The pregnant teen had already picked out a name for her baby, already felt him kick, which made the sight of blood in her underwear all the more frightening as she was getting ready for bed that fall night.
Her mother, Ronica Lawson, called for an ambulance to take them to the hospital five minutes away. As the sirens blared and the EMTs tried to reassure 15-year-old Sa’Ryiah Lincoln, bad news crackled out of the radio. Head to the next county, the EMTs were told. The local hospital no longer delivered babies.
In a state that touts itself as “the most pro-life state in the country,” where abortion is prohibited except to save the life of the mother, timber country in southeast Arkansas is an especially dangerous place to give birth.
Arkansas already has one of the nation’s worst maternal mortality rates, and mothers in this area die at a rate exceeding the state average. Ninety-two percent of recent maternal deaths were preventable, a state review committee found.
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In November, two hospitals in the region abruptly closed their birthing units, sending patients like Sa’Ryiah scrambling to find a new obstetrician. And now she was in an ambulance at midnight, speeding through dark pine forests on a tense half-hour trip to a bigger hospital. Doctors were able to get her stabilized and eventually sent her home.
With a ride that long, “anything could have happened,” said Hajime White, one of the teen’s doulas. “When hospitals are turning you away and you have to go on to the next one, any complication can develop whether you’re in an ambulance or not. You’re putting the mother at risk and the baby at risk.”
Since Arkansas banned nearly all abortions after Roe v. Wade was overturned in 2022, doctors and others have sounded the alarm on what they say is a deepening crisis in maternal health. They point to other markers, too, particularly the state’s very high rates of teen pregnancy, infant mortality and food insecurity.
“If we really say to the world we’re pro-life, we need to put our money where our mouth is and make sure these women are treated and have the care they need,” said Republican state Rep. Aaron Pilkington, an abortion opponent who has led a push for legislation and funding to improve outcomes.
This spring, facing pressure from business leaders and the medical community, Republican Gov. Sarah Huckabee Sanders launched an initiative to address maternal health, an issue that she acknowledged “we’ve ignored for far too long.” Yet she declined to support extending Medicaid postpartum coverage to a year from 60 days, saying the state’s existing insurance system was enough. Arkansas will soon be one of only two states not adopting such coverage.
In Warren, White met the news of possible assistance with skepticism. In addition to her work as a doula, she runs a local network for expectant moms. She founded Precious Jewels Birthing Project in 2015 but has struggled to find resources to offer car seats, diapers and other basics.
“We’re on our own,” said White, who is 50 and often teams with her 24-year-old daughter, Gwen, also a doula. “We’re the main ones that’s actually dying out here, and no one really understands.”
Her mother, Ronica Lawson, called for an ambulance to take them to the hospital five minutes away. As the sirens blared and the EMTs tried to reassure 15-year-old Sa’Ryiah Lincoln, bad news crackled out of the radio. Head to the next county, the EMTs were told. The local hospital no longer delivered babies.
In a state that touts itself as “the most pro-life state in the country,” where abortion is prohibited except to save the life of the mother, timber country in southeast Arkansas is an especially dangerous place to give birth.
Arkansas already has one of the nation’s worst maternal mortality rates, and mothers in this area die at a rate exceeding the state average. Ninety-two percent of recent maternal deaths were preventable, a state review committee found.
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LIFE SUPPORT
Eighteen states have banned virtually all abortions since Roe v. Wade fell in 2022. The Washington Post examines how several of those states support the two groups most affected by such laws -- women and the children born to them.End of carousel
In November, two hospitals in the region abruptly closed their birthing units, sending patients like Sa’Ryiah scrambling to find a new obstetrician. And now she was in an ambulance at midnight, speeding through dark pine forests on a tense half-hour trip to a bigger hospital. Doctors were able to get her stabilized and eventually sent her home.
With a ride that long, “anything could have happened,” said Hajime White, one of the teen’s doulas. “When hospitals are turning you away and you have to go on to the next one, any complication can develop whether you’re in an ambulance or not. You’re putting the mother at risk and the baby at risk.”
Since Arkansas banned nearly all abortions after Roe v. Wade was overturned in 2022, doctors and others have sounded the alarm on what they say is a deepening crisis in maternal health. They point to other markers, too, particularly the state’s very high rates of teen pregnancy, infant mortality and food insecurity.
“If we really say to the world we’re pro-life, we need to put our money where our mouth is and make sure these women are treated and have the care they need,” said Republican state Rep. Aaron Pilkington, an abortion opponent who has led a push for legislation and funding to improve outcomes.
This spring, facing pressure from business leaders and the medical community, Republican Gov. Sarah Huckabee Sanders launched an initiative to address maternal health, an issue that she acknowledged “we’ve ignored for far too long.” Yet she declined to support extending Medicaid postpartum coverage to a year from 60 days, saying the state’s existing insurance system was enough. Arkansas will soon be one of only two states not adopting such coverage.
In Warren, White met the news of possible assistance with skepticism. In addition to her work as a doula, she runs a local network for expectant moms. She founded Precious Jewels Birthing Project in 2015 but has struggled to find resources to offer car seats, diapers and other basics.
“We’re on our own,” said White, who is 50 and often teams with her 24-year-old daughter, Gwen, also a doula. “We’re the main ones that’s actually dying out here, and no one really understands.”
