The publication of a book specifically for families who have chosen to terminate a pregnancy due to a poor prenatal diagnosis or due to a severe complication with the mother's health.
"Our Heartbreaking Choices: Forty-Six Women Share Their Stories of Interrupting a Much-Wanted Pregnancy" by Christie Brooks. The book is now available for purchase from iUniverse.com, Amazon.com, Target.com, booksamillion.com, and Barnesandnoble.com.
http://www.iuniverse.com/Bookstore/BookDetail.aspx?BookId=SKU-000069052
http://www.amazon.com/Our-Heartbreaking-Choices-Interrupting-Much-Wanted/dp/0595530478/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1223056231&sr=8-1
The companion website to the book can be found at http://www.ourheartbreakinchoices.com
Friday, October 03, 2008
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Please get out and vote!
I suppose I could be non-biased and just tell everyone to go out and vote because it's your right as an American. But the truth of the matter is that I only want those who will be voting for Barack Obama to go out and vote. ;)
I've always been a registered Democrat. At first because that's what my dear ole' dad was, but then as I grew older I realized that my personal beliefs fall much more in line with the Democrats than with the Republicans. I believe in helping out the little guy, in not rejecting people because of their gender, sexual orientation, race, or religion, in using the power of negotiation rather than brute force, and in reproductive freedom for all women.
So this year, with the Republican ticket being the most anti-choice in recent history, I urge all of those who care about reproductive freedom, who care about gender equality, or who care about those who have lost their homes or who can't afford healthcare--please go out and vote. And vote for OBAMA. :)
I've always been a registered Democrat. At first because that's what my dear ole' dad was, but then as I grew older I realized that my personal beliefs fall much more in line with the Democrats than with the Republicans. I believe in helping out the little guy, in not rejecting people because of their gender, sexual orientation, race, or religion, in using the power of negotiation rather than brute force, and in reproductive freedom for all women.
So this year, with the Republican ticket being the most anti-choice in recent history, I urge all of those who care about reproductive freedom, who care about gender equality, or who care about those who have lost their homes or who can't afford healthcare--please go out and vote. And vote for OBAMA. :)
Friday, May 16, 2008
Article in June Self Magazine
There is an interesting article in the June 2008 edition of SELF magazine. It is titled ""When there is no good choice" and it is written by Jennifer Wolff-Perrine. The article profiles three women who were each given a poor prenatal diagnosis during their pregnancy. Two of the three decided to terminate, one chose to carry to term and pursue hospice care.
The article's main focus was the recent ban on the D&X procedure and how that is tying the hands of doctors in being able to care for their patients. Many doctors are now afraid of "big brother" looking over their shoulder every time they assist a woman in terminating a pregnancy. It's gotten to the point where doctors are choosing to protect themselves (by not providing abortion services) rather than do everything possible to help their patients. Sad. :(
All in all, it was a very well researched and and well written article. Kudos to the writer for being brave enough to tackle such a prickly topic.
The article's main focus was the recent ban on the D&X procedure and how that is tying the hands of doctors in being able to care for their patients. Many doctors are now afraid of "big brother" looking over their shoulder every time they assist a woman in terminating a pregnancy. It's gotten to the point where doctors are choosing to protect themselves (by not providing abortion services) rather than do everything possible to help their patients. Sad. :(
All in all, it was a very well researched and and well written article. Kudos to the writer for being brave enough to tackle such a prickly topic.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
I'm tired of being ignored!!
No, I'm not an attention-seeking type of person. I tend to be a bit of a wallflower actually. Always have been. But I've been propelled into action by the lack of media coverage and literature available to women who choose to terminate a pregnancy due to a poor prenatal diagnosis. I've been a member of "the club" for almost 5 years now (will be 5 years exactly later this month.) It's a club that no one WANTS to belong to, but one that between 50,000 to 100,000 women in the U.S. join each year. I got that figure based on statistics from the Guttmacher Institute and from the CDC's Abortion Surveillance reports published in Morbidity and Mortality Weekly (lovely name, eh?) Those two organizations estimate that somewhere between 6-12% of all abortions are due to medical reasons (either the health of the baby or the health of the mother.)
So, I'm helping to write a book. It's a compilation of personal stories from other women in "the club." Very personal, heartbreaking, and inspiring stories. I'm not expecting this book to be a NY Times bestseller, or to even make any sort of "profit." That's not the point. What I do hope happens is that it can be a source of comfort and support to those thousands and thousands of women who suffer silently each year. The women who aren't comfortable or are afraid to tell their complete story to those closest to them. The ones who feel it necessary to call it a miscarriage and put on a mask of denial each day as they face the world. And I hope it can bring some small amount of awareness to our cause. I know that I had never heard of terminating a pregnancy due to fetal anomalies before it happened to me. I'm not trying to scare pregnant women into thinking something might be wrong with their baby. But I do want people in general to know that when they support restrictions on abortion, they are supporting restrictions on parents like myself who just want to free our babies from suffering.
So, I'm helping to write a book. It's a compilation of personal stories from other women in "the club." Very personal, heartbreaking, and inspiring stories. I'm not expecting this book to be a NY Times bestseller, or to even make any sort of "profit." That's not the point. What I do hope happens is that it can be a source of comfort and support to those thousands and thousands of women who suffer silently each year. The women who aren't comfortable or are afraid to tell their complete story to those closest to them. The ones who feel it necessary to call it a miscarriage and put on a mask of denial each day as they face the world. And I hope it can bring some small amount of awareness to our cause. I know that I had never heard of terminating a pregnancy due to fetal anomalies before it happened to me. I'm not trying to scare pregnant women into thinking something might be wrong with their baby. But I do want people in general to know that when they support restrictions on abortion, they are supporting restrictions on parents like myself who just want to free our babies from suffering.
Monday, January 28, 2008
My story
Since there are a few people actually viewing this blog (thanks in part to Blog For Choice Day) I figured that it might be helpful to share my story. Even if it only reaches 5 or 10 people, that is 5 or 10 people whose eyes can be opened to the "other face" of abortion. So here's my story...
It was October of 2002; I was 31 years old and was married with a 20-month-old daughter named Miranda. My husband and I had decided it was time to give Miranda a baby brother or baby sister. I didn’t want the age gap between Miranda and her future sibling to be any more than two or three years because I wanted her to grow up as close to her siblings as I had been with my sisters. I finished up my pack of birth control pills early that month and was planning to chart my cycles (using basal body temperature and cervical mucous as my guide) for a couple of months before actively trying to conceive in January. I had it all figured out, or so I thought.
I had completed one normal cycle and had begun charting my second and final cycle in mid-November before gearing up to begin actively trying to conceive in January. During the latter part of that second cycle I felt a strange tightening in my stomach one day while exercising. I had been charting my cycle, so I knew that I was at a time where I could take a home pregnancy test and know with some certainty whether I was pregnant. I took the test, and it was positive! I was so shocked since we weren’t even actively trying to get pregnant yet. I was also shocked that it had happened so soon since it had taken five months to get pregnant with Miranda. But I was shocked in a very happy way.
That happiness didn’t last very long, for I started spotting brownish blood about a week later at five weeks gestation. I had never spotted during my pregnancy with Miranda so the spotting scared me to death. I thought for sure that I was miscarrying. I had never had a miscarriage before and often had wondered what it was like. I went to see my OB/GYN a couple of days after the spotting began, and she performed an ultrasound. Since I was only five-and-a-half weeks along, not much could be seen via ultrasound. My OB/GYN told me that I had a 50 percent chance of miscarrying. The spotting continued for two-and-a-half more weeks. Each day I would wake up and wonder whether the baby was okay or whether this would be the day that the spotting would turn from brown to red, indicating a miscarriage was likely. At this point I desperately wanted the little bean and was scared to death at the thought of losing him or her.
I was scheduled for another ultrasound at seven–and-a-half weeks because the spotting hadn’t ceased. The morning of my appointment there was a small snow storm. It was large enough that most of the local schools and businesses were closed. But I was determined to make it to my ultrasound appointment; I just HAD to know if the baby was okay or not. I made it to my appointment and much to my delight a fetal heartbeat was seen flickering away on the ultrasound screen. The spotting finally stopped a couple of days later.
Because I had had the ultrasound at seven weeks, my OB/GYN decided that I didn’t need another ultrasound until the routine mid-pregnancy ultrasound at 20 weeks. I was sad that I would have to wait so long for another peek at my baby, but I trusted my OB/GYN’s judgment that everything was probably fine. The alpha-fetoprotein (AFP) test at 16 weeks came back normal. I started feeling the baby kick at 18 weeks. It was a wonderful feeling. Knowing that the baby was alive and moving around kept my mind at ease. Right around the time I started to feel the baby kick, we had just signed the paperwork to start building our first home. We were so excited about our future. A new home, a new baby—what could be more perfect, right?
The morning of my 20-week ultrasound was filled with excitement and anticipation. My husband had taken the day off from work so he could come with me to see if we were going to be giving Miranda a baby brother or a baby sister. As he and I were sitting in the waiting room, he was teasing me about the fact that females tend to run in my family (I had two sisters, two step-sisters, three nieces, two step-nieces, and one daughter). He was so sure that this baby would be another girl, so we started tossing around possible names for girls. We had decided then and there on the name “Madison” if it was a girl.
We were called back to the ultrasound room where, for the most part, everything seemed to be fine. The ultrasound technician asked us if we wanted to know the gender of the baby, and we enthusiastically said “yes.” It was another GIRL!! We were so excited to be giving Miranda a baby sister. I was very close to my sisters growing up, and I was over the moon with joy that Miranda would have a sister as well.
I assumed that the technician was wrapping things up and taking some final pictures when she asked us to remain in the room for a minute, then she walked out. She came back in five minutes later with one of the other OB/GYNs from the practice who explained to my husband and I that the technician couldn’t get a clear enough picture of the baby’s heart and that they would need to try to get one showing the four separate chambers before they would let us go home. The OB/GYN tried for about ten minutes but still wasn’t happy with the pictures of the heart that she got. She explained to us that we would need to go to a maternal-fetal medicine specialist (perinatologist) the following day for a level II ultrasound to look at the baby’s heart and also to look at the baby’s spine which looked a bit abnormal. We were shocked and numb that anything was potentially wrong with our baby. We left with a script in hand for an appointment the next day to “evaluate fetal heart and spine.”
I called my mom (who lived in a different state) as soon as we got home from the ultrasound appointment. I mustered all of the excitement I could to tell her that the all-female streak in our family was being continued, but then I broke down and sobbed that something might be wrong with the baby’s heart.
The following day was Good Friday. Our appointment was at 11:00 a.m. My husband and I dropped Miranda off at a babysitter and proceeded to the perinatalogist’s office. As we sat in the waiting room, I still was naively unaware of the significance of Madison’s health problems. I knew that something might be wrong with her heart but assumed that whatever it was could be fixed.
As the technician performed the level II ultrasound, the room was tense, dark, and eerily quiet. She took numerous pictures of Madison from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. At one point during the ultrasound the technician typed onto the screen “diaphrag hernia.” I had no idea what that meant, but assumed that if the baby had a hernia it could be fixed easily, too. After about 45 minutes of taking pictures of our baby the technician left the room. The perinatalogist came in about 10 minutes later. He introduced himself, shook our hands, and then immediately said, “Your baby is very sick.” At that point my world changed forever.
He proceeded to tell us that Madison had what is called a left-sided Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia (CDH). For some unknown reason, her diaphragm never closed properly at around eight weeks gestation, and as a result her stomach and intestines had migrated up into her chest cavity. Because of the extra organs in her chest, her lungs never had a chance to grow, her trachea was pushed out of its normal position, and her heart was pushed over into her right armpit. I was already showing signs of polyhydramnios (excess amniotic fluid), which is common in situations where the baby can’t swallow. Her heart seemed to be okay for the most part, though it was in the wrong place in her chest, and I would later read in a formal report that her heart did have possible outflow abnormalities. But her heart wasn’t the primary concern; it was the lack of lungs that was the critical factor. As long as Madison was inside of me and her blood was getting oxygenated from the placenta she would be okay. But once she was born and the umbilical cord was cut, she wouldn’t be able to breathe on her own. Even a ventilator couldn’t help her if there wasn’t enough lung tissue to inflate.
We were devastated by all of the things the perinatologist was telling us. I’m sure that some things he said that day went right over my head, for I felt like I was in a total fog once he told us how sick she was. I couldn’t believe that this was happening to me. To me! I took excellent care of myself while pregnant—didn’t smoke, didn’t drink alcohol, exercised regularly, even ate vegetables (which I don’t normally eat), and I had no family history of any kind of birth defects. It all seemed like a bad, bad dream, and I wanted desperately to wake up.
As I lay there on the exam table, something in my gut was telling me that this little baby just wasn’t meant to live with us. My mother’s intuition was telling me that somehow or some way she would never come home with us. The perinatologist then asked me to get dressed and to come into his office so that we could talk some more. Once we were in his office he told us that Madison’s hernia was one of the worst he had ever seen. He showed us a medical reference book that included a diagram of a diaphragmatic hernia. He then mentioned the option of termination to us (I believe he called it “interruption”), but I was not convinced yet that our situation would warrant that. I still had hoped that Madison’s problems could somehow be fixed. I asked him if most parents with this diagnosis terminate the pregnancy, and he said that many of them do. At this point we were 20 weeks and five days along. Given the laws in our state, we would have three weeks and one day to decide whether we wanted to interrupt the pregnancy. The perinatologist told us that if we wanted a surgical termination (a dilation and extraction, or D&E), he could refer us to someone, and if I wanted an induced labor termination, my own OB could perform it. It was a Friday afternoon, so the perinatologist told us to think about everything over the weekend and to call him back on Monday.
We left the perinatologist’s office that day unsure of what would happen next. It was Easter weekend, and I tried my best to remain cheerful and upbeat for Miranda. But inside I was dying. My baby was sick, and it seemed that nothing I could do would make her better. I spent endless hours on our home computer researching CDH, researching lung development, researching experimental procedures of in utero repairs, etc. I also started posting on a message board for families of children with CDH. I talked online to many moms of kids with CDH. Some of them had children who survived; some of them had children who didn’t survive. Over that weekend I would wake up several times in the middle of the night to get back on the computer to do more researching. I was looking for anything to give me hope that my Madison might be okay. I was clinging to the overall 50 percent survival rate for CDH and hoping that my Madison would be one of the survivors.
We had talked to several family members over the phone that weekend (they all lived out of state). We also talked to my husband’s uncle who is an OB/GYN. We asked him for not only his medical opinion but for his personal opinion on Madison’s case. His opinion would prove to be very critical to our decision making process. Everyone in our families was supportive of us and was there for us to bounce ideas off of, to cry to, and to just listen as we tried to make sense of it all. No one could tell us what they would presume to do if they were in our situation. It would be squarely up to us.
Over that weekend, my husband and I constantly talked about termination versus carrying to term. We literally went back and forth about 20 times as to whether we would continue the pregnancy or not. We finally decided that we needed more information in order to feel comfortable making a decision either way.
Monday morning came and my husband and I called the perinatologist we had met with on Friday and asked him to set up a second opinion level II ultrasound for us. We were scheduled for one the next day. We went to the scan and found this perinatologist to be very kind and accommodating toward us. He was very helpful and very considerate, taking his time with the scan and making sure that we understood everything that he was explaining. Unfortunately, his medical opinion concurred with the opinion of the first perinatologist, that our Madison had a very bad case of CDH. He explained to us that the survival rate for CDH drops significantly if the CDH is found before 24 weeks (which ours was). He told us that Madison’s chances of making it to term were 10–25 percent. He told us that if she lived through childbirth she would need to immediately be put on an ECMO heart and a lung bypass machine, and that she would need to be on it for quite some time. I had learned about ECMO from my internet research and knew that extended use of it could likely lead to blindness, hearing loss, and potential brain damage.
We walked out of the second ultrasound knowing what we would do. I didn’t want my Madison to suffer for even one second. And I didn’t want Miranda to see her baby sister suffer in a body that was too sick to perform the most basic bodily function, breathing. We didn’t have any family in the area to help out if we had chosen to continue the pregnancy, and I felt that all of the technology in the world couldn’t help my Madison anyway. Lung transplants are not done with newborns. I also felt that there was a reason that we found out about her CDH so early instead of at birth, when many parents do. I knew that I needed to trust my instincts and follow my heart. As much as I didn’t want to say goodbye to my baby, I knew that I had to. For the previous five months, every piece of food that I ate, every bit of exercise that I trudged through, and every wink of sleep that I got were to nurture her to grow and develop. I had bonded with this little baby and had so many hopes and dreams for her. She was to complete our family. Now I would have to let her go.
We called my OB when I got home that day and asked her to schedule us for a Labor and Delivery (L&D) termination. I chose L&D because I desperately needed to see my baby girl. I needed to kiss her sweet face and hold her tiny hands in mine. I had to see her just one time.
My induction was scheduled to begin two days later on Thursday evening. I was to deliver Madison in the exact same hospital where two years earlier I had delivered my daughter Miranda. I had to leave Miranda in the care of a neighbor so that my husband could come with me to the hospital to get checked in. My mom and sister were set to fly into town later that evening to help us out with Miranda and to provide us with much needed emotional support. Once I got to the hospital, I was walked to a labor and delivery room at the very end of the hallway. I'm assuming this was for my benefit so that I wouldn't have to hear all of the other laboring moms-to-be and their newborns. I was immediately hooked up to an IV drip of Pitocin. My OB came and inserted eight or so laminaria sticks into my cervix to begin the dilation process. I didn't find the insertion of the laminaria to be especially painful, just uncomfortable. I had asked my OB and the nurse if it would be possible to check for Madison's heartbeat periodically with a Doppler so that I would have some idea of when she passed, and they agreed.
My mom arrived at the hospital about 8:00 p.m. that night, just long enough to say hello and to hear her granddaughter's heartbeat for the first and last time. Visiting hours were soon ending so I sent my mom and my husband home to help my sister who was looking after Miranda. I didn't think that anything was going to happen during the nighttime anyway, so I figured that they might as well go home and get some rest. I sat in my hospital room alone and watched television until about 10:00 p.m. or so.
The laminaria didn't do much to dilate my cervix. Thankfully, I didn't have much cramping either. When my OB returned at midnight she removed the laminaria and placed a prostaglandin suppository in my cervix. At that point, she said that I was about one to two centimeters dilated. She had warned me before I entered the hospital that the labor could take anywhere from one to three days. After inserting the prostaglandin she told me that it would need to be replaced every four to six hours or as needed until I dilated adequately, which for a tiny baby like mine was only to six centimeters or so. The prostaglandin made me pretty ill. I had vomiting and diarrhea episodes for the next four to five hours. I thank God for the wonderful night-shift nurse who took care of me because I know that I was no fun to care for during those hours. It was not a pleasant night, and I got very little, if any, sleep.
My OB returned at about 8:00 a.m. and inserted another prostaglandin suppository, along with an order for anti-nausea and anti-diarrhea medicine to be put into my IV. At that point I was still only about two centimeters dilated. I had the nurse check again for Madison's heartbeat, and it was still there, as strong as ever. The second suppository that my OB inserted seemed to do the trick. I started getting very painful and very strong contractions about 20 minutes after the insertion. I asked the nurse for an epidural at that time (about 8:20 a.m.), but unfortunately the anesthesiologist was tied up in a c-section delivery and couldn't break away to help me. When my mom and husband arrived at the hospital about 8:40 a.m., I was in agonizing pain, and the nurse tried to alleviate it with some Morphine shots into my hips. It didn't help much with the pain. The only relief I felt was after my water broke about 8:45 a.m.
The nurse checked me and said that I was about seven centimeters dilated and that Madison's head was crowning. My OB was immediately paged, quickly arrived to my room and after two short pushes my Madison was born, at 9:04 a.m. on April 25, 2003. My second daughter Madison was born exactly two years, two months, two weeks, and two days after my first daughter Miranda.
My OB checked for a heartbeat on Madison but couldn't find one. She then placed Madison on my chest and cut the umbilical cord. I could feel my sweet baby’s skin against my own, she was so warm and moist. Just the way a new baby should feel. The nurse wiped her off a bit, wrapped her in a receiving blanket and gave her back to me. Here was my sweet baby girl! Holding her in my arms was a bit surreal. She was so very tiny, but seemingly perfect. She looked like a peacefully sleeping angel, with her hands crossed over her chest. I examined every inch of her little body, from the tip of her head to her tippy toes. She was absolutely beautiful. She had whispery soft blonde eyelashes and eyebrows. My mother and husband also took turns holding Madison. We took some photos of Madison by herself, of me holding her, and of my husband holding her. About 30 minutes after her birth the hospital chaplain came to my room and said a prayer over Madison. He offered comforting words to us to ensure that we knew that our sweet angel was in heaven with Jesus. We had the nurse make two sets of Madison’s hand and footprints.
We kept Madison with us for a little over two hours. In that time I had a strange sense of calm. I didn't even cry very much while she was with me. I think that I was so focused on her and cherishing the limited time that I had with her that I didn't want to cloud it up with tears and sorrow. But at the same time I was so exhausted from my horrible evening before that I was afraid that I would doze off while I was holding her and accidentally drop her. So after about two hours I let the nurse take her away one final time. The nurse told me that I could have Madison brought to me again if I wanted to, but I never did. After two hours had passed I could notice the change in the color of Madison’s skin from pinkish to purplish to bluish, and I didn't want to remember her that way. I wanted to remember her as she looked when she was first born—pink and warm and beautiful.
The nurse gave us a list of funeral homes and crematoriums in the area that we could contact if we wanted a private burial or cremation. Since my husband and I have no family in the area and since we aren’t sure if we will remain living here forever, we decided against a funeral or burial. We decided on a cremation. My husband called the crematorium and arranged everything with them over the phone from my hospital room.
After Madison was taken away I was transferred to a room on the gynecological floor to recover, away from the other new moms. Physically I felt okay within hours of delivering. Emotionally I felt lost and alone. It was in my recovery room that I finally allowed myself to start grieving. The tears started and they didn’t stop. There was a bereavement nurse who came into my recovery room and tried to “assess” me and my needs, but I just wasn't in the mood for talking. My husband brought Miranda in to visit me later that day. It was so hard to look into her eyes. Here was a two year old, so full of life and happy to see her mommy. What she didn’t know was that she had just lost her baby sister. I spent Friday night in the hospital and was released Saturday morning.
My milk came in about a day or two later. It felt like another cruel joke of nature to provide me with an abundance of milk, yet no baby to drink it. For several weeks after Madison’s birth my stomach still felt distended and firm. I avoided going out in public for fear that someone would ask me if I was pregnant. So for about two weeks I remained indoors and only ventured out for short trips as necessary. The crematorium called us about a week after her birth to tell us that Madison’s ashes were ready to be picked up. I drove with my husband to pick them up. It was very difficult walking in the door to the crematorium knowing that this wasn't the way we were SUPPOSED to be bringing our baby girl home. It wasn’t fair. But once I had her urn in my arms, it felt good to be able to have her with me again, so physically close to my heart. I clung to her urn the entire car ride home. And it felt good. We were finally taking our baby girl home to be with us forever.
My post-partum check up with my OB was scheduled for two weeks after delivery. Most vaginal delivery post-partum check-ups are done at four weeks post delivery. But since I wanted to try to conceive again as soon as possible, my OB told me to come in at two weeks post delivery. The appointment was grueling for me emotionally. Not only did I have to confront being in that office again, knowing that the last time I was there I was still pregnant, but I had to sit in a waiting room full of pregnant women. Then I had to explain my situation to the receptionist who was understandably confused as to why I was there and wanting to try to conceive again only two weeks after delivery. My OB was able to tell me that my physical recovery looked great and that I could try to get pregnant again after my first menstrual cycle.
I never felt the need for any kind of individual counseling or medication to help me through my emotional recovery. I did attend a few local M.I.S.S. (Mothers in Sympathy and Support) group meetings, but I found most of my solace and support from online support boards where I was able to connect with other women who had terminated pregnancies for medical reasons. By talking to others who truly understood what I was feeling, I was able to move forward in my healing and not get stuck on the unfairness of it all. I was able to read stories of women who had terminated before me, and how they had put their lives back together and even went on to have perfectly healthy babies after suffering such a loss. They provided me with the inspiration and the empowerment to try again to give Miranda a sibling.
Spiritually, my beliefs haven’t changed much since my termination. I’ve always believed in God and Jesus, and I know that they helped carry me through my grief. Fairly early on, I realized and accepted that what happened to my Madison wasn’t some sort of test or punishment by God or an attempt to draw me closer to him. The God that I believe in would never be so cruel or sadistic. Unfortunately, nature isn’t perfect, and sometimes living beings don’t form properly. I have accepted that Madison’s condition was a mere fluke of nature. There was nothing that I could have done or not done to prevent it. My job was to figure out how to grow as a person because of it and to find the silver lining in the clouds.
It has been five years since we said goodbye to Madison. I still think of her daily and cherish the short time we had together. The emotional healing was difficult at times, with setbacks often coming when I least expected them. But I can say with confidence that I have peace in my heart that I chose what was best for my family. And I know that if I were to be put in the exact same situation today I wouldn’t choose any differently. The only regrets that I have are that I didn’t spend more time holding Madison after she was born, that I didn’t take more photos of Madison, and that I didn’t bring home the blanket from the hospital that Madison was wrapped in.
I have not tried to hide Madison’s existence from anyone close to me (family or friends). I have never felt the need to be less than completely honest about my decision to end my pregnancy, and I have been blessed to be surrounded by supportive and understanding people. Even those people who haven’t agreed with my decision still have offered their love and kindness to me.
Madison is, and forever will be, a member of my immediate family. I have on display in my home a large pencil portrait drawn from a photo of her, as well as copies of her hand and footprints. I carry a guardian angel pin in my purse to remind me of her. I have built a special memorial flower garden in my backyard for Madison. Each spring I fill the garden with different varieties of pink and white flowers, angel statues, and a memorial stepping stone engraved with her name, given to me by some online friends.
I have spoken to Miranda many times over the years about her baby sister Madison. I have tried to explain to her in terms she can understand that her baby sister was simply too sick to live with us. She seems to understand, and every once in a while she will ask about Madison. Each year on Madison’s Angel Day (the day she was born an angel), we release helium-filled balloons and snack on cupcakes. It’s our own special way to celebrate Madison as a member of our family.
Over the years since losing Madison I have been finding ways to turn my loss into something positive to honor Madison’s memory. I participate in the March of Dimes WalkAmerica every year to help raise funds and awareness for birth defects. I started my own chapter of a volunteer group which knits/crochets baby afghans to donate to bereaved moms in hospitals and clinics. I am a constant presence on several internet message boards for women who have terminated a pregnancy for medical reasons, making sure that those who choose to terminate for medical reasons never feel alone or unsupported.
I have since gone on to have another healthy baby (yes, a girl). She is my “rainbow” baby. Through the clouds and the rain she came and brought light and color back into my life. At a time in my life when I was scared to death of being in that vulnerable state of pregnancy again, she came along and made me see that life is still full of miracles and that gambles can pay off. I simply adore her and treasure her spunky personality. And I can’t escape the reality that she simply wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the decision my husband and I made to let her big sister Madison go. I know that Madison watches over her sisters, her dad, and me from above. And I know that I will be reunited with my middle daughter someday.
It was October of 2002; I was 31 years old and was married with a 20-month-old daughter named Miranda. My husband and I had decided it was time to give Miranda a baby brother or baby sister. I didn’t want the age gap between Miranda and her future sibling to be any more than two or three years because I wanted her to grow up as close to her siblings as I had been with my sisters. I finished up my pack of birth control pills early that month and was planning to chart my cycles (using basal body temperature and cervical mucous as my guide) for a couple of months before actively trying to conceive in January. I had it all figured out, or so I thought.
I had completed one normal cycle and had begun charting my second and final cycle in mid-November before gearing up to begin actively trying to conceive in January. During the latter part of that second cycle I felt a strange tightening in my stomach one day while exercising. I had been charting my cycle, so I knew that I was at a time where I could take a home pregnancy test and know with some certainty whether I was pregnant. I took the test, and it was positive! I was so shocked since we weren’t even actively trying to get pregnant yet. I was also shocked that it had happened so soon since it had taken five months to get pregnant with Miranda. But I was shocked in a very happy way.
That happiness didn’t last very long, for I started spotting brownish blood about a week later at five weeks gestation. I had never spotted during my pregnancy with Miranda so the spotting scared me to death. I thought for sure that I was miscarrying. I had never had a miscarriage before and often had wondered what it was like. I went to see my OB/GYN a couple of days after the spotting began, and she performed an ultrasound. Since I was only five-and-a-half weeks along, not much could be seen via ultrasound. My OB/GYN told me that I had a 50 percent chance of miscarrying. The spotting continued for two-and-a-half more weeks. Each day I would wake up and wonder whether the baby was okay or whether this would be the day that the spotting would turn from brown to red, indicating a miscarriage was likely. At this point I desperately wanted the little bean and was scared to death at the thought of losing him or her.
I was scheduled for another ultrasound at seven–and-a-half weeks because the spotting hadn’t ceased. The morning of my appointment there was a small snow storm. It was large enough that most of the local schools and businesses were closed. But I was determined to make it to my ultrasound appointment; I just HAD to know if the baby was okay or not. I made it to my appointment and much to my delight a fetal heartbeat was seen flickering away on the ultrasound screen. The spotting finally stopped a couple of days later.
Because I had had the ultrasound at seven weeks, my OB/GYN decided that I didn’t need another ultrasound until the routine mid-pregnancy ultrasound at 20 weeks. I was sad that I would have to wait so long for another peek at my baby, but I trusted my OB/GYN’s judgment that everything was probably fine. The alpha-fetoprotein (AFP) test at 16 weeks came back normal. I started feeling the baby kick at 18 weeks. It was a wonderful feeling. Knowing that the baby was alive and moving around kept my mind at ease. Right around the time I started to feel the baby kick, we had just signed the paperwork to start building our first home. We were so excited about our future. A new home, a new baby—what could be more perfect, right?
The morning of my 20-week ultrasound was filled with excitement and anticipation. My husband had taken the day off from work so he could come with me to see if we were going to be giving Miranda a baby brother or a baby sister. As he and I were sitting in the waiting room, he was teasing me about the fact that females tend to run in my family (I had two sisters, two step-sisters, three nieces, two step-nieces, and one daughter). He was so sure that this baby would be another girl, so we started tossing around possible names for girls. We had decided then and there on the name “Madison” if it was a girl.
We were called back to the ultrasound room where, for the most part, everything seemed to be fine. The ultrasound technician asked us if we wanted to know the gender of the baby, and we enthusiastically said “yes.” It was another GIRL!! We were so excited to be giving Miranda a baby sister. I was very close to my sisters growing up, and I was over the moon with joy that Miranda would have a sister as well.
I assumed that the technician was wrapping things up and taking some final pictures when she asked us to remain in the room for a minute, then she walked out. She came back in five minutes later with one of the other OB/GYNs from the practice who explained to my husband and I that the technician couldn’t get a clear enough picture of the baby’s heart and that they would need to try to get one showing the four separate chambers before they would let us go home. The OB/GYN tried for about ten minutes but still wasn’t happy with the pictures of the heart that she got. She explained to us that we would need to go to a maternal-fetal medicine specialist (perinatologist) the following day for a level II ultrasound to look at the baby’s heart and also to look at the baby’s spine which looked a bit abnormal. We were shocked and numb that anything was potentially wrong with our baby. We left with a script in hand for an appointment the next day to “evaluate fetal heart and spine.”
I called my mom (who lived in a different state) as soon as we got home from the ultrasound appointment. I mustered all of the excitement I could to tell her that the all-female streak in our family was being continued, but then I broke down and sobbed that something might be wrong with the baby’s heart.
The following day was Good Friday. Our appointment was at 11:00 a.m. My husband and I dropped Miranda off at a babysitter and proceeded to the perinatalogist’s office. As we sat in the waiting room, I still was naively unaware of the significance of Madison’s health problems. I knew that something might be wrong with her heart but assumed that whatever it was could be fixed.
As the technician performed the level II ultrasound, the room was tense, dark, and eerily quiet. She took numerous pictures of Madison from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. At one point during the ultrasound the technician typed onto the screen “diaphrag hernia.” I had no idea what that meant, but assumed that if the baby had a hernia it could be fixed easily, too. After about 45 minutes of taking pictures of our baby the technician left the room. The perinatalogist came in about 10 minutes later. He introduced himself, shook our hands, and then immediately said, “Your baby is very sick.” At that point my world changed forever.
He proceeded to tell us that Madison had what is called a left-sided Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia (CDH). For some unknown reason, her diaphragm never closed properly at around eight weeks gestation, and as a result her stomach and intestines had migrated up into her chest cavity. Because of the extra organs in her chest, her lungs never had a chance to grow, her trachea was pushed out of its normal position, and her heart was pushed over into her right armpit. I was already showing signs of polyhydramnios (excess amniotic fluid), which is common in situations where the baby can’t swallow. Her heart seemed to be okay for the most part, though it was in the wrong place in her chest, and I would later read in a formal report that her heart did have possible outflow abnormalities. But her heart wasn’t the primary concern; it was the lack of lungs that was the critical factor. As long as Madison was inside of me and her blood was getting oxygenated from the placenta she would be okay. But once she was born and the umbilical cord was cut, she wouldn’t be able to breathe on her own. Even a ventilator couldn’t help her if there wasn’t enough lung tissue to inflate.
We were devastated by all of the things the perinatologist was telling us. I’m sure that some things he said that day went right over my head, for I felt like I was in a total fog once he told us how sick she was. I couldn’t believe that this was happening to me. To me! I took excellent care of myself while pregnant—didn’t smoke, didn’t drink alcohol, exercised regularly, even ate vegetables (which I don’t normally eat), and I had no family history of any kind of birth defects. It all seemed like a bad, bad dream, and I wanted desperately to wake up.
As I lay there on the exam table, something in my gut was telling me that this little baby just wasn’t meant to live with us. My mother’s intuition was telling me that somehow or some way she would never come home with us. The perinatologist then asked me to get dressed and to come into his office so that we could talk some more. Once we were in his office he told us that Madison’s hernia was one of the worst he had ever seen. He showed us a medical reference book that included a diagram of a diaphragmatic hernia. He then mentioned the option of termination to us (I believe he called it “interruption”), but I was not convinced yet that our situation would warrant that. I still had hoped that Madison’s problems could somehow be fixed. I asked him if most parents with this diagnosis terminate the pregnancy, and he said that many of them do. At this point we were 20 weeks and five days along. Given the laws in our state, we would have three weeks and one day to decide whether we wanted to interrupt the pregnancy. The perinatologist told us that if we wanted a surgical termination (a dilation and extraction, or D&E), he could refer us to someone, and if I wanted an induced labor termination, my own OB could perform it. It was a Friday afternoon, so the perinatologist told us to think about everything over the weekend and to call him back on Monday.
We left the perinatologist’s office that day unsure of what would happen next. It was Easter weekend, and I tried my best to remain cheerful and upbeat for Miranda. But inside I was dying. My baby was sick, and it seemed that nothing I could do would make her better. I spent endless hours on our home computer researching CDH, researching lung development, researching experimental procedures of in utero repairs, etc. I also started posting on a message board for families of children with CDH. I talked online to many moms of kids with CDH. Some of them had children who survived; some of them had children who didn’t survive. Over that weekend I would wake up several times in the middle of the night to get back on the computer to do more researching. I was looking for anything to give me hope that my Madison might be okay. I was clinging to the overall 50 percent survival rate for CDH and hoping that my Madison would be one of the survivors.
We had talked to several family members over the phone that weekend (they all lived out of state). We also talked to my husband’s uncle who is an OB/GYN. We asked him for not only his medical opinion but for his personal opinion on Madison’s case. His opinion would prove to be very critical to our decision making process. Everyone in our families was supportive of us and was there for us to bounce ideas off of, to cry to, and to just listen as we tried to make sense of it all. No one could tell us what they would presume to do if they were in our situation. It would be squarely up to us.
Over that weekend, my husband and I constantly talked about termination versus carrying to term. We literally went back and forth about 20 times as to whether we would continue the pregnancy or not. We finally decided that we needed more information in order to feel comfortable making a decision either way.
Monday morning came and my husband and I called the perinatologist we had met with on Friday and asked him to set up a second opinion level II ultrasound for us. We were scheduled for one the next day. We went to the scan and found this perinatologist to be very kind and accommodating toward us. He was very helpful and very considerate, taking his time with the scan and making sure that we understood everything that he was explaining. Unfortunately, his medical opinion concurred with the opinion of the first perinatologist, that our Madison had a very bad case of CDH. He explained to us that the survival rate for CDH drops significantly if the CDH is found before 24 weeks (which ours was). He told us that Madison’s chances of making it to term were 10–25 percent. He told us that if she lived through childbirth she would need to immediately be put on an ECMO heart and a lung bypass machine, and that she would need to be on it for quite some time. I had learned about ECMO from my internet research and knew that extended use of it could likely lead to blindness, hearing loss, and potential brain damage.
We walked out of the second ultrasound knowing what we would do. I didn’t want my Madison to suffer for even one second. And I didn’t want Miranda to see her baby sister suffer in a body that was too sick to perform the most basic bodily function, breathing. We didn’t have any family in the area to help out if we had chosen to continue the pregnancy, and I felt that all of the technology in the world couldn’t help my Madison anyway. Lung transplants are not done with newborns. I also felt that there was a reason that we found out about her CDH so early instead of at birth, when many parents do. I knew that I needed to trust my instincts and follow my heart. As much as I didn’t want to say goodbye to my baby, I knew that I had to. For the previous five months, every piece of food that I ate, every bit of exercise that I trudged through, and every wink of sleep that I got were to nurture her to grow and develop. I had bonded with this little baby and had so many hopes and dreams for her. She was to complete our family. Now I would have to let her go.
We called my OB when I got home that day and asked her to schedule us for a Labor and Delivery (L&D) termination. I chose L&D because I desperately needed to see my baby girl. I needed to kiss her sweet face and hold her tiny hands in mine. I had to see her just one time.
My induction was scheduled to begin two days later on Thursday evening. I was to deliver Madison in the exact same hospital where two years earlier I had delivered my daughter Miranda. I had to leave Miranda in the care of a neighbor so that my husband could come with me to the hospital to get checked in. My mom and sister were set to fly into town later that evening to help us out with Miranda and to provide us with much needed emotional support. Once I got to the hospital, I was walked to a labor and delivery room at the very end of the hallway. I'm assuming this was for my benefit so that I wouldn't have to hear all of the other laboring moms-to-be and their newborns. I was immediately hooked up to an IV drip of Pitocin. My OB came and inserted eight or so laminaria sticks into my cervix to begin the dilation process. I didn't find the insertion of the laminaria to be especially painful, just uncomfortable. I had asked my OB and the nurse if it would be possible to check for Madison's heartbeat periodically with a Doppler so that I would have some idea of when she passed, and they agreed.
My mom arrived at the hospital about 8:00 p.m. that night, just long enough to say hello and to hear her granddaughter's heartbeat for the first and last time. Visiting hours were soon ending so I sent my mom and my husband home to help my sister who was looking after Miranda. I didn't think that anything was going to happen during the nighttime anyway, so I figured that they might as well go home and get some rest. I sat in my hospital room alone and watched television until about 10:00 p.m. or so.
The laminaria didn't do much to dilate my cervix. Thankfully, I didn't have much cramping either. When my OB returned at midnight she removed the laminaria and placed a prostaglandin suppository in my cervix. At that point, she said that I was about one to two centimeters dilated. She had warned me before I entered the hospital that the labor could take anywhere from one to three days. After inserting the prostaglandin she told me that it would need to be replaced every four to six hours or as needed until I dilated adequately, which for a tiny baby like mine was only to six centimeters or so. The prostaglandin made me pretty ill. I had vomiting and diarrhea episodes for the next four to five hours. I thank God for the wonderful night-shift nurse who took care of me because I know that I was no fun to care for during those hours. It was not a pleasant night, and I got very little, if any, sleep.
My OB returned at about 8:00 a.m. and inserted another prostaglandin suppository, along with an order for anti-nausea and anti-diarrhea medicine to be put into my IV. At that point I was still only about two centimeters dilated. I had the nurse check again for Madison's heartbeat, and it was still there, as strong as ever. The second suppository that my OB inserted seemed to do the trick. I started getting very painful and very strong contractions about 20 minutes after the insertion. I asked the nurse for an epidural at that time (about 8:20 a.m.), but unfortunately the anesthesiologist was tied up in a c-section delivery and couldn't break away to help me. When my mom and husband arrived at the hospital about 8:40 a.m., I was in agonizing pain, and the nurse tried to alleviate it with some Morphine shots into my hips. It didn't help much with the pain. The only relief I felt was after my water broke about 8:45 a.m.
The nurse checked me and said that I was about seven centimeters dilated and that Madison's head was crowning. My OB was immediately paged, quickly arrived to my room and after two short pushes my Madison was born, at 9:04 a.m. on April 25, 2003. My second daughter Madison was born exactly two years, two months, two weeks, and two days after my first daughter Miranda.
My OB checked for a heartbeat on Madison but couldn't find one. She then placed Madison on my chest and cut the umbilical cord. I could feel my sweet baby’s skin against my own, she was so warm and moist. Just the way a new baby should feel. The nurse wiped her off a bit, wrapped her in a receiving blanket and gave her back to me. Here was my sweet baby girl! Holding her in my arms was a bit surreal. She was so very tiny, but seemingly perfect. She looked like a peacefully sleeping angel, with her hands crossed over her chest. I examined every inch of her little body, from the tip of her head to her tippy toes. She was absolutely beautiful. She had whispery soft blonde eyelashes and eyebrows. My mother and husband also took turns holding Madison. We took some photos of Madison by herself, of me holding her, and of my husband holding her. About 30 minutes after her birth the hospital chaplain came to my room and said a prayer over Madison. He offered comforting words to us to ensure that we knew that our sweet angel was in heaven with Jesus. We had the nurse make two sets of Madison’s hand and footprints.
We kept Madison with us for a little over two hours. In that time I had a strange sense of calm. I didn't even cry very much while she was with me. I think that I was so focused on her and cherishing the limited time that I had with her that I didn't want to cloud it up with tears and sorrow. But at the same time I was so exhausted from my horrible evening before that I was afraid that I would doze off while I was holding her and accidentally drop her. So after about two hours I let the nurse take her away one final time. The nurse told me that I could have Madison brought to me again if I wanted to, but I never did. After two hours had passed I could notice the change in the color of Madison’s skin from pinkish to purplish to bluish, and I didn't want to remember her that way. I wanted to remember her as she looked when she was first born—pink and warm and beautiful.
The nurse gave us a list of funeral homes and crematoriums in the area that we could contact if we wanted a private burial or cremation. Since my husband and I have no family in the area and since we aren’t sure if we will remain living here forever, we decided against a funeral or burial. We decided on a cremation. My husband called the crematorium and arranged everything with them over the phone from my hospital room.
After Madison was taken away I was transferred to a room on the gynecological floor to recover, away from the other new moms. Physically I felt okay within hours of delivering. Emotionally I felt lost and alone. It was in my recovery room that I finally allowed myself to start grieving. The tears started and they didn’t stop. There was a bereavement nurse who came into my recovery room and tried to “assess” me and my needs, but I just wasn't in the mood for talking. My husband brought Miranda in to visit me later that day. It was so hard to look into her eyes. Here was a two year old, so full of life and happy to see her mommy. What she didn’t know was that she had just lost her baby sister. I spent Friday night in the hospital and was released Saturday morning.
My milk came in about a day or two later. It felt like another cruel joke of nature to provide me with an abundance of milk, yet no baby to drink it. For several weeks after Madison’s birth my stomach still felt distended and firm. I avoided going out in public for fear that someone would ask me if I was pregnant. So for about two weeks I remained indoors and only ventured out for short trips as necessary. The crematorium called us about a week after her birth to tell us that Madison’s ashes were ready to be picked up. I drove with my husband to pick them up. It was very difficult walking in the door to the crematorium knowing that this wasn't the way we were SUPPOSED to be bringing our baby girl home. It wasn’t fair. But once I had her urn in my arms, it felt good to be able to have her with me again, so physically close to my heart. I clung to her urn the entire car ride home. And it felt good. We were finally taking our baby girl home to be with us forever.
My post-partum check up with my OB was scheduled for two weeks after delivery. Most vaginal delivery post-partum check-ups are done at four weeks post delivery. But since I wanted to try to conceive again as soon as possible, my OB told me to come in at two weeks post delivery. The appointment was grueling for me emotionally. Not only did I have to confront being in that office again, knowing that the last time I was there I was still pregnant, but I had to sit in a waiting room full of pregnant women. Then I had to explain my situation to the receptionist who was understandably confused as to why I was there and wanting to try to conceive again only two weeks after delivery. My OB was able to tell me that my physical recovery looked great and that I could try to get pregnant again after my first menstrual cycle.
I never felt the need for any kind of individual counseling or medication to help me through my emotional recovery. I did attend a few local M.I.S.S. (Mothers in Sympathy and Support) group meetings, but I found most of my solace and support from online support boards where I was able to connect with other women who had terminated pregnancies for medical reasons. By talking to others who truly understood what I was feeling, I was able to move forward in my healing and not get stuck on the unfairness of it all. I was able to read stories of women who had terminated before me, and how they had put their lives back together and even went on to have perfectly healthy babies after suffering such a loss. They provided me with the inspiration and the empowerment to try again to give Miranda a sibling.
Spiritually, my beliefs haven’t changed much since my termination. I’ve always believed in God and Jesus, and I know that they helped carry me through my grief. Fairly early on, I realized and accepted that what happened to my Madison wasn’t some sort of test or punishment by God or an attempt to draw me closer to him. The God that I believe in would never be so cruel or sadistic. Unfortunately, nature isn’t perfect, and sometimes living beings don’t form properly. I have accepted that Madison’s condition was a mere fluke of nature. There was nothing that I could have done or not done to prevent it. My job was to figure out how to grow as a person because of it and to find the silver lining in the clouds.
It has been five years since we said goodbye to Madison. I still think of her daily and cherish the short time we had together. The emotional healing was difficult at times, with setbacks often coming when I least expected them. But I can say with confidence that I have peace in my heart that I chose what was best for my family. And I know that if I were to be put in the exact same situation today I wouldn’t choose any differently. The only regrets that I have are that I didn’t spend more time holding Madison after she was born, that I didn’t take more photos of Madison, and that I didn’t bring home the blanket from the hospital that Madison was wrapped in.
I have not tried to hide Madison’s existence from anyone close to me (family or friends). I have never felt the need to be less than completely honest about my decision to end my pregnancy, and I have been blessed to be surrounded by supportive and understanding people. Even those people who haven’t agreed with my decision still have offered their love and kindness to me.
Madison is, and forever will be, a member of my immediate family. I have on display in my home a large pencil portrait drawn from a photo of her, as well as copies of her hand and footprints. I carry a guardian angel pin in my purse to remind me of her. I have built a special memorial flower garden in my backyard for Madison. Each spring I fill the garden with different varieties of pink and white flowers, angel statues, and a memorial stepping stone engraved with her name, given to me by some online friends.
I have spoken to Miranda many times over the years about her baby sister Madison. I have tried to explain to her in terms she can understand that her baby sister was simply too sick to live with us. She seems to understand, and every once in a while she will ask about Madison. Each year on Madison’s Angel Day (the day she was born an angel), we release helium-filled balloons and snack on cupcakes. It’s our own special way to celebrate Madison as a member of our family.
Over the years since losing Madison I have been finding ways to turn my loss into something positive to honor Madison’s memory. I participate in the March of Dimes WalkAmerica every year to help raise funds and awareness for birth defects. I started my own chapter of a volunteer group which knits/crochets baby afghans to donate to bereaved moms in hospitals and clinics. I am a constant presence on several internet message boards for women who have terminated a pregnancy for medical reasons, making sure that those who choose to terminate for medical reasons never feel alone or unsupported.
I have since gone on to have another healthy baby (yes, a girl). She is my “rainbow” baby. Through the clouds and the rain she came and brought light and color back into my life. At a time in my life when I was scared to death of being in that vulnerable state of pregnancy again, she came along and made me see that life is still full of miracles and that gambles can pay off. I simply adore her and treasure her spunky personality. And I can’t escape the reality that she simply wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the decision my husband and I made to let her big sister Madison go. I know that Madison watches over her sisters, her dad, and me from above. And I know that I will be reunited with my middle daughter someday.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Blog for Choice Day!
In honor of the 35th anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision, and for the benefit of "Blog for Choice Day", I am opening this blog up to the public for the first time ever.
The question this year for Blog for Choice Day is "Why vote pro-choice?". My short answer is "Why the heck not?!" Even in the year 2008, people who happen to have been born with XX chromosomes instead of XY chromosomes are still not treated with the same respect, compensation or opportunities. I agree that, by and large, women have made some significant strides over the past 35 years. But now is not the time for women to become complacent and sit back. We cannot assume that the same protections our mothers were allowed will exist for our own daughters if we do nothing to preserve those protections. And just because I was allowed to interrupt a pregnancy due to a serious fetal anomoly, there is no guarantee that my own daughters will have that same right. I have two living daughters, and I will not sit by while some people, who have never walked a mile in MY shoes, try to wrap their rosaries around our ovaries.
The question this year for Blog for Choice Day is "Why vote pro-choice?". My short answer is "Why the heck not?!" Even in the year 2008, people who happen to have been born with XX chromosomes instead of XY chromosomes are still not treated with the same respect, compensation or opportunities. I agree that, by and large, women have made some significant strides over the past 35 years. But now is not the time for women to become complacent and sit back. We cannot assume that the same protections our mothers were allowed will exist for our own daughters if we do nothing to preserve those protections. And just because I was allowed to interrupt a pregnancy due to a serious fetal anomoly, there is no guarantee that my own daughters will have that same right. I have two living daughters, and I will not sit by while some people, who have never walked a mile in MY shoes, try to wrap their rosaries around our ovaries.
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