when you’ll be having the next one. In white, middle class America, two is the magic number. Three is also acceptable. More than that and you’ll also be on the receiving end of snarky comments–unless you’re part of one of those “go forth and multiply” religious communities.

When people asked me when the next child was coming, especially if they knew what happened the first time, it made me angry. By asking this question, I felt they were implying that my life mattered little to none in the pursuit of another baby. 

And it wasn’t just people I knew pushing this narrative. Searching the internet for statistics on HELLP and second pregnancies uncovered what most people wanted to hear: reoccurrence was not guaranteed. 

Let’s be honest: in the present moment we have a wealth of knowledge at our fingertips, and yet we don’t search for evidence upon which to build our conclusions. We come to a conclusion first, and then seek out evidence or “facts” to back it up. 

“Let’s be honest: in the present moment we have a wealth of knowledge at our fingertips, and yet we don’t search for evidence upon which to build our conclusions. We come to a conclusion first, and then seek out evidence or ‘facts’ to back it up. ”

My Googling did not (and could not, due to the limited research into HELLP and preeclampsia) give me an objective idea of my risk in a second pregnancy. Instead my searching told me what many women who had HELLP syndrome desperately wanted to hear: that it was okay to conceive again. I felt like I was the only soul out there wanting to read the opposite.

So, if there is a person out there who is reading this post-HELLP, I have this to say to you: What you went through was dangerous and traumatic, and that is absolutely reason enough to never go through it again.

New Pregnancy, New Reality

But several years later, I decided I was willing to risk it all again–in a foreign country. And when that pregnancy was still new and known only to me, my doctor, and my husband–my father died.

I felt as if I were drowning in my grief. I was sicker the second pregnancy than the first. Once, I vomited so violently I couldn’t breathe for several seconds and feared I had aspirated it. Five months into the pregnancy, I contracted COVID and felt a lethargy I had never before experienced. Whether the fear was justified or not, I worried that as a foreigner I (and my fetus) would be de-prioritized during the spike in cases. I began mentally composing my last wishes, and decided which friend I’d send them to back in the States. I hated our apartment, in which I’d been forced to spend 52 total days of quarantine (three 14-day travel quarantines, plus 10 days when I’d actually had corona; make that make sense). 

And yet, in some ways the second pregnancy was easier than the first. For one, I wasn’t working this time. And for pregnancy two, the theme was planning. I started low-dose aspirin immediately and monitored my blood pressure every day. We had extensive genetic testing done (via a lab in Australia), and learned the sex of the baby at that point. I was sitting in Japanese class–it was just sensei and I that day–when I received the call. I hung up and started crying, told her it was a boy, and she teared up. She knew I had lost my father a few months prior. 

Displays of emotion like these were part of the reason I kept the sex of the baby private. (Just between me, my husband, my doctor…and my Japanese teacher.) I could not bear to hear people’s sentiments on the significance of having a son after losing a father, or receive input on what we should name our son to honor my dad’s memory. Frankly, it made my skin crawl. So I did everyone a favor–because I could see myself lashing out at people making these kindly meant but unwelcome comments-–and kept mum. (I also don’t like “gender” reveals because of all the assumptions people make before Baby even draws a breath–but, I digress.)

We planned a cesarean section, a choice which I would have turned my nose up at in a prior life, but was the best decision for me given the medical realities and the ongoing pandemic. Due to COVID restrictions, it was unlikely my husband could be in the room for the birth, let alone a doula. For many expats in Tokyo, this was a major drawback to having a baby here, which is completely understandable. It was Spring 2022 after all, with vaccines and tests widely available. The hospital also had strict rules about skin-to-skin contact, which caused some mothers-to-be to switch hospitals. If this were my first baby, I would have been enraged too. But my philosophy at the time was: these are the rules, and I have to follow them. (A state of mind that is very helpful if you wish to maintain your sanity as a foreigner in Japan.)

My second birth came with its own set of complexities, but was without complications. And though the experience was not what I had once imagined, it ultimately provided the healing I had sought.