On a cold October morning, before the sun rises, my husband and I stand next to a cartoon play taking place in the lobby of the children’s hospital, waiting to be called . I am 23 weeks pregnant and my world has just been shattered.
They call us and escort us to a waiting room just for us. It might be the hardest day of our lives, but at least we can cry in peace. I see a plaque next to the window overlooking the city. “The Window of Hope” was offered by a family who are now welcoming us to a club with which we want nothing to do.
I am called for my first appointment of the day, an MRI of my abdomen which will take about an hour. Because of the pandemic, I will have to go alone.
I am in a giant metal tube that looks like a construction site. A film is played in the background to distract from the noise of the machine. It’s a movie I’ve seen many times, but it feels like a complete stranger to me and I’m just watching.
The technician said to me kindly: “This next image that we will have to take with you while remaining completely still. “
“OK.” I think I’m saying it out loud, but I’m not sure.
A recorded voice plays, “take a deep breath … now, breathe out … now, hold …” and I do. I am a statue, no breathing, no movement. I think maybe if I’m still enough they will be able to see the part of my baby’s brain that they think is missing. Maybe if I still have enough, they’ll run over and say, “We were wrong! Everything is fine! Finish planning your baby shower! But they don’t.
The rest of the day is littered with cameras and cables and dark rooms with bright screens. It’s overwhelming and uncomfortable and there’s an unspoken tension in the air. Something is wrong, but we have to wait for the big reveal at the end of the day to find out exactly how wrong it is. We put a movie in our waiting room and I fall asleep.
Courtesy of Kelly Perry The author stared at his bracelet moments before his first MRI. She notes: “I couldn’t help but think that they gave me an admission bracelet four months too early.”
Then it’s show time. We walk slowly towards a socially remote conference hall. A team of very intelligent doctors and specialists – luckily all of them women – explain what they know and predict what they can.
I hear excerpts from what they say, phrases like:
“The brain structure is missing”
“Fluid in the ventricles”
“More than one abnormality can mean a genetic disorder”
“Lifelong disability”
“70% chance of this happening … 45
“There is no way to know …”
I oscillate between sobs and questions, then I sit in silence waiting for them to tell me what to do … until I realize they aren’t going to do it.
Seeing the anguish and confusion on our faces, one of the doctors asks us if we want to talk alone. It explains the termination process and what we can expect.
Then she gives me the advice that will allow me to move forward. She says, “Think about it, look at it, talk about it and make a decision. Once you’ve made the decision and it’s final, don’t go back. Don’t try to renegotiate the past. Decide and never look back.
The next day, we are in another hospital. It is difficult to navigate and too many people for a pandemic. We stand in a circle taped to the ground. Someone asks me if I want to sit down and smiles at my pregnant belly. I start to cry.
We are called back to a tiny room and I lie down on the table like it’s another ultrasound. A doctor and his assistant can’t look me in the face, or maybe that’s how I feel. We are all deeply respectful of the grim reality of what is about to happen. I see a giant needle and buried my face in my husband’s chest and we cry.
And just like that, it’s done. Her heart stops instantly.
In the end, I thought about what I would choose if it was me and I can confidently say that I wouldn’t choose a life of suffering for myself, so I wouldn’t voluntarily inflict it on someone. one else. I have no regrets and I would make the same decision if I had to do it again.
It was the saddest moment of my life – I can locate it and still feel it. I can see what I was wearing and hear the machines beeping. I feel like a part of me has never left this room.
It took two days in the hospital to give birth. The doctors and nurses were amazing. I will never forget the understanding and compassionate care I received from these amazing humans.
Every day we live with the decision we made, a decision that was only made after experiencing unimaginable grief and making desperate phone calls, researching and consulting with experts, and mourning with our parents. In the end, I thought about what I would choose if it was me and I can confidently say that I wouldn’t choose a life of suffering for myself, so I wouldn’t voluntarily inflict it on someone. one else.
I have no regrets and I would make the same decision if I had to do it again.
And, while my story is poignant, I think it’s important to stress that abortions performed after 21 weeks represent less than 1% of total abortions. Yes, my choice was devastating, but at least there was a pretty clear path ahead for me. The same cannot be said of many other women who are considering an abortion. Often their decision is complicated by factors beyond their control.
I have been very fortunate to live in a state where abortion laws are aimed at empowering women instead of seeking to cheat, hijack and deprive. A lot of women don’t. But abortions don’t stop when access is restricted, and with fewer providers, wait times are longer, forcing women to continue a pregnancy they are trying to end as soon as possible. .
In some states, a woman has to have an invasive transvaginal ultrasound and then wait days before she can get an abortion, which increases the risk to her health. Kentucky politicians pass an amendment to ban abortion in the long term without exception in cases of incest, rape or even if the mother’s life is in danger. Politicians in Georgia and Texas attempted to enact laws making obtaining an abortion punishable by death. These measures are not pro-life, they are anti-women. It’s not about saving lives – it’s about controlling.
In the end, it was my choice. It was a decision made between me, my husband and my doctors, and if someone who is not personally involved thinks that they or a politician in a moral forum deserves a place in the conversation, they are wrong. deeply. If someone thinks it’s easy or fun to make this kind of unthinkable decision, or it’s done in a hurry, they’re wrong.
Still, it doesn’t matter why someone is going through what I’ve just been through – even if it’s for some reason we don’t understand or agree with – they should be given a choice. They should have the right.
Courtesy of Kelly Perry The author’s space-themed nursery is still intact, though she says, “I recently felt the urge to start packing it.”
It has been five months since I had an abortion and I still cry every day. I haven’t returned to work and am in therapy even though I know I will never be the person I was before it happened.
The completed nursery is still intact like a time capsule from the days when everything was fine, and I can’t begin to describe the deep, heart-wrenching pain I feel when I step inside. But there is a little more sun with each passing day. It’s not the first thing I think about when I wake up anymore, and I’ve started reaching out to the people I love.
We start to think less about what happened and more about what will happen next. The pandemic has been a practical reason for not trying to get pregnant again, but as the end draws near I find that I’m not as ready as I thought I was. I don’t know what the future holds for me and my husband, but I do know that we are stronger to endure this together.
PS To the woman reading this and experiencing something similar, I am with you and I support you. There is no right answer, and it is not fair to you. But I want you to know that one day you will wake up and notice that you are no longer suffocating. The crying attacks will become less numerous and you will come out of them with a strength that you have never experienced before. One morning you might even sit down and write about it as a love letter to all the women who follow you.
Kelly Perry is a designer and artist. Previously, she worked in special education in elementary school and volunteered in the Down’s syndrome community. Kelly continues to be an advocate for choice and a voice for change.
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