I want to be very clear before I begin: this update is not written out of anger alone. It is written out of fear, grief, and the responsibility I feel as a mother and community advocate—to speak honestly about what this transition feels like when you are the one carrying a new innocent life within you.

The Second Support Rally

On Tuesday, February 10th, our community gathered again for a second support rally. The crowd was larger this time. The weather was nicer, though the ground was muddy from melting snow—but by this point, I truly believe the conditions no longer mattered. People would have stood there regardless.

Because what is happening now has reached far beyond inconvenience. It has reached into our sense of safety.
People came to stand for our providers. For mothers. For unborn babies. For choice. For the Fort Logan Birthing Spa—what so many women feel is the heart of our local hospital. The place where a soft tune plays each time a new baby is born. A sound that symbolizes life, joy, and continuity. A sound that will soon be silent.

That day, many community members also stopped quietly in front of a large hand-made board displaying a collage of photos submitted by families across our county—images of newborns, parents, siblings, providers, and moments that told stories without words. People stood still, taking it in slowly. Some pointed. Some wiped tears. Some simply stared in silence. It felt less like viewing a display and more like saying goodbye to a friend for the last time. The board held decades of trust, care, and shared history. It was sentimental. It was sweet. And it was absolutely heartbreaking.

That sense of loss has reached far beyond those standing on the sidewalk. It has been echoed by families across Kentucky who understand what it means to lose access to safe, local birth care. Even Kentucky natives Tyler Childers and his wife, Senora May, have spoken publicly in support of keeping the Fort Logan Birthing Unit open—adding their voices not as celebrities, but as parents and advocates who recognize the value of rural maternity care and the irreplaceable role it plays in the safety, dignity, and continuity of family life in communities like ours.

Community members stopped even if they couldn’t stay. They hugged us. They took photos with posters they had made. They thanked the women standing out there for standing for so many others. Cars honked. People waved. Some shouted encouragement. Many shared that they were praying—that compassion and safety would guide the decisions being made. That research and lived experience would not be dismissed.
But beneath that visible support was something much heavier.

Fear.

Fear from pregnant women who are suddenly unsure what labor will look like or where it might happen. Fear from families who feel forced into decisions mid to end-pregnancy. Fear from providers and their families who have dedicated decades to this community and now face devastating uncertainty.

And fear from me—because trust feels broken. I speak for only myself, but know I am not alone in saying that my trust is shattered to a point it feels irreparable. 

Seeking Reassurance From EMS

The day after the rally (Wednesday February 11th) I went to speak with our local EMS. Not to place blame. Not to point fingers. But because I am pregnant, and needed some reassurance. I needed to understand what this change would look like in real life, not on paper.

They were kind. Transparent. Willing to talk openly. And they made one thing clear: EMS is not mandating this change, however they will do their best to adapt because that is what they do in caring for our community. 

But what I learned left me deeply unsettled.

I asked whether EMS had been consulted before the decision to close the birthing unit. They told me they were not made aware prior to the announcement, but had since had a meeting regarding dates to be informed of timelines.

I asked whether any new obstetric-specific protocols or additional training had been implemented in preparation for increased labor-related calls and transports. The answer was no.

I asked about emergency medications for obstetric hemorrhage—such as Pitocin or clotting agents—in the event of active labor complications. I was told these medications are not carried. Basic interventions like fundal massage were discussed, but in many obstetric emergencies, those measures alone are not enough.

I asked about neonatal resuscitation training. I was told that while EMTs are trained in pediatric and infant resuscitation, they are not currently trained in neonatal resuscitation, which is different and specific to babies in the first 28 days of life.

When I asked about equipment, I learned that adult and pediatric kits are standard, sometimes with infant-sized masks—but dedicated neonatal resuscitation kits are not routinely carried. Neonatal emergencies require specialized equipment: smaller airway tools, precise ventilation devices, and protocols designed for fragile, premature infants.

This matters—especially when research consistently shows that rural obstetric unit closures are associated with increases in preterm birth and infant mortality.

I asked about response times. The average response time shared with me was 17.5 minutes, depending on call volume and unit availability. Some calls are faster. Some are slower. But in obstetric emergencies—hemorrhage, placental abruption, precipitous labor—minutes matter. Seconds can matter.

I asked whether additional EMS units had been added in anticipation of increased obstetric transports. The answer was no. The workload will be absorbed into the existing system. It was also shared that while this could adapt, it was standard procedure to allow just one unit at a time out of town. 

I was told—truthfully—that emergency calls take priority over inter-facility transports because those patients are already under medical supervision. And I couldn’t help but think back to my own experience: arriving at Fort Logan with ruptured membranes at 32 weeks, contractions ongoing, my baby trying to come early. I was stabilized by providers who knew me, who acted quickly, who gave me the first steroid shot to help my baby’s lungs before transfer. Thank God for Fort Logan Hospital Birthing Unit and it's providers being in the middle for me, and for my sweet Noah. 

I cannot imagine what that moment would have felt like without local OB care.

Before I left, an EMS member shared—clearly as personal opinion, not official stance—that they believe our community will be hurting as a result of losing our birthing unit.

I left that conversation with my heart extremely heavy.

The Tour of Ephraim McDowell Regional Medical Center Labor and Delivery

After collecting my thoughts, I decided to tour the hospital where I am now expected to deliver. I went with a friend because I didn’t want to be alone.

The drive took 35 minutes on a good day with light traffic from my home. Parking took longer. Signage was not obvious. We walked into a lobby with an unmanned information desk and had to use a phone to ask what floor labor and delivery was on. Overall, it was about 45 minutes in total by the time I arrived to the window and requested a tour. 

Inside the unit, the nurses were kind—but they seemed nervous. I was shown two of six delivery rooms. Only one had a garden tub which is assigned on a first come, first serve basis. Two had massage chairs. I asked about the 18 rooms that had been mentioned publicly and was told renovations were planned—but no timeline of completion was currently  available.

Postpartum rooms were smaller and more basic. Unlike Fort Logan, where women labor, deliver, recover, and stay in the same room until discharge, here the process felt segmented. Mechanical. Unfamiliar. 

I asked about VBAC policy. The nurse didn’t know and said she would try to get it at the front desk—but I left without solid answers or a policy in hand.

One reassuring and familiar thing on this tour that was shared with me was that my established provider and birth plan were expected to remain the same, unless an emergency arose that required immediate intervention by another physician within their staffing—such as a cord prolapse requiring urgent operating room care for the safety of my unborn baby. 

We were shown the nursery. I was told babies 35.5 weeks and up are currently kept, with a “slow transition” toward caring for and keeping babies born at 32 weeks. That was alarming to hear, especially given how Level II NICU care is commonly understood and advertised.

I kept thinking: How will this space safely absorb and care for approximately 1,000 births in total when renovations are unfinished and the closure is imminent despite the communities plea for (at minimum) a delay to phase patients out? Personally, I feel deeply this would have seemed to benefit both sides. 

As I left, I searched for expectant-mother parking. A security officer for the hospital told me he didn’t know if such parking existed and sent me across the street mistakingly. I eventually found two spaces on the far side corner of the emergency room parking lot, both occupied, with one partially blocked by snow pile-up that had not been cleared. I couldn’t help but recall visiting years ago, around 2010, when there were clearly designated expectant-mother parking spots located right at the front of the building. Those spaces now appeared to be converted into regular parking, with the poles still standing but the signs removed—a small detail, perhaps, but one that quietly stood out to me in that moment in a big way.

Then came the call. 

The Moment Everything Collapsed.

I was informed that my providers—the ones I trusted, the ones I had carefully chosen for so many reasons, the ones I planned to deliver my baby with—would not be allowed to deliver me, as their privileges to deliver at Ephraim McDowell Regional Medical Center had been denied. I had to pull over and sit for a moment just to breathe and process what I had been told. The news felt devastating. It felt deeply unfair. And it felt like something in me—and in our community—had broken.

After everything. After the rallies, the research, and the endless conversations. After 4,234 current petition signatures as voices asked to be heard and considered in our community.

After trying to find reassurance in a system I did not choose but was being asked to accept.

After being told there would be no disruption of care.

And after just being told during my hospital tour regarding delivery where I was attempting to "meet in the middle" that I would at least have the familiarity of my original provider and the birth plan we had already discussed—unless an emergency required immediate intervention given my history. 

That reassurance disappeared in an instant.

That was the moment anger gave way to grief.

This was no longer just about logistics or transition plans. It was about realizing that compassion, safety, and comfort no longer felt central to the decisions being made. It was about knowing what this news would mean not only for me, but for every mother who is nearing her due date right now—carrying fear alongside her baby. It was about imagining how helpless our providers must feel, knowing how much it likely cost them emotionally to even agree to attempt this transition for us, for their patients, only to be told they could not continue that care.

This is not just hard.
It is not just disappointing.
It is not just inconvenient.
It is heartbreaking.

This is not simply a change in location.
It is the loss of trust.
It is the loss of choice.
It is the loss of the sense of safety that every mother deserves as she prepares to bring life into the world.

I am now standing here with my unborn baby stripped of familiarity, continuity, and trust. With unanswered questions. With anxiety that did not exist before this process began. With the weight of knowing that an entire community of mothers, families, and providers is grieving something deeply meaningful.

This is not what healthcare should feel like.

Healthcare should not leave patients feeling abandoned. It should not require mothers to choose between familiarity and fear. And it should never ask communities to accept increased risk of harm as an acceptable byproduct of transition.

We continue to ask—not because this is easy, but because it is necessary.
We continue to ask—not for perfection—but for safety that is felt, not merely promised. We continue to ask for honesty and transparency that acknowledges the real and human impact of these decisions. We continue to ask for compassion and humanity that place mothers, babies, and providers at the center—not at the margins.

This request has not ended. And for many of us, this experience will not be easily forgotten. It will live on in this community -in the stories mothers tell, in the fear carried into future pregnancies, and in the quiet loss of trust that does not simply return with time. Decisions made in moments like this leave an imprint, and communities remember how they were treated when they were most vulnerable.
Because when trust is broken, fear fills the space it leaves behind.

And no mother—no family—no community—should be asked to carry that into birth.

Healthcare carries a moral obligation: to protect the vulnerable, to do no harm, and to place human dignity above convenience or expediency. When that obligation is not upheld, the consequences are not abstract—they are deeply personal, and they endure.