I don't know why I was surprised to have had an eight-pound, six-ounce baby considering my husband, Charlie, is 6'5".
An eight-pound, six-ounce baby isn't the biggest, but it's not the smallest. I never felt like my baby was that big, but it helped explain why my petite frame needed extra help birthing him.
When I told people I transferred from home birth to the hospital, they said stuff like, "God must've had other plans. In time, you'll understand why."
I’ll never know every reason, but by my second day in the hospital, I already understood enough to know why our plans had to change.
During my rough pregnancy, it was difficult to know how to surrender to God's plan when it was never God's will for me to be sick. Yes, in Genesis 3:16, God said women would endure pain in childbirth, but Jesus redeemed us from all sickness, disease, malfunction, and pain. I clung to that and used my authority through Jesus to seek relief, but I barely found any.
Sometimes, God allows us to go through sickness for good reasons.
Only after labor did I understand that when I said my prayer of surrender before transferring, I opened the gate for God to go, "Okay, let's do this. Let's use what you're going through and what you're going to go through for My glory."
Since 2020, I’ve checked out of a lot of health conversations, but going to the hospital to give birth has reignited my focus on health ministry.
Through conservations with others, I've discovered that many people do not know their God-given and constitutional rights regarding healthcare. They don't know that they don't have to go along with everything the government or medical system throws at them. They don't know what questions to ask. They don't know that they can say no. That they can stand up and stand against what doesn't sit right in their spirit.
Trips to the emergency room are never fun, but we thank God for the emergency room and the doctors and nurses who respond to acute problems. The conventional Western medical system is great at responding to acute disease and traumatic injury. Even so, the system is a business—a sick-care business—that relies on people not only being sick but ignorant.
Throughout my pregnancy journey, I felt a deep need to question how our system tackles prenatal through postpartum care. I wanted to know what I needed to look at differently. I hope this will resonate with someone who'll be brave enough to ask questions and protect herself, her baby, and future generations. I write this for expectant, first-time, or transferring home birthers. Just in case what happened to me happens to you. And I also write this to inspire others to think critically about all kinds of healthcare issues.
In addition to learning that one ultrasound is equal to 250 chest X-rays, I also learned enough about newborn screenings to determine what I wanted and didn't want for my baby and why.
Investigating these screenings got me asking questions like:
What is this test? Where did it come from, and why?
Is what I'm reading fear-based? Is it inciting healthy, reasonable awareness or making me stressed or scared? Which of those aligns with God's Word?
Is this test the difference between life and death?
How might this test negatively affect my child, even if doctors tell me it won’t?
Is this test a replacement for what God has already protected?
How will this kind of intervention lead to more intervention?
Why are kids sicker than ever? What are we doing to babies—from day one—that might permanently impact their health?
I have to ask these questions because my days of blindly trusting doctors are behind me. There are fantastic doctors out there, and likeability is one of the most significant reasons people choose a doctor. But I never want liking my doctor to be the reason why I stop asking critical questions.
When we arrived at the hospital, the nurse who greeted us confirmed she’d received my records from my midwife. We gave her copies of our birth plan, which itemized our preferences, and she passed it along to the doctor. Although I understood some of my plans would change once I entered the hospital, most of my preferences remained applicable.
During pregnancy, the educational course I’d taken encouraged me to attach snacks to my birth plan. “Seriously,” the instructor said. “The doctors and nurses will actually pay attention if you staple a snack to it.”
What the…? I thought. I need pretzels to get them to listen? Shouldn’t my written and verbal requests be enough?
I guess I should’ve brought pretzels and a binder filled with research because my previous ideas of butting heads with doctors and nurses quickly became a reality.
When you go to the hospital prepared to advocate for your health, be ready to state your case strongly because a simple "no" does not always suffice.
One of our requests was a delayed cord clamping of up to 20 minutes, but the doctor refused because one study showed no benefit of waiting more than a minute. We'd already protested several things, and we could tell the doctors and nurses were probably raising their eyebrows behind our backs. We also knew we had to choose our battles.
In my weakened state, I just didn’t have the fight to insist on the delay I wanted, and naively, I believed that because we had requested extra time, surely they’d give us more than one minute, but they didn't.
What was the harm of waiting? Perhaps the hospital would've lost money if I held up an operating room.
Laying there split open six inches from my unexpected c-section, shocked out of my mind, uncontrollably shaking from the drugs surging through me, I was unable to reach my baby. It was the most helpless, desperate position I’ve ever been in.
I trusted Charlie to protect him, but every mama knows what it’s like to want to personally guard her baby.
When you never wanted to give birth to your baby in the hospital, but that's where you end up, one benefit is that it can pull fight out of you in a way like never before.
It didn't happen instantly. I was so exhausted and injured that I could hardly raise my fist. But after one day in the hospital, I dove deeper into my vow to protect my baby from the ways of this fallen world.
It started by protecting him from a pediatrician I would’ve never chosen.
He was a nice young man but seemed to have difficulty accepting our decision to refuse most of the newborn screenings.
Admittedly, he knew nothing about midwifery care and could not wrap his mind around the fact that I’d received prenatal care or that my newborn would receive initial care from our certified midwife. We informed him that the hospital had received my records from my midwife, but he insisted that there were no records, even though we had verbal and written confirmation.
Sidenote: If you’ve ever had a procedure in the hospital and want to read the doctor’s notes and find out what was done to you, request your Operating Report from the hospital’s records department. This is how I'd later learn that every doctor except my first doctor noted that I had no record of prenatal care.
Although the pediatrician smiled each time we politely declined one of his protocols, there came a point when he must’ve had enough of our non-cooperation.
When he approached us about one last test, we once again politely declined. He didn't ask for our reasoning, and we didn't provide it. Rather than discussing our decision further, he left the room only to return to say, "Because no one ever refuses this test, I spoke to the hospital's legal team, which informed me you'll have to have a conversation with Child Protective Services."
Excuse me?
My husband and I were fully aware of the state mandates for newborn screenings. We were also fully aware of our religious liberties. We thought we could simply say no like we had been. But we now know that if we had communicated our reasoning from the get-go, the doctor could've presented us with a form to sign that allowed us to object due to conflict with the tenets and practices of our faith.
When the doctor exited our room, we called our midwife, who informed us she would’ve performed the test had we birthed at home. Based on her recommendation, we moved forward with the test.
Meanwhile, the doctor sent a social worker to speak to us. According to my operating report, she was sent "due to patient not having a record of prenatal care." But when she arrived, she placed her hand on her hip, cocked her head, and introduced herself with, "Not to alarm you, but we need to have a conversation since you're refusing so many tests." She explained it was her responsibility to make sure we weren't drug addict human traffickers.
I'm thankful for people who investigate such atrocities. Unfortunately, in our area, there are several stories about "home birthers" who hid their pregnancies and planned to keep their babies off the record, only to end up at the hospital when they had difficulty giving birth.
It's also unfortunate that they made this kind of assumption about us because 1.) somewhere along the line, someone dropped the ball communicating our records, 2.) we were functioning in our constitutional rights to refuse tests, and 3.) it felt like this was the stereotypical negative label that our conventional medical system projects on home birthers—on to people who don't fully comply.
After the social worker realized we were levelheaded parents, we had a pleasant conversation. I’m thankful for her because she was the only staff member who advised me to place a pillow over my gaping wound when I needed to cough.
Why did a social worker have to tell me this after I'd already seen at least six nurses? This brings me to a few concerns about care.
Instructions on how to function after my major abdominal surgery were left in a folder on a table I couldn’t reach. No nurse read them to me. I didn’t even know there was a folder until I was getting ready to leave. The only direction I received from nurses was, “Stand up and try to walk.”
How was I supposed to stand up and walk when I couldn’t even figure out how to scoot myself up in bed?
As a movement professional, I want to know why any hospital system leaves mamas who've just experienced traumatic injury—major abdominal surgery—to figure out how to function without the guidance of an occupational therapist.
Not all hospitals neglect this, but many do, and they need to be called out for this and much more.
My pregnancy-induced carpal tunnel syndrome worsened when the fluids from my IV further compressed my medial nerve. From Labor and Delivery on, I informed every nurse about the pain and limitation of my hands and was surprised only one of my 12 nurses had even heard of the condition. This made breastfeeding difficult and demoralizing as one nurse forced my hands into uncomfortable positions despite me telling her it hurt.
“Get me out of here,” I said to Charlie.
I just wanted everyone to leave me and my family alone. I’d never been in this situation before, but now I’m glad I was because it became part of my learning how to speak up so that it might help someone else. (When there is no imminent danger, you can request to be left alone.)
I also learned that every time doctors and nurses entered our room and performed something, they charged us for it. Because we're members of a healthcare sharing ministry, we were charged out-of-pocket, which I'm glad for because we got to study our bills and successfully dispute $1,700 of charges we did not incur. If more of us fought to understand our medical bills and how those bills impact insurance rates, maybe we'd demand better. But that's a whole 'nother post.
I also got to see the ridiculous prices of everything. Like Tylenol, which was $3.60 per caplet. That means the $13.99 bottle of 100 caplets of Tylenol from the grocery store costs almost $400 at my hospital. If I had known this, I would've brought my own.
On my final day in the hospital, I was determined to go home no matter what the obstetrician, who'd spent no more than a few minutes with me the entire time, thought. "Just a reminder," he said as he discharged me, "the only thing holding your guts in are fishing wire and scotch tape." Thankful to be leaving, I smiled through my revulsion.
On the way home, I read my Newborn Discharge Summary. The pediatrician indicated “failed home delivery.” Evidently, this is a common notation in hospitals. Any doctor who writes this should be ashamed. My delivery did not fail. It successfully changed course.
If you're a mama who found yourself in a similar situation to me, please know that you are not a failure. Ultimately, it doesn't matter whether you gave birth at home or in a hospital. Heaven rejoiced at the arrival of your sweet babe. You chose life! Regardless of how anyone labels any step of your journey, you can celebrate!
When we awaken to the ways of this world, we can't help but ask questions that often result in choosing differently from the norm. People, even fellow Christians, will come against us for our choices, but it doesn't matter. As followers of Jesus, we aren't called to be like the rest of the world.
It takes courage to learn the truth, make decisions that go against the standard, and push back against the establishment, especially regarding health matters. But if we want different results, we have to speak up. We have to share our stories to help those who will listen, whether on a blog or social media, in letters to doctors and hospitals, or by advocating for medical freedom.
No one will fight for your or your family's health like you. Your voice matters.
If you say no, expect pushback. Expect to be bullied. Be prepared by knowing your rights, and don't be afraid to address them assertively without prompting.
Before you go to the hospital, make a binder with copies of research supporting your decisions. It could come in handy when you can't think straight. The doctors might not agree with your studies, but they could help support your requests.
Confirm with every doctor and nurse who enters your room if they received your records and birth plan. Take copies to provide to anyone who isn't informed.
At the hospital, you can also request a patient advocate if you need help with communication or legal issues.
I’m thankful that the hospital assisted me when my baby and I needed help. I’ve heard the doctor who performed my c-section was the best there. She’d just started her shift, and the fact that I ended up in her care was all God.
When I left, I was grateful for the most precious outcome. But I was also so angry. Not only because things hadn't gone as planned, and I had to fight when I was all fought out, but because I thought about other precious mamas and babies.
I thought about the mama who just goes along with the system, not truly knowing what she's going along with or why, and if she did, she might choose differently. I thought about the next mama who'd receive my malfunctioning bed. The mama who would have a rough pregnancy like I did, who'd be dazed and shocked after giving birth and wouldn't get to hold her baby for more than a minute before someone cut away the sacred connection between them.
No wonder more people are choosing home birth.
People will tell that mama, “You’ll get over it. It’ll all be fine. Your baby is healthy, and that’s all that matters.” They’ll say the same things they’ve heard others repeat for years without thinking how it might impact her heart and mind during one of the most vulnerable periods of her life.
As inconsiderate as those comments might feel, she'll eventually reflect on what's correct about them. Because if she's willing, it'll all teach her like it's teaching me.
It'll teach her that any conflict she endured over protecting the first moments of her child's life will fortify the fight within her to protect her sweet babe for as long as she's called to do so. Guarding a child is the most precious fight a woman can embark upon. It's the kind of fight that has taken me a long time to regain, which I still don't totally have back, but I'm finding as I recover.