“Did you know? My heart began to beat just 18 days post-conception!” A cheerful baby image stares back as we journey north from the Twin Cities to Duluth for a much-needed getaway. Thank you, Pro-Life advocates, for the reminder that the embryo I once carried didn’t have a heartbeat when it was supposedly supposed to.
“Real men cherish babies,” proclaims another sign, and I can affirm that the “real man” in my life truly adores them. Just watch him interact with our nephews. However, my husband won’t be welcoming a child in January as we originally anticipated. I experienced a miscarriage just as another billboard noted that my fetus would have developed fingerprints at nine weeks post-conception.
Had I not experienced pregnancy myself, I might have dismissed the subtlety in these messages. Nine weeks from conception sounds much earlier than the 11 weeks that the medical community—and nearly every pregnant woman—uses to track pregnancy from the last menstrual period.
These signs infuriate me for several reasons. I have been pro-choice for as long as I can remember. Raised in a Catholic household, my mother’s pro-choice perspective, shared with me in church, was remarkable. While the priest preached about banning abortion, I turned to my mom and asked what an abortion was. She explained, cautioning that if the priest had his way, women would resort to dangerous methods to terminate pregnancies. (She later apologized for being so graphic when I recalled this conversation as an adult.) I was young and impressionable, and my mom’s words resonated more than the priest’s.
The guitar I received in college, during a pivotal time when I thought mastering campfire songs would make me popular, features a sticker that boldly states “pro-child, pro-family, pro-choice.” The book my oldest sister gifted me, Our Bodies, Ourselves, combined with a friend’s confession of her teenage abortion, reinforced my unwavering pro-choice stance, similar to that of my mother.
That said, I hadn’t deeply reflected on this belief until recently. Sharing this experience is as daunting as sitting in a hospital gown at 4 a.m., discussing the reality of my uterus with an ER doctor. I know some people I care about fundamentally disagree with me on this issue. I am merely sharing my personal journey—may we each navigate our own paths. My sympathies to those who have shared a similar experience.
A month and a half prior to that ER visit, I was overjoyed to discover I was pregnant. The targeted online ads for baby products flooded my feed, indicating my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of motherhood. As a planner by nature, this fit seamlessly into my future: our vacation would coincide with the “safer” second trimester, and I would finish maternity leave before my work’s busy season.
I tried to temper my excitement by following the tradition of waiting at least 12 weeks (as the world counts it, not from conception) to share the news, aside from my husband, of course. Eight weeks in, my sister texted me to announce her own pregnancy. I was ecstatic! How often does one get to respond to such news with “me too”? She thought I was joking. The prospect of raising cousins so close in age thrilled me.
However, that joy quickly faded when I learned I was likely miscarrying, then probably miscarrying, and ultimately definitely miscarrying. The depth of emotion I felt about wanting a child was astonishing and unexpected. It was an intensity I hadn’t anticipated, especially as someone who understood the statistics surrounding pregnancy loss. Biology—or perhaps just bad luck—took away my choice to carry this child, and the heartbreak was profound.
I can’t fathom how devastating it would be to have the option to terminate a pregnancy denied by law. I suspect the emotions that women feel about their choice to end a pregnancy parallel what I felt about my desire to be pregnant. As I lay on the couch, experiencing my miscarriage, I reflected on the case of Whole Woman’s Health v. Hellerstedt. I simply cannot comprehend denying women access to safe, legal abortions. If I desire the choice to carry a pregnancy, others should equally have the right to choose not to.
The presence of these signs, reminding me of my loss, fills me with rage. I am enraged that I am not pregnant. But chiefly, I am angered that these signs exist because someone believes they know better than a woman about her own body and the future of her pregnancy.
If you reside in a state like mine, devoid of such billboards, you can understand the overwhelming sensation of encountering them elsewhere, compelling you to read every single one. As we continue our drive, I channel my frustration into humor, whimsically adding “begins at conception” to the end of each sign we pass. It’s reminiscent of adding “in bed” to a fortune cookie: “Wendy’s French Fries Exit 11 begins at conception.” “Recreational loans for ATVs and Snowmobiles begin at conception.” Perhaps callous, but those signs felt equally indifferent.
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In summary, my experience with miscarriage has not only reinforced my pro-choice beliefs but has also deepened my understanding of the emotional complexities surrounding pregnancy. I believe in every woman’s right to make choices about her own body and future.
Keyphrase: Pro-choice beliefs strengthened by miscarriage
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