In early 2013, a winter afternoon brought unexpected joy. At 12 weeks pregnant, I received the long-awaited call regarding the results of our advanced cell-free DNA test: no genetic abnormalities, no Down syndrome, and definitively, no Y chromosome. I instinctively knew we were having a girl, and my excitement overflowed as I shared the news with my partner, Mark. “It’s a girl! I’m overjoyed. We’re finally having our daughter!”
However, the happiness was short-lived. At 17 weeks and 4 days, I awoke with an unsettling feeling. My pajamas were damp, and anxiety gripped my heart. Something was dreadfully wrong.
As we arrived at the emergency room, I struggled to comprehend the reality unfolding before us. My water had broken, and all we could do was wait. The doctor advised bed rest for three days and scheduled a follow-up appointment. Mark and I stared at the ultrasound of our precious baby, but I felt disconnected from the moment. I was convinced everything would turn out fine.
In a state of denial, I returned home and busied myself with life. I started knitting a blanket for a friend who was expecting, saved freezer meal recipes on Pinterest, and read parenting books cover to cover.
However, during our follow-up appointment, I felt a fissure in my denial begin to form. Just as I had known we were having a girl, I also sensed that I would soon lose her. The ultrasound confirmed my fears: she was still alive, but not for long.
The next 24 hours are mostly a blur, but I remember a compassionate doctor embracing me, the decision to induce labor, and being escorted to a birthing suite. I changed into a gown, feeling as if I was in a trance. When the nurse entered, chatting as if she were at a typical delivery, her bright tone shattered my fragile composure. Overwhelmed, I retreated to the bathroom, locking the door behind me, and sobbed more intensely than I ever thought possible.
Eventually, my midwife arrived, and we agreed that I could not endure the process of delivering a child who was not going to survive. A dilation and evacuation (D&E) was scheduled for the following day. Weeks later, I received the insurance statement from the hospital, and the term “Elective Abortion” leapt off the page.
How could they label my experience like that? I thought. Abortions are for those who view their pregnancies as errors or who lack the desire or resources to continue. I lost my daughter; I did not choose to terminate her.
But then the reality hit me: Yes, I made an informed decision. Along with my husband and my medical team, we weighed the facts and my emotional state, leading to a clear choice. In this context, a D&E, dilation and curettage (D&C), and abortion all converged into one meaning. In that moment, I felt relief, not guilt. I was grateful for the freedom to choose, to say, “Please don’t make me do this,” and for that choice to be honored.
Had I been compelled to give birth to my daughter, I would have emerged a different person—hardened, more timid, and perpetually grieving. I wouldn’t be the joyful mother I am today to my 7-month-old son. For every woman who never desired children, there are those who find themselves too young, financially unstable, or in circumstances where they simply cannot manage the emotional burden of carrying a child.
For many, the choice to terminate a pregnancy does not hinder their capacity to be loving mothers in the future; it often shapes that very identity. I am a mother, a devoted one, and yes, I have had an abortion.
If you’re interested in discussions around pregnancy options and experiences, consider checking out our blog post on home insemination kits as well. For more insights on fertility, you can explore excellent resources like March of Dimes.
Summary
This narrative details the emotional journey of a woman who faced a miscarriage and how it reaffirmed her support for abortion rights. The experience transformed her understanding of motherhood, choice, and the complexities surrounding pregnancy loss.
Keyphrase: miscarriage and abortion rights
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