My husband and I had been trying to have a baby for two long years. After countless disappointments, I had nearly given up hope. Then, one day, I realized I was 11 days late and decided to take a pregnancy test—fully expecting the familiar wave of sadness that might signal yet another failed attempt. But this time was different. The test came back positive. I couldn’t believe it. To be sure, I took ten more tests, and later another two at lunch. All confirmed it. We were finally pregnant. I was finally going to be a mom—the dream I had carried in my heart since I was a little girl was about to come true.
My pregnancy started off by-the-book. The first trimester brought morning sickness and some unusual cravings, but otherwise, everything seemed perfect. I gained weight gradually, and our baby girl was growing beautifully. Being petite, by the third trimester I was feeling very large, but every stretch mark and every ache reminded me of the little life growing inside me.
Around 30 weeks, my carpal tunnel pain had become unbearable, so I spoke with my OB about surgery. I was referred to a specialist, but just then, the U.S. began shutting down due to the coronavirus. I couldn’t see the surgeon and had no choice but to manage the pain as best I could.
Soon, more troubling symptoms appeared. My legs and feet began swelling dramatically—I could no longer fit into my shoes or pants. I wrote it off as typical pregnancy changes, but the swelling only worsened. Within a few weeks, I had gained at least fifteen pounds, and shortness of breath became constant. Walking even a few steps left me gasping, and lying down at night made sleep impossible. I tried everything—humidifiers, pillows, anything to help—but nothing eased the struggle to breathe.
When I went to my 37-week appointment, my doctor checked my blood pressure and found it dangerously high. I had been perfectly healthy throughout my pregnancy, so this was a serious red flag. I was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia, and my doctor ordered blood work and told me I would likely need to be induced the next day. Fear and excitement collided—fear for my health, excitement to finally meet our baby girl. I informed my boss and began my maternity leave immediately.
On May 7th, 2020, in the middle of a pandemic, we arrived at the hospital. Masks were mandatory, and I had to take a COVID test, which thankfully came back negative. I was hooked up to an IV, started on fluids, and began induction. Contractions intensified through the night, shattering my hope for a natural birth. Exhausted and in pain, I opted for an epidural. My blood pressure continued to rise dangerously, and the nurses warned that medication would be needed if it climbed further to prevent seizures. I drifted in and out of consciousness, losing all sense of time.
After 24 hours, I was only dilated 4cm. With my blood pressure still rising, my doctor recommended a C-section. We agreed it was the safest option for both me and our baby. The epidural, however, wasn’t working properly—I could feel everything but couldn’t move. I remember the sensation of being cut open and tugged at, struggling to stay awake. When it was over, I barely remember seeing my daughter. Back in the room, I kept fading in and out, desperate to hold her. I watched my husband cradling her, and I kept pleading with the nurses to help me sit up, but my body betrayed me. In that moment, I passed out completely.
What happened next felt nothing like death in the stories people tell—it was peace beyond words. I was calm, unafraid, and reassured by the knowledge that my life had purpose. I would be alive to raise my daughter and be a wife to my husband. Twelve hours later, I awoke in the ICU, connected to countless machines and a BiPAP breathing device, which made every breath feel like a struggle. I learned I had experienced flash pulmonary edema—my lungs had filled with fluid due to my heart’s inability to pump efficiently.
Through tests and monitoring, I was diagnosed with Peripartum Cardiomyopathy (PPCM), a rare form of pregnancy-induced heart failure that can appear in the last month of pregnancy or within five months after birth. My heart was functioning at only 30%, and all the swelling, shortness of breath, and racing heartbeat had been symptoms of undiagnosed heart failure. I was terrified—would I survive? Would I be there to see our daughter grow?
I had yet to meet my baby. My husband had spent the night alone in the mother’s ward with her, while I fought for my life in the ICU. Determined, I convinced the nurses to bring her to me. The moment I held her tiny, perfect 5-pound, 14-ounce body against mine, I knew exactly why God had spared me. She was my reason to live, my purpose, my miracle.
Suddenly, my diagnosis didn’t feel like a death sentence—it was a call to fight. Within two hours of holding her, I was moved from the ICU to the mother’s ward to start recovery from the C-section and learn to manage my heart condition. The next six days were intense: learning to care for myself, learning to care for my baby, and navigating the complexities of my new life. My husband was my unwavering support, helping me understand every detail of my condition while caring for both of us.
We went home on Mother’s Day—my first ever—and it was bittersweet. I was still incredibly weak and terrified of sleeping, knowing my lungs could fill with fluid at any moment. One night, at 3 a.m., I experienced pulmonary edema again. My husband rushed me to the hospital while my mother-in-law stayed with our daughter. Lasix drained the fluid from my body, and I refused admission—I would not leave my baby again. Those early months were grueling, filled with medications, appointments, sleepless nights, and the challenges of learning to be a mother while recovering from heart failure.
Six months later, we are thriving. My heart is now functioning at 50%, I am off all medications, and my strength is returning daily. I may never return to a high-stress job, but I am alive, and I have a beautiful, happy baby girl. Life has taken on a new clarity—I no longer sweat the small things, and the imperfections around me no longer matter. I’ve fallen in love all over again with my husband, and our family has become my greatest joy. My mom and mother-in-law have been my pillars, helping me in ways words cannot describe.
I want to share my story to raise awareness about PPCM, to help other women receive early diagnosis and treatment, and to let them know they are not alone. God is amazing, and He spared me for a purpose: to be here, fully, for my daughter and my family.
