As we drove from the bustling Twin Cities to the serene shores of Duluth for a much-needed getaway, a cheerful baby image caught my eye: “Did you know? My heart beat 18 days from conception!” Thank you, Pro-Life advocates, for the reminder that the embryo I once carried didn’t have a heartbeat when it should have.
“Real men love babies,” another sign proclaimed, and I can attest that the “real man” in my life adores children—just watch him with our nieces and nephews. But sadly, my husband won’t be celebrating fatherhood this January as we had hoped. I experienced a miscarriage just as another sign reminded me that my fetus would have developed fingerprints by week nine after conception.
Reflecting on my journey, I can’t help but feel a mix of anger and frustration at these messages. I had always identified as pro-choice, a belief instilled in me by my mother during my Catholic upbringing. I remember vividly asking her about abortion after a sermon where the priest condemned it. She explained that if abortion were outlawed, women could resort to dangerous methods. Her perspective had a profound impact on me, overshadowing the priest’s words.
During my college years, my guitar became a canvas for my beliefs, adorned with stickers proclaiming, “pro-child, pro-family, pro-choice.” Influential literature like Our Bodies, Ourselves and the candid sharing of a friend’s past abortion solidified my views. Yet, I had never deeply contemplated the emotional weight of these beliefs until recently.
Writing this feels as vulnerable as sitting in a hospital gown at 4 a.m., discussing my uterus’s contents with an ER doctor. I share my experience, knowing many close to me hold opposing views. Each of us deserves our path, and my heart goes out to those with similar experiences.
Just a month and a half before my ER visit, the thrill of discovering my pregnancy filled me with joy. My internet feed was flooded with baby product ads, reflecting my excitement. I was a planner, and everything seemed aligned: our vacation would fall in the “safer” second trimester, and my maternity leave would coincide perfectly with my work’s busy season.
I adhered to the common practice of waiting to share my news, telling only my husband. Then, just eight weeks into my pregnancy, my sister texted me—she was also expecting! The joy of responding with “me too!” was overwhelming. However, that excitement quickly faded as I learned I was likely miscarrying, then probably miscarrying, and ultimately, definitely miscarrying. The sadness that followed was profound.
The intensity of my desire for a child was unexpected. It wasn’t something I had felt before, and as someone who understood the statistical realities of pregnancy loss, my grief felt disproportionate. Nature, or perhaps fate, stripped me of my choice to carry this child, and it was devastating.
I can only imagine the anguish of women who are legally denied the choice to terminate a pregnancy. The emotional weight they carry must be similar to what I felt about my own choice to become pregnant. As I lay on the couch during my miscarriage, contemplating the case of Whole Woman’s Health v. Hellerstedt, I couldn’t comprehend the denial of safe, legal abortions. I realized how deeply I valued the right to choose: if I could choose to be pregnant, then others must have the right to choose otherwise.
I find myself infuriated by the signs proclaiming my pregnancy status and equally frustrated that these messages come from those who presume to dictate a woman’s reproductive choices. In states like mine, where such signs are absent, the overwhelming presence of them elsewhere can be maddening. As we continued our drive, I turned my anger into humor, reading each sign aloud and adding “begins at conception” to the end, treating them as if they were fortune cookie messages: “Wendy’s French Fries Exit 11 begins at conception.”
It may seem callous, but those signs felt callous too.
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In summary, my miscarriage reaffirmed my pro-choice beliefs, highlighting the importance of personal choice in reproductive health. It’s a reminder that every individual’s journey is unique, and respect for those choices is paramount.