The Founder's Story
This foundation was born during my own prolonged hospitalization as an antepartum patient. What follows is my story, shared so families navigating similar waiting seasons know they are not alone.
*Placenta previa is a pregnancy condition in which the placenta partially or completely covers the cervix. Because the placenta is blocking the baby’s exit, placenta previa can cause painless yet life-threatening bleeding for the pregnant person and baby.
Hi, my name is Morgan. I was an antepartum patient on floor 3-1200 for seven weeks and spent a total of 53 days in the hospital.
I was admitted due to a complete placenta previa, meaning my placenta fully covered my cervix. This is a more severe form of placenta previa and typically requires a planned C-section to prevent life-threatening bleeding. My first bleed happened at 18 weeks. With no other symptoms, we hoped it was just early pregnancy bleed. We even went on a Disney vacation, unaware of how much our world was about to change. At my 20-week ultrasound, we learned it was placenta previa, and it never resolved.
By late February, life felt chaotic. One morning, after another wild weekend of kid’s illnesses, I realized I was bleeding again. I was sent to triage, warned that worsening bleeding could mean an immediate C-section, and transferred by ambulance to Strong. I received steroids for Danny’s lungs and magnesium in case delivery became unavoidable at any minute.
The ambulance ride was emotional in every way- terrifying, embarrassing, and deeply confusing. I spent two days on L&D under constant monitoring. At just 24 weeks, the goal became time. Every extra day mattered. Delivery was avoided this time and I was able to go home for three more weeks.
On March 17th, at 26 weeks and 5 days, I felt a deep anxiety that something was wrong. That night, I bled again, more than before. We rushed back to Strong, calmer but more aware. I was placed on continuous monitoring and transferred to antepartum.
The doctors decided I could be discharged Friday night at 10 p.m. I was so excited to go home. We parked the car, I kissed my babies, and climbed into bed, falling into the deepest sleep I’d had in weeks. At 4:45 a.m., I stood up and immediately knew something was wrong. I ran to the bathroom and told Mike to call his mom. I was bleeding again, this time it came as a gush. I was told it was essentially three strikes and you’re out. After the third bleed, staying home was no longer an option.
Life on antepartum was nothing like I expected. The days were long and repetitive, filled with waiting and uncertainty. I missed my kids and my routines. I constantly asked my husband if I was losing my mind, if I had really been admitted to antepartum and not psych. I was grateful that I felt physically okay and frustrated that I was still there. I cried a lot. My kids cried a lot too. I watched their life events through a screen.
Their new normal became daily visits to the hospital, which they handled so well. We found ways to keep things light when they were there and made the best of what we could. Holidays and birthday parties were celebrated in the conference room. We explored floors and hallways, lived on endless treats and pizza from the cafeteria and gift shop, and tried to create moments of normal inside a place that felt anything but. The goal became making it to 30 weeks. Then the bleeds came more frequently.
The team was able to keep me pregnant until May 2nd. Two days later, on May 4th, Danny was born via C-section at 33 weeks and 5 days.
I am endlessly grateful for the high-risk team, the antepartum nurses and staff on 3-1200, and the NICU team who cared for Danny with such skill and compassion. Their care carried us through the hardest waiting of our lives.
If you’ve experienced antepartum and feel comfortable sharing, I would be honored to help share your story. You are not alone.
Danny's Birth Story
Trigger Warning:
This story includes experiences related to high-risk pregnancy, placenta previa, significant bleeding, premature birth, NICU care, and postpartum recovery.
Danny’s Birth Story
During my pregnancy with Danny, I experienced seven bleeds. When doctors say “scary bleeds,” they mean soaking through pads... the kind that feel like you stood up and suddenly peed your pants, blood running down your legs. Each one was heavier than the last, and each one took a bigger emotional toll.
The first six bleeds didn’t cause contractions, but they did mean days and days of 24/7 monitoring in L&D and 3-1200. Constant NSTs, listening to Danny’s heartbeat, waiting, holding your breath. Danny always was unbothered. I was not.
The day before my seventh bleed was a Thursday. My mom came to visit with my oldest son while my other two were at softball. I remember repeatedly telling her that I didn’t feel well. I was nauseous, uneasy, and just felt off. Mike had a CPR class and lacrosse games to coach Saturday and Sunday morning. I convinced myself my feelings were anxiety about being alone and missing them and more of their events.
That night, I went for my usual walk up and down the third floor halls, ate dinner, and asked the nurse for Zofran for the nausea. I couldn’t fall into a deep sleep. Around midnight, I got up to go to the bathroom. The rush of fluid made my heart drop instantly. I ran to the bathroom, pulled the help cord, and within seconds a nurse was there. I knew by her face that it was exactly as much as it felt.
Doctors ran in within minutes. I was hooked up to an NST and, as always, Danny was happy and steady. They did an internal exam and sent me to L&D. I remember trying so hard not to cry. But being alone through all this is awful. It was the middle of the night. Mike was home with our other three kids asleep and I didn’t want to wake him.
I called him once I got to L&D, and he rushed to Strong. At first, I convinced myself this was just another bleed and that I would be sent back to 3–1200.
But during the second night in L&D, there was a feeling in my heart that wouldn’t go away. I was having one small contraction that kept coming and going. I asked the doctor if it was concerning, and she said it becomes concerning when it wakes you from your sleep.
And then it did.
From Thursday through Sunday, the high-risk team was in and out constantly. I was continuously monitored. My kids could visit me only in my room. We couldn’t walk the halls or leave. It felt like waiting in limbo. Sunday morning, I asked to speak with the doctor. Even though the bleeding had slowed, the contractions were not stopping, and my uterus felt the same tight, crampy sensation I remembered from before going into labor with my other three kids. The doctor left to speak with the team.
A few hours later, the doctor on rotation came in and said he no longer felt comfortable risking my health and safety. He felt confident Danny was strong enough to be born. After he left, I called my kids to tell them their sweet brother was coming that day.
After seven weeks in antepartum, I had advocated constantly for my mental health. I started Zoloft for my anxiety. I asked for frequent ultrasounds so I could visually see that my placenta was still fully blocking my cervix. I was persistent about one thing above all else. I wanted to be awake and safe when I met my baby.
The C-section went smoothly. The spinal was such a strange experience. First you feel cold. Then it feels like being underwater, a heavy pressure on your lungs. When I expressed that panic, they gave me medication that calmed my nerves and kept me present.
Danny was born at 33 weeks and 5 days, weighing 6 pounds 2 ounces, 19 inches. Absolutely perfect. The NICU team allowed me to see him briefly before taking him to be assessed and eventually intubated. His NICU journey is a story for another day.
When I returned to my room, I became dizzy and overheated. I could hear people talking, but I could not understand their words. I needed a blood transfusion. Almost immediately, I felt relief. That moment was the beginning of healing.
For my body. For my heart. For the waiting.
I know the goal after a C-section is always to get up and walk as soon as possible, but physically, emotionally, and mentally, I truly couldn’t. I could barely stay awake, and after weeks in the hospital, my body no longer had the strength it once did. I didn’t get to see or hold Danny for another seven hours.
When the nurse asked me to roll over to stand, something broke. I am not someone who says, “I can’t.” But I sobbed hard. I cried through the pain and needed Mike to help roll me. I was terrified of taking pain medication, but I would not have survived those first few days without it.
Healing while your baby is in the NICU feels impossible.
I couldn’t stand or sit comfortably. I was scared to hold Danny, terrified that I might drop him. A wheelchair became the only way I could move quickly and safely between rooms. Nothing about that season looked the way I thought it would, but it was real, and it was ours.
This entire pregnancy and birth weren’t normal. Not being able to hold your baby whenever you want is soul crushing. FaceTiming your husband while he does night feeds in the NICU while you stay back to heal isn’t normal. Everything about it was intense, overwhelming, and heavy.
And through all of it, the hardest part was this constant, consuming need to know that Danny was okay. That my older three were okay. Somehow through everything, I never had an emergency in front of my kids and for that, I am forever grateful. I consistently put their needs over mine and I would do it all over again for them.
I am so grateful that we are both safe, and I am so glad to be able to close that chapter. My heart goes out to everyone still experiencing something similar.
Please, please know that you are not alone.