While driving from the Twin Cities to Duluth for a much-needed getaway, a baby-themed billboard caught my eye: “Did you know? My heart beat 18 days from conception!” It struck me, reminding me that the embryo I had recently lost never had a heartbeat. Thank you, Pro-Life America, for the unsolicited reminder.
Another sign proclaimed, “Real men love babies.” I can confidently say that my husband, a true “real man,” adores children, evidenced by his affection for our nephews. However, he will not become a father in January as we had once hoped; I suffered a miscarriage around the same time another billboard informed me that my fetus would have developed fingerprints just nine weeks post-conception.
If I hadn’t gone through pregnancy myself, I might have missed the subtlety in the timeline. Nine weeks from conception feels much earlier than the 11 weeks that the medical community and most pregnant women use to track their pregnancy from the last menstrual period.
These billboards evoke a deep frustration within me. I have identified as pro-choice for as long as I can remember. Raised Catholic, my mother’s pro-choice beliefs instilled in me during our church visits were remarkable. While the priest railed against abortion, I sat next to her, puzzled, asking what an abortion even was. She explained, cautioning me that if the priest had his way, women would resort to dangerous methods, like using coat hangers, to terminate pregnancies. (Later, as an adult, she apologized for being so graphic, but her words resonated with me far more than the priest’s sermon.)
Throughout college, I adorned my guitar with various stickers, including one that asserted, “pro-child, pro-family, pro-choice.” The book Our Bodies, Ourselves, gifted to me by my eldest sister, along with a friend’s candid account of her teenage abortion, solidified my commitment to pro-choice beliefs—non-negotiable, much like my mother’s.
Until recently, I hadn’t given this stance much emotional consideration. Writing this piece feels as vulnerable as when I sat in a hospital gown at 4 a.m., discussing the state of my uterus with an ER doctor. While I understand there are those close to me who fundamentally disagree, I am merely sharing my journey—may we each walk our own path. If yours is similar, I extend my sympathies.
A month and a half before that ER visit, I was overjoyed to discover I was pregnant. The online ads for baby products flooded my feeds, reflecting my excitement. As a planner, this pregnancy aligned perfectly with my life’s roadmap: our pre-planned vacation would fall in the safer second trimester, and my maternity leave would coincide nicely with my work’s busy season.
In keeping with tradition, I kept the news to myself for the first 12 weeks (as most of the world calculates it, not from conception). But eight weeks in, I received a text from my older sister announcing her own pregnancy, and I was ecstatic. What are the odds that I could respond with “me too!”? We were thrilled at the prospect of raising cousins so close in age.
That joy quickly faded when I learned I was likely experiencing a miscarriage, then confirmed it. The depth of my desire for a child was overwhelming and unexpected. I had never anticipated feeling such profound emotions surrounding motherhood, especially as someone who understands the statistics on pregnancy loss. Biology stripped me of my choice to carry this child, and that was heartbreaking.
I cannot fathom the devastation of having the legal right to terminate a pregnancy stripped away. I suspect the emotional turmoil experienced by women who choose to end a pregnancy mirrors the feelings I had toward my choice to become pregnant. As I lay on the couch during my miscarriage, I read about the case of Whole Woman’s Health v. Hellerstedt. I can’t comprehend denying any woman safe, legal access to abortion services. My pro-choice beliefs have been rekindled. If I am allowed to choose to be pregnant, then it is only fair that others should have the autonomy to decide not to be.
I find myself furious at the signs reminding me of my loss. I’m enraged by my current state of not being pregnant. Yet mostly, I am frustrated that these messages exist because someone believes they know better than a woman about what should happen to her body.
For those living in states devoid of such billboards, the overwhelming presence elsewhere can feel suffocating, making you read each one. As our road trip continued, I turned my anger into humor, reading the signs aloud and appending “begins at conception” to each statement, like a twist on a fortune cookie message: “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 insensitive.
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In summary, my miscarriage has reaffirmed my pro-choice beliefs, highlighting the importance of women’s autonomy over their reproductive choices. Sharing this personal experience serves to emphasize the need for understanding and support in navigating such complex emotional landscapes.
Keyphrase: miscarriage and pro-choice beliefs
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