Parenting
By Rachel Thompson
Updated: Jan. 7, 2018
Originally Published: June 3, 2015
Her name was Emma. She was my second daughter, and tragically, she was stillborn due to Trisomy 18, a chromosomal disorder that is considered incompatible with life. I loved her deeply, but despite that love, I felt compelled to end my pregnancy with her.
It was out of love that I sought an abortion, yet my request was denied due to the restrictive political climate in our state. As I cradled her tiny, lifeless body after she was born, I promised myself that I would advocate for change, to prevent other families from enduring what we had faced.
At 16 weeks, a routine blood test indicated our baby had a 1 in 10 chance of having Trisomy 18. My doctor arranged for a specialist appointment the following day. An ultrasound revealed that our baby had a cystic hygroma (a fluid-filled pocket on the back of her neck), a clubbed foot, and significant growth restrictions, as she was measuring almost a week behind. We had to wait another week for an amniocentesis, as the amniotic sac had not yet fused to the uterine wall. In the meantime, I researched the disorder and connected with other families through the Trisomy 18 Foundation. After the procedure, my husband and I began discussing our options.
Making the decision to terminate was one of the most challenging moments of our lives. Based on our findings, we knew doctors would not provide any life-saving measures upon her birth due to her condition. Our utmost priority was to spare her from suffering, but how could we choose to end her life? As her mother, I felt it was my responsibility to protect her from pain. We ultimately decided we wanted to end the pregnancy, or “say goodbye early,” as the Trisomy 18 Foundation describes it, through a labor and delivery abortion. This method would allow us to hold her, take photographs, and arrange for her remains to be cremated, creating precious memories that would last a lifetime.
Even though I anticipated the diagnosis, I was heartbroken when the results confirmed it. I recall feeling overwhelmed as I repeatedly expressed, “She was so wanted. I wanted her so much.” I thought obtaining the procedure would be straightforward since abortion is legal in the United States. Initially, my doctor was optimistic, but a few days later, she informed us that local hospitals would not perform the procedure because of the current political landscape. She recommended we travel four hours to an abortion clinic in Atlanta that specialized in late-term abortions. It was not our preferred option, but my desire to protect my child from pain drove us to make the appointment.
Upon reaching the clinic, we learned we wouldn’t be able to hold Emma or take pictures or even receive her remains. It was disheartening, but my commitment to shielding her from suffering took precedence. We were also informed that due to the nature of my case, I would be classified as a one-day procedure, which meant we would not be isolated from women seeking abortions for other reasons.
As we headed to Atlanta, I felt like a criminal, sneaking away to do something that felt taboo. I was apprehensive about being judged for making what I believed was the right choice for my unborn daughter and our family. Only a handful of people knew of our plans; no one should feel ashamed while making such personal healthcare decisions.
At the clinic, we were not separated from the other women. My husband and I waited in a room full of women who were terminating pregnancies for reasons other than fetal anomalies. It wasn’t that I desired a perfect baby; I simply wanted one who could live. Surrounded by women carrying healthy babies while my baby was dying inside me was a painful paradox. Had the laws in Tennessee been different, we could have ended the pregnancy with our own doctor in a hospital, avoiding the emotional turmoil of being in a facility filled with women who had everything we longed for. In retrospect, I realize those women were just as desperate as I was; their reasons differed, but their pain was no less legitimate.
We were called back three times, and each time I hoped for separation from the other women. Ultimately, we were not. Throughout the long wait, I found solace only in my husband’s presence and in the book I had brought with me—Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix—whose themes resonated eerily with our situation as Dumbledore reminds Voldemort that there are things worse than death.
After nearly four hours, we were informed that due to an error in paperwork, we could not proceed that day. If we still wanted to terminate the pregnancy, we would need to return a week later. An ultrasound that day revealed our daughter had minimal brain matter and dangerously low amniotic fluid, confirming our fears that her kidneys were not functional. Without functioning kidneys, she would not develop the necessary lung capacity to survive.
The decision to end the pregnancy was agonizing, and the emotional toll of planning another trip to Atlanta was unbearable. We decided to return home and allow nature to take its course. Each day I carried her, I questioned whether she had already died, living with the haunting uncertainty of a dead baby inside me. Every morning, I wondered if that day would be the day she would no longer be with me. If I didn’t feel her move for a while, I would frantically call the doctor, desperate to hear a heartbeat. Each day became a painful waiting game filled with “what-ifs.” What kind of life could she have if she survived? How would this impact my marriage? How would our five-year-old daughter cope with losing the sister she had always wanted, especially if we managed to bring her home for a few days? I was emotionally drained. I lost 12 pounds in less than two weeks, yet I found the strength to get out of bed each day, trying to create a meaningful life for my daughter, even as I felt like I was trudging through mud.
When Jenna was stillborn, I found solace in knowing she would never experience suffering. I committed to sharing our story and advocating for change, aiming to fight against laws that restrict a woman’s right to make healthcare choices for herself and her child. I have engaged in debates online, spoken before our state legislature, and created a commercial to raise awareness about our experience and challenge prohibitive laws. No parent should feel shame for making the most selfless decision for a sick child. If a born child is declared brain dead, parents can choose to cease life support. If a child has a terminal illness with no hope, parents can opt to halt treatment. Why should we not have the same rights for our unborn child? Is it simply because she had not yet entered the world?
As fervently as I advocate for a woman’s right to choose, I also support the right to carry to term. There is no universal solution for families confronted with a dire prenatal diagnosis. We all love our children and strive for what is best for them, and we must have the freedom to make those choices. If you’re interested in exploring options for artificial insemination at home, you can check out this reputable online retailer for at-home insemination syringe kits. Furthermore, for more information on pregnancy and home insemination, this resource is excellent.
Summary:
The story of Emma highlights the complexities and emotional turmoil surrounding difficult prenatal diagnoses and the choices families face. Through heartache, Rachel Thompson emphasizes the importance of advocating for the right to make informed healthcare decisions, regardless of the political climate.
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