“Did you know? My heartbeat began just 18 days after conception!” A cheerful baby image stares back at us as we journey north from the Twin Cities to Duluth for a much-needed getaway. Thanks to Pro-Life America, I’ve been reminded that the embryo that once occupied my body didn’t have a heartbeat when it was supposed to.
“Real men love babies,” one sign reads, and I can attest that the “real man” in my life absolutely adores them. Just watch him with our nephews. But my husband won’t be stepping into fatherhood this January as we had hoped. I experienced a miscarriage around the same time that another sign reminded me that my fetus would have developed fingerprints by nine weeks after conception.
Had I not gone through pregnancy myself, I might have missed the intricacies of this timeline. Nine weeks from conception sounds far earlier than the 11 weeks that the medical community and most pregnant women use to track their pregnancy from the last menstrual period.
These signs frustrate me on multiple levels. I’ve identified as pro-choice for as long as I can remember. Growing up Catholic, the pro-choice perspective my mother imparted in a church pew was an exception to the norm. While the priest railed against abortion, I innocently asked my mom what it was. She explained that if the priest had his way, women would resort to unsafe methods like coat hangers to end their pregnancies. (She later apologized to my adult self for the graphic imagery.) As a young and impressionable child, my mother’s words resonated more deeply than the priest’s.
My college guitar, adorned with various stickers, includes one that boldly states “pro-child, pro-family, pro-choice.” The book Our Bodies, Ourselves, gifted to me by my oldest sister, along with a friend’s revelation about her teenage abortion, cemented my pro-choice beliefs as non-negotiable.
I never gave much thought to this stance until recently. Sharing my journey feels as vulnerable as it did during my early morning ER visit, discussing the contents of my uterus with a doctor. I know many people I love fundamentally disagree with my views, but I’m sharing my experience—may we each navigate our paths. If yours is similar, I empathize with you.
Just a month and a half before that hospital visit, I was overjoyed to learn I was pregnant. My internet feed was flooded with baby product ads, and my mind was brimming with plans. Our pre-booked vacation would fall within the “safer” second trimester, and I could schedule my maternity leave perfectly before the busy work season began.
I kept my excitement in check, adhering to the tradition of waiting to share my news until at least 12 weeks—at least according to the social norm, not the conception timeline. Eight weeks in, my older sister texted me with her own pregnancy news—she was also eight weeks along! I was beyond thrilled. How often do you get to share such joyous news with a sibling? She thought I was joking, but I was ecstatic that our children would be cousins so close in age.
This excitement quickly turned to heartbreak as I learned I was likely miscarrying, then probably miscarrying, then definitively miscarrying. The sorrow that followed was profound and unexpected. The intense longing I felt for a child was overwhelming—an emotion I hadn’t anticipated feeling, especially as someone who understands the statistics surrounding pregnancy loss. Biology (or bad luck?) stripped me of my choice to carry this child, and that loss was devastating.
I can’t fathom how painful it must be for women who are denied the legal right to end a pregnancy. The strong emotions these women likely experience when deciding to terminate a pregnancy mirror the intensity I felt about my choice to become pregnant. As I lay on the couch navigating my miscarriage, I found myself contemplating the implications of the Whole Woman’s Health v. Hellerstedt case. I simply cannot comprehend denying women safe, legal access to abortion. If I have the right to choose to be pregnant, then surely others should have the right to choose not to be. It’s that straightforward.
Every sign reminding me of my loss infuriates me. It’s painful to be reminded that I’m not pregnant, but even more so that some believe they know better than a woman about what should happen with her own body.
Living in a state void of such billboards makes the overwhelming presence elsewhere all the more striking, compelling me to read every single one. As the drive continues, I channel my anger into humor, reading each sign aloud and adding “begins at conception” to the end. It’s akin to adding “in bed” to a fortune cookie:
- “Fast Food Exit 11 begins at conception.”
- “ATV Rentals begin at conception.”
Perhaps it’s callous, but those signs felt pretty callous too.
If you’re looking for more related insights, check out this post on Cervical Insemination for additional perspectives. And if you’re considering home insemination, reputable retailers like Make a Mom offer excellent at-home insemination kits. For a comprehensive resource on pregnancy, including IVF and insemination options, visit the NHS.
In summary, my personal experience with miscarriage has profoundly reinforced my pro-choice beliefs. The emotional journey has deepened my understanding of the importance of choice in pregnancy, and I hope sharing my story can foster a more profound discussion on this critical topic.