Mothering as an Undocumented Woman in America

"The hospital stay, the birth, the delivery, it was all traumatizing": On the injustices my unborn child faced before his birth.

[Note: This week’s post is written by a new La Cuenta contributor, Christian Pena. If you would like to share your own post, check out our contributor guidelines and get in touch.]

I am not sure what to call this—a journey? An expedition? A ride?—into motherhood. Nevertheless, it begins in the first months of pregnancy, in the very early stages of becoming a mother. I think of the womb, the first home we inhabit, as being suspended between the grays of the higher realm and this one. 

I became a mother in the spring of 2016, to a little boy. It felt, at that time, like we had won a silent and tedious battle. My son and I. For the entire nine months of my pregnancy I was fighting something that often felt shameful and enraging: the fight for my son’s right to exist, to receive care, and to find support and community. All because he resided in a body that was not deemed eligible for certain rights.

The state of Arizona does not give undocumented people access to any healthcare, that includes their state funded health insurance, Arizona Health Care Cost Containment System (AHCCS). It does not matter if the undocumented person is pregnant or a child, they are only eligible for emergency services. To make matters worse, you cannot purchase private health insurance even if you have the money for it.

I did not know any of this when I became pregnant with my son. 

At that time, I was putting myself through school as a part-time student at a local community college and I was also working part-time. Because of DACA, I had a working social security number and I assumed that I could finally access some human rights. That was not the case. I applied over and over, really confused as to why I was being denied health insurance. It wasn’t until I visited the DHS office and met with someone that I was told the reason I was being denied was because of my citizenship status. I remember walking out of that office sobbing, and trying to explain to my boyfriend (who they made wait outside) that I would not be able to get help with paying for prenatal care. 

It did not matter that the child that resided in my womb, in my body, would become a citizen by birth. That time of my life was incredibly distressing. I remember calling clinics asking if there were payment plans I could get on. Most were extremely expensive or didn’t have anything like that at all. Some doctors only took insurance. 

Then, there came a day when the exhaustion and distress became too overwhelming and I decided that I would stop trying to get insurance. I thought about mi abuelita, who gave birth to ten children in her pueblo surrounded by other women, parteras y curanderas. I told myself that if she could give birth without western medicine, then I could do it too. 

I thought about mi abuelita, who gave birth to ten children in her pueblo … I told myself that if she could give birth without western medicine, then I could do it too. 

Since my boyfriend and his family are all citizens, it was difficult to explain what I was going through. What little my boyfriend understood about the system, he would relay to his family if they asked about doctor’s appointments or the baby’s development. 

They would often forget and ask me about my pregnancy every time they would see me. I dreaded those interactions. I dreaded having to go over the line of questioning and the same responses every time. It was a constant reminder that became unbearable and anxiety inducing. At some point I stopped explaining to them that I didn’t have a doctor because I couldn’t get health insurance, because I’m undocumented. Instead, I started telling them reports from a make-believe OB/GYN, “Yeah they say he’s about two pounds now and everything looks great.” The more I told the lies, the more I realized they had become comforting for me. For a moment, I felt like I could inhabit those lies and escape the unknown I had learned to live with. 

 As the eldest daughter of immigrants, as the running joke goes, I learned to carry the weight. To forge the path, no matter what. I set out to prove that no matter what, at whatever cost, we would not only survive, we would thrive. I worked and went to school up until my son was born. I diverted questions, I lied my ass off, and I swore everything and everyone to hell because I felt so isolated and no one seemed to understand. I took my vitamins, I drank my water, I ate as healthy as I could. I did everything I could think of that would keep us healthy. 

My boyfriend and I splurged on baby clothes. I bought my son his first crib. I researched the safest car seat on the market. I set it up in my 2008 Toyota Camry.  We took care of each other as best as we could. To this day I do not know how this journey into fatherhood has affected my partner—what he didn’t get to experience or feel like he was a part of. What little he knew about my situation, what little we knew about the injustices we were to face, the injustices our unborn child was to face. 

From Womb to World 

One afternoon, after I had gone on a nesting frenzy and all of his stuff was organized, the hospital bag packed, I said to my son, “We're ready for you, whenever you are.” 

Around 4:00 a.m. the following morning, my water broke. 

Toward the end of my pregnancy I talked to another undocumented mom and childhood friend about what she had done to get care. She referred me to a clinic that offered free prenatal care if you give birth at the county hospital. 

At first I hesitated because I had heard horrible stories about the Maricopa County Hospital. Regardless, I needed to make sure that my son and I were healthy enough for the next phase: labor and delivery. I had one appointment the week before my son was born. They told me that if I didn't deliver at Maricopa County Hospital I would be charged for everything.  

So that morning, we drove from west Phoenix to 24^th street, at least a thirty minute drive. When we arrived I faced the same questions, who is your ObGyn? Why haven’t you received care? Everyone seemed exasperated with me, annoyed even. We were handed over to another nurse who eventually took us to the back. The nurse determined that, yes, my water had broken and they needed to break it further. As she handed me a hospital gown, she looked me in my eyes and said, “Why don’t you have health insurance? Don’t you know how irresponsible and dangerous that is?” I said nothing and looked past her to the bathroom to change into the gown. In the bathroom mirror, I caught a glimpse of my puffy, swollen pregnant face searching for remnants of myself. When I couldn’t find her, I began to cry, the sadness gave way to anger and it moved me. I walked out of the bathroom and peeked behind the curtain where my boyfriend was sitting waiting for me. 

“We’re leaving, grab our stuff and we can go to Banner.” 

“What? You want to drive all the way back?” 

There was a hospital five minutes away from my parents house. I wasn’t in any pain yet. It could be hours before my son was born and I wasn’t about to stay in a place where people who are meant to take care of me and my child forgot about my humanity. He must have seen my distress and didn’t argue with me further.

The same nurse had come back out and I returned the hospital gown. “We’re leaving.” 

She began to argue with me

“You can’t leave right now, you could give birth at any moment.” 

“ I am not going to stay here to be further disrespected and treated like I’m stupid. You think that if I could get health insurance I would choose not to have it?”

“Your water broke. You could get an infection. Please stay.” 

Exhaustion and fear settled in. I wanted to be brave in that moment while at the same time I was dealing with a bit of pride and ego. I didn't want to give the nurse the satisfaction of having convinced me, but I couldn’t let those emotions—which might have been irrational and brought on by hormones and adrenaline—dictate my decisions. Reluctantly,  I took the gown and headed back to the bathroom to put it on. It was huge, I couldn’t figure out how to tie the strings on the back so I went back out to ask my boyfriend for help. She found us struggling trying to tie it and offered to help. “You look so cute, I wish I could take a picture of you.” It still felt demeaning. An apology would have sufficed but instead she infantilized me out of guilt. Still, it was better than being questioned or humiliated. 

Redefining Undocumented Motherhood

The hospital stay, the birth, the delivery, it was all traumatizing. Med students watching me, nurses trying to increase my epidural dosage without my consent. A doctor told me that I had developed preeclampsia and that even if I had no symptoms or pain I could die in my sleep. 

When we took our son home, I could not sleep. I was afraid of dying, afraid of going to sleep and never waking up. I listened to my son breathe until I could no longer bear being awake and my eyes would betray me. 

In the middle of the night I would wake up frantic and afraid. I would place my hand on his chest through the crib bars to feel the rise and fall of his breathing. 

The cost of being undocumented and pregnant in America in 2015 was great. The cost of becoming a mother in America the next year, in 2016, could have been the very life of my child, or of me. I still pay for it, and have paid for it with every birth of my children. The fight changed, I grew colder, I isolated myself, I told no one of my fears, shared little joys where I found them.

I had to learn to define motherhood for myself in an entirely different way. To challenge everything I was reading and researching about parenting, which often did not align with my life, our daily stressors, or the undocumented experience. 

Motherhood, is a radical act. To know that my carrying a child in my body, in my womb, that in my parenting, my mothering: there lies the greatest form of resistance. The validity of my existence, the existence of us, my children, my family, our dreams and goals do not lie in the hands of the state or its oppressors, but in ours and the community. The cost has been great, yes. But how much greater would the cost be if we gave up? 

Propina

We are thrilled to share Christian’s essay this week. In addition to her words for La Cuenta, Christian also writes So as Not to Get Lost - check it out!

In conjunction with the essay above, Christian offers the following poem from poet and activist Nayyirah Waheed.

We’ll see you next week.