My boys were four and six, my husband and I had been separated three months, and I had just started college. I saw no way to continue this new pregnancy.
Abortion was not a concept that played a role in my life. I never imagined that rape would leave me with an unwanted pregnancy; I refused to consider that any future child would face multiple disabilities that might diminish or eliminate his or her quality of life. Instead, I married and, nine months later, found myself pregnant.
Unfortunately, I discovered my pregnancy after getting special vaccinations for a trip to Greece. The doctor feared that one of the shots he had given me might affect the fetus, leading to birth defects in my first child. I remember his looking directly into my eyes and reciting my options: remain pregnant or abort.
For a long time, we’ve resisted posting this theme out of concern that it would generate more heat than light–more vitriol than compassion. But recent legislation that would make abortions illegal in Alabama, Georgia, Ohio, Kentucky, Mississippi, Missouri, and now Louisiana has made us think that we need to find a way to broach this subject and talk about it with kindness and respect for one another.
Might we start that conversation by sharing our personal stories about abortion?
I hope so, and I’d like to share two experiences.
Two maxims come to mind when I think about parenting, maybe because I was pretty lucky until the teen years.
In the early years, I didn’t need maxims. As a single parent, I needed support and friendship, child care, a good job, health insurance, and a bit of luck–all of which we had as a family.
Cradling this two-month-old baby boy in my arms, stroking his face, savoring the infant skin.
Wait, what is that? A gap, something in his jawline?
My heart races. I run my fingers gently over that same spot, the one that worries me, this time using my palpating finger more intentionally.
As a family medicine physician, I’ve uttered some rendition of that speech numerous times during my career. Yet, when the tables are turned, those words were less than comforting.
5:30 am. Alarm goes off. Time to pump breast milk for my baby.
6:00 am. Husband feeds the baby, I wake up the three-year-old.
6:15 am. Feed the kids breakfast, pack lunches, get the kids in the minivan.
Throughout my pregnancy, I didn’t know if I was having a boy or a girl–I wanted to be surprised. When my baby was delivered, the doctor yelled, “It’s a girl!” A daughter–what I’d hoped for! Although I would have loved a son equally, in all honesty I’d hoped for a daughter. I thought long and hard about her name, wanting something significant, and chose Olivia, which means peace, and Rose, because I had a passion for roses. Olivia Rose.
What do I do with that name now?
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