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There have been moments that have left me breathless, like when a colleague, unaware of my loss, complimented my appearance, saying I looked radiant for someone six months pregnant. Or when a friend ran into my partner outside the grocery store, inquiring about my well-being, and he had to break the sad news. Then there was the time my daughter returned from school, sharing that her class was discussing siblings, and she mentioned she had a deceased brother named Jack.
These experiences are both heart-wrenching and significant. Each time they happen, it feels like the air has been knocked out of me; yet, they also allow me to speak about my son, who may not be physically present but is very much a part of our lives. Jack was my third pregnancy: my first was healthy, my second ended in a miscarriage at ten weeks, and then came Jack, a seemingly perfect pregnancy — until it wasn’t, at 19 weeks. Each August, I receive Timehop memories from a beach trip that year, when my obstetrician called with the reassuring news that all my tests were normal. But as September 11 approaches each year, I feel an ominous weight; it’s an anniversary no one wishes to commemorate: our beach getaway, our Labor Day celebration, a visit to the Thomas the Tank Engine Park. He was with us for these moments, and then everything changed in ways I could never have imagined.
On September 11, 2017, it was a cool morning in Connecticut. I arrived at work early, engrossed in a press release, when my phone rang with a call from my doctor’s office. Expecting a nurse, I was caught off guard when my physician spoke directly to me. “Routine tests came back on Friday… there’s cause for concern… I didn’t want you to worry over the weekend… can you and your partner come in today?”
I called my partner, and he rushed to the hospital. The ultrasound technician was unusually quiet, and when the doctor entered, it became clear why: a defect in our son’s spine that had not closed; nerves were exposed, and fluid was accumulating in his head, putting pressure on his brain.
The diagnosis was devastating, but the prognosis was worse. If he survived the pregnancy, his quality of life would be severely limited. I had always believed in a woman’s right to choose, but I never expected to face such a choice. How could we bring this baby boy into a world that would be unable to care for him properly, reliant on machines and constant medical interventions? Moreover, I thought of our two-year-old daughter: how could we alter her life so drastically? It would never be the same, and much of it would not even belong to her anymore.
My partner and I stepped outside to gather our thoughts before returning home. As we drove, I replayed every moment of the pregnancy in my mind. I had been taking folic acid for over a year, exercising, and eating well. I wanted him so much, as if that should have altered the outcome. I desperately wished I could rewind time to that morning before the doctor’s call changed everything.
The following days were a blur — informing family and friends of our decision, asking a colleague to send an email announcing my “loss,” and feeling embarrassed. We quickly found a painter to transform Jack’s deep navy room into a bland gray. On September 15, I entered the hospital pregnant and left a few hours later… not.
Our daughter was too young to remember my pregnancy without reminders, and so we gently do. For a long while, I acted as though nothing had happened, sinking into depression, anger, and resentment. Yet, the more I discuss Jack — whether in deep conversations with those I trust or in passing reflections triggered by daily life — the more I feel his presence and his rightful place in our family.
Even when Jack’s name unexpectedly comes up and I momentarily feel unsteady, I’ve come to appreciate the beauty in those moments. They allow me to honor his memory and let others do the same. These conversations can be challenging and occasionally awkward (I left out that my daughter told her classmates Jack was buried in our backyard next to our spare key hidden in a fake rock — which is definitely not true…) But they are always worthwhile. I refuse to pretend that my son, Jack, didn’t exist. She understands she is growing up with her little brother watching over her from above, and it comforts me to know he’s watching over me too.
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In summary, my experience with my son’s loss has been a complex journey of grief and remembrance. While I may have faced a difficult decision regarding my pregnancy, it’s vital for me to keep Jack’s memory alive through conversations and shared stories, creating a lasting bond that transcends his physical absence.
Keyphrase: My Son Didn’t Experience Pain During My Abortion
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