I gave birth in a parking lot: a memoir

I planned to give birth surrounded by tranquil music and beeswax candles. Instead I had my baby in a hospital parking lot

Last September, at age 38, I peed on a stick and learned I was pregnant. My partner, Howard, and I were overjoyed, and we developed an elaborate birth plan: I would labour with my midwife and my doula friend until I was six centimetres dilated, then I would transfer to the hospital. We’d taken a five-week hypnobirthing class, and I planned to have a tranquil experience surrounded by candles, meditation music, bone broth and snacks.

Seven months later, the pandemic happened, and I had to grapple with a new, totally unforeseeable reality. What kind of future were we walking into? We already live in a world of climate catastrophe, corruption, greed and racism. The coronavirus seemed to add yet another item to the laundry list of hardships our child would have to bear. Everything was about to change. I had to go to medical appointments alone. Every building I entered was full of masked, anonymous people. And I wouldn’t be able to have my midwife and doula in our home during labour or after the birth. But I often thought of a Yiddish proverb: “mann tracht un Gott lacht.” It means “man plans and G-d laughs.” During my pregnancy, I came to understand the importance of flexibility in times of crisis— good practice for a mom-to-be. I was worried, but I was grateful that I could still have Howard and my midwife in the hospital for the last stages of labour.

Between March and May, I spent the majority of my free time talking to friends and fellow parents on Zoom, discussing the ins and outs of giving birth during Covid, the risks for new mothers and their babies, and how we would adapt our birth plans. I joined an online community of pregnant women called the Cheerful Sisterhood, run by a Canadian midwife living in India. We gathered virtually each week to discuss our fears and hopes for our future children, and supported each other through learning and meditation. It was remarkable how the birthing community came together during the crisis.

Just before midnight on May 20, four days past my due date, I began to feel cramping. It was my first pregnancy, so we anticipated a long labour. But I’m never one to follow convention. Just a few hours later, I had the overwhelming urge to push, and we realized things were progressing fast. By 5:50 a.m., it was clear that the baby was on the way.

Howard and his 19-year-old daughter, Lauren, helped me on what seemed like a marathon trek from the front door of our basement apartment in Bathurst Manor to the car. I crawled into the back seat and got on all fours while Howard drove us to North York General. Lauren rubbed my back as I moaned and groaned. Suddenly, I could feel the baby’s head pushing out of me. I screamed, “I’m crowning!” At first, Howard didn’t believe me. It was too soon. “Hold on, honey, we’re almost there,” he called back to us. I didn’t think I could hold it in for another second, let alone long enough to get to the hospital. Then I looked up and saw the spectacular rays of a late-May sunrise. They calmed me down, and I found the strength to keep the baby in my womb for a few more minutes.

When we finally arrived at the hospital, Howard bolted from the car, scrambling to find the entrance in a maze of locked doors. As Lauren helped me crawl out of the car, I experienced a moment of pure instinct. I exited the back seat, stripped off my clothes, put my hands on the car door, spread my legs and said, “Lauren, get behind me and catch this baby.” After one swift and powerful push, our beautiful daughter was born, caught by her older sister in the parking lot of North York General Hospital.

When she finally wailed, Lauren passed her through my legs, and I held her on my skin. Moments later, her dad returned and saw me standing naked in the open air, covered in blood and holding our new baby girl in my arms.

Howard’s calls for help were finally answered, and dozens of medical staff flooded the scene. In my oxytocin-blissed joy, I looked up at all the masked faces and saw the kindness in their eyes. Howard took our daughter inside to warm up while the doctors laid me on the concrete to make sure I didn’t hemorrhage. We were reunited inside the hospital a few minutes later.

During my overnight stay, I witnessed how the pandemic was affecting the birthing wards: nurses checked in on us from behind plexiglass shields and women were forced to spend their first hours as mothers without families by their sides. And yet even alone, the moments were precious. Over those 24 hours, I got to bond with my daughter and gaze into her big, beautiful eyes. I learned how to breastfeed. And I felt deeply cared for by the nurses, even though I couldn’t see their faces.

I will never forget the kindness of the hospital staff and the beauty of the sunrise that morning. We named our baby Mira Orli, inspired by the radiant sun: in Hebrew, “Mira” means “the one who shines” and “Orli” means “my light.”

I stripped off my clothes, put my hands on the car, spread my legs and pushed out my baby