By Jarvis Houston
We were preparing for Jan. 26.
Instead, our son arrived on Dec. 16.
Nothing about becoming a father prepares you for the moment when plans collapse and certainty disappears. At 34 weeks, my son, Jua, entered the world early, fragile and fighting. His birth was not part of the plan. It was the result of preeclampsia, a dangerous pregnancy complication that nearly cost my partner her life and forced me to confront how thin the line is between expectation and emergency.
In the weeks leading up to his birth, my partner, Kelly, experienced persistent headaches, swelling in her feet, and frequent dizziness. I was raised to listen when someone says their body is speaking. For Black families, listening is not just care. It is protection. We went to urgent care. She was diagnosed with early-stage preeclampsia, a condition marked by dangerously high blood pressure and one that disproportionately affects Black women, yet remains dangerously underdiscussed.
In the United States, Black women are more than three times as likely to die from pregnancy-related causes as White women. These deaths are not inevitable. They are the result of delayed diagnoses, dismissed symptoms, unequal access to care, and systems that too often fail to listen when Black women say something is wrong. Preeclampsia is among the leading contributors to these outcomes, yet it is still inconsistently screened for, unevenly explained, and dangerously minimized.
What saved my partner’s life was not luck. It was early intervention, attentive care and a medical team that acted decisively. That level of care should not depend on geography, insurance, advocacy skills or whether a partner is present to push for answers. It should be the standard.
Kelly was admitted to Rafael Calvo Maternity Hospital in Cartagena, Colombia. Medication was administered immediately to stabilize her blood pressure. I had been counting down to a due date. Suddenly, I was counting breaths.
As a Black American father navigating a high-risk pregnancy and an imminent preterm birth in a foreign country with my basic Spanish, I learned quickly that vulnerability strips away ego. I depended entirely on the people in that hospital. Doctors. Nurses. Respiratory therapists. Cleaning staff. Security. They treated us with patience, urgency and precision. When the doctor explained that Kelly’s hypertension was restricting oxygen to our son, the decision was immediate: labor would have to be induced.
I was not emotionally ready. But readiness is a luxury that crisis does not afford.
Kelly received steroid injections to accelerate our son’s lung development. For 96 hours, she labored. Ninety-six hours of endurance, pain, resilience and resolve. I held her hand the entire time. We listened to music. We chanted Nam Myoho Renge Kyo. I spoke to my son before I could hold him. We laughed about him arriving a week after the baby shower. Even then, humor was an act of survival.
On the morning of Dec. 16, Jua was born via C-section at 34 weeks gestation.
The first time I saw my son, he was in an incubator. Tubes lined his face. His brown eyes met mine. I swallowed my fear so I could ask the only question that mattered.
“Is he healthy?”
The doctor told me he was premature and would remain in the neonatal intensive care unit until he was strong enough to go home.
The NICU is its own universe. Every role sustains life. Every shift matters. Each day, the babies changed. Twenty-seven weeks. Twenty-eight weeks. Thirty weeks. Fighters. Parents learning to measure hope in ounces, heartbeats and hours.
Kelly met a young couple, both 18, from a small town two hours outside Cartagena. Their baby was born at 30 weeks. We shared a room. Different countries. Different lives. The same fear. In the NICU, race, nationality and background dissolve. What remains is devotion.
Some families left with healthy babies in their arms. Others did not. I thought about my sister, who gave birth to twins at 27 weeks. One survived. One did not. The NICU does not promise fairness. It only offers effort, care and the possibility of survival.
Over time, our fear for Jua widened into solidarity. We rooted for every child. We became a quiet support system for one another. Shared struggle collapses distance quickly.
On Dec. 23, Jua came home healthy. That outcome belongs to the medical staff at Rafael Calvo and to the family and friends who carried us from afar, from Chicago to Cartagena.
Before we left the hospital, I gave gift baskets to every doctor, nurse, custodian and security guard who touched our journey. Inside each was a candle. Because without them, my son’s light would not be shining.
Becoming a father did not happen the way I imagined. It happened in a NICU, in whispered prayers, and in borrowed strength. Preeclampsia taught me that childbirth is not merely a moment of joy. It is a medical reality that still claims too many lives, especially Black women’s lives.
Now the work continues. Supporting Kelly as she recovers from postpartum preeclampsia. Holding my premature son skin-to-skin. Learning, daily, that presence is not passive. It is an act of love.
The NICU taught me something I will carry forever.
Survival is collective.
Black fatherhood begins with listening.
And love, at its core, is endurance.
The opinions expressed in this commentary are those of the writer and not necessarily those of the AFRO.