Trigger warning: high-risk pregnancy, congenital disabilities, abortion.
“Congratulations! You’re expecting? Did your doctor mention any concerns regarding your medication?” the pharmacist inquired.
“Yes, I am expecting. But I won’t be by tomorrow when I take it,” I replied, as she removed the ‘pregnant’ label from the system. Just earlier that day, someone remarked on my growing belly. “Congrats,” she said, and I thanked her, moving on without revealing the truth.
To start this story, let’s rewind a few weeks. A home pregnancy test had shown a positive result, but I was skeptical. Then came the ultrasound, confirming a heartbeat. “That’s your baby,” the gynecologist said, and I felt a wave of mixed emotions—happiness intertwined with anxiety. Would everything go smoothly? Would my baby be healthy? What should I eat?
I immersed myself in all the do’s and don’ts of prenatal care: skincare products, avoiding coffee and alcohol, taking prenatal vitamins, and ensuring plenty of rest. My goal was to do everything right so that my husband, the baby, and I could enjoy this journey. We were ready for the excitement of feeling those first kicks, shopping for maternity clothes (I admit, I was more excited about this than others), and preparing for our little one’s arrival.
I even curated an Instagram collection featuring adorable baby clothes I found. Eva Chen’s Instagram stories became my go-to for product recommendations—what’s the safest bassinet, the best milk pump, and the most recommended car seat?
Naturally, my tendency to worry kicked in, especially when I realized the number of prenatal tests I would undergo. What would the screenings reveal? I squinted at the sonogram, unsure if I could see arms or legs. Were they really there? Yes, they were.
My anxiety deepened as I learned that, in the U.S., a baby is born with a birth defect every four and a half minutes. However, it wasn’t until the ultrasound technician completed the first trimester scan that my pregnancy shifted from low to high risk in an instant.
“Something appears off with your baby’s heart,” the specialist informed me. It seemed one side of the heart hadn’t developed correctly—typically the left side. Congenital Heart Defects (CHD) are among the most prevalent birth defects, affecting about 40,000 infants each year in the U.S.
The genetic counselor reassured me that I didn’t fall into a high-risk group for chromosomal abnormalities, but I opted for an invasive test to investigate further. This procedure, known as chorionic villus sampling (CVS), surprisingly wasn’t as painful as I had imagined when the needle pierced my abdomen to reach the placenta.
The doctor and technician guided me through every step, helping me feel in control during an experience where I felt anything but. “One step at a time” became a mantra in the following days. I was grateful for access to healthcare and prenatal support, realizing how crucial it is for everyone.
I also learned that no amount of diet or exercise could ensure a healthy heart. This wasn’t my fault, a reality that was tough to accept.
We scheduled a fetal echocardiogram with a pediatric cardiologist, and the day before, the CVS results arrived—everything was normal. Relief washed over me, but it was tinged with guilt for having feared a baby with a disability.
I reached out to others whose children faced similar challenges, recalling Jimmy Kimmel’s heartfelt address about his son’s heart condition. I found comfort in images of his smiling child. A social worker provided a wealth of resources, and my midwife assured me she’d support me no matter what.
I also discovered numerous support groups, emphasizing the importance of taking care of my mental health. Acknowledging my own feelings was crucial, especially knowing that many expectant mothers experience miscarriages, learn about birth defects, or face difficult decisions.
I pondered names for the baby, contemplating ‘Lev,’ which means heart in Hebrew, as I had read about a family who chose that name for their child with a CHD.
On the day of the echocardiogram, nerves and hope intertwined within me. Perhaps things wouldn’t be as dire as we feared. We had a support system, and if needed, we could find help, like a lactation consultant, or even a nanny.
“Jessica,” the ultrasound technician called, beckoning us into the echocardiogram room. She took numerous images of the heart while I tried to look away. I wasn’t the pediatric cardiologist; I reminded myself. When the cardiologist entered, she took even more pictures. I remained silent, knowing she’d explain everything once she finished.
Then she said, “Let’s move to another room to talk.”
As we sat down, I looked at her and sensed the news wouldn’t be good. She drew a diagram, illustrating a normal heart versus the one our baby had. My child was missing a significant portion of the left side of the heart—hypoplastic left heart syndrome, a severe congenital defect.
The folder she held contained extensive information about fetal abnormalities. Whatever path we chose next would be ours alone; we learned that while some families opt to continue their pregnancies, others do not.
We discussed heart surgery options and potential outcomes, realizing that our child might only live for a limited time. The risk of having another baby with a heart defect was low, but it was a conversation I wasn’t ready to have. Tears streamed down my face.
Prior discussions had prepared me for this moment, and I was aware of what I wanted. The very next day, we scheduled a D&E procedure—an abortion performed at the hospital. I felt no hesitation, but I allowed myself one more night to reflect.
A week later, the procedure took place. I spent seven hours at the hospital but didn’t require an overnight stay. I was allowed a light meal and water. The procedure itself lasted under an hour; I was awake and felt only pressure. Above all, I felt immense gratitude for living in a place where my decision was respected and my mental health was prioritized.
I appreciated being in a teaching hospital, where residents could learn from the experience. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel sorrow afterward. Instead, relief washed over me, even though guilt lingered.
I received aftercare instructions and was reminded that everyone reacts differently. I reflected on the myriad professionals I encountered throughout this journey—the receptionists, technicians, nurses, genetic counselors, midwives, social workers, and doctors—who supported me in ways I couldn’t have navigated alone.
For those facing similar experiences, remember that you are not alone. Resources like March of Dimes can provide valuable information during your pregnancy journey, and if you’re considering home insemination, check out our post on the Impregnator at Home Insemination Kit.
In sharing my story, I hope to connect with others who may feel isolated in their experiences.
Summary
Jessica Miller shares her poignant journey through a high-risk pregnancy that took an unexpected turn. After learning about her baby’s congenital heart defect, she grappled with the decision to terminate her pregnancy. Through this experience, she highlights the importance of mental health support, the value of open conversations about pregnancy challenges, and the resources available for expectant parents.