It was a girl. On a frigid winter afternoon in early 2013, I received the call I had been anticipating. At 12 weeks pregnant, the results of our advanced cell-free DNA test had come in: no genetic abnormalities, no Down syndrome, and no Y chromosome. I instinctively knew it was a girl before the nurse even confirmed it, and I couldn’t contain my joy as I called my partner, exclaiming, “It’s a girl! I’m over the moon. We’re having our daughter!”
However, at 17 weeks and 4 days, an uneasy feeling washed over me one morning. I woke up to find my pajamas soaked, and I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. Something was wrong.
As we made our way to the emergency room that day, confusion clouded my mind. My water had broken, and all we could do was wait. The doctor recommended bed rest for three days and scheduled a follow-up appointment. My partner was in tears as we gazed at the ultrasound of our tiny baby, but I felt disconnected. This couldn’t be happening to us; everything would turn out fine.
I returned home, attempting to maintain a sense of normalcy. I began knitting a blanket for a friend who was also pregnant, collected freezer meal recipes on Pinterest, and devoured “Bringing Up Bébé” from cover to cover.
Denial enveloped me as we headed to the hospital for my follow-up appointment, but a crack began to form in my facade. Just as I had known the baby was a girl, I sensed that she was slipping away from me. The ultrasound confirmed my fears: she was still alive, but her time was limited.
The next 24 hours are a blur, but I remember a doctor embracing me, the decision to induce labor, and being led down a long corridor to a birthing suite. I changed into a gown and sat on the bed in what my partner later described as a catatonic state. When the OB nurse entered, she chatted cheerfully as if everything was routine. But as she laughed, my composure shattered, and I fled to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I sat on the floor and cried as I had never cried before.
My midwife arrived soon after, and it was decided that I couldn’t endure delivering a dying child. A Dilation and Evacuation (D&E) was scheduled for the following day. Weeks later, I received the insurance statement from the hospital, which plainly described the procedure: Elective Abortion.
How could they call it that? I thought. Abortion is for those who see their pregnancies as mistakes, who didn’t want children and sought to end their pregnancies. I had lost my daughter; I did NOT abort her!
Then it struck me: Yes, I did. Together with my partner and the medical team, we evaluated the facts and my emotional health, and made a choice. D&C, D&E, abortion—these terms all converged in my situation. I didn’t feel guilt; instead, I felt relief. Thank goodness I had the option. Thank goodness I lived in a time when I could say, “Please don’t make me do this,” and it was acknowledged.
Why? Because I know that had I been compelled to leave that hospital room and give birth to my daughter, I would be a different person today—harder, more withdrawn, and constantly grieving. I wouldn’t be the joyful mother I am to my 7-month-old son. For every woman who never wanted children, there’s another who is too young, lacks financial stability, is focused on education, or, like me, could not bear to witness the fragile life she so desperately desired.
For many, the decision to terminate a pregnancy does not hinder our ability to be nurturing mothers; it often defines it. Yes, I am a mother—a good one at that. And yes, I had an abortion.
If you’re interested in learning more about the emotional and medical aspects of pregnancy and home insemination, visit IVF Babble for excellent resources. For those considering self-insemination options, check out Make a Mom for detailed insights. Additionally, you can find valuable information about the process in our post at Intracervical Insemination.
In summary, my miscarriage profoundly shaped my views on abortion rights. It allowed me to understand the importance of choice and the emotional complexities surrounding pregnancy loss.