Her name was Lily, my second daughter, who was stillborn due to Trisomy 18, a chromosomal anomaly considered incompatible with life. I loved her dearly, yet I felt compelled to end my pregnancy. It was the very love I had for her that led me to seek an abortion, a right that was denied to me because of the political landscape in our state. After cradling her tiny, lifeless form in my arms, I promised to advocate for change to spare other families from enduring our heartbreak.
At 16 weeks, a routine blood test revealed our baby had a 1 in 10 chance of having Trisomy 18. My doctor promptly scheduled a consultation with a specialist, where an ultrasound indicated a cystic hygroma, a clubbed foot, and significant growth restriction. We had to wait a week for an amniocentesis, as the amniotic sac had not yet fused with the uterine wall. During that agonizing wait, I dove into research about the disorder, connecting with other families through the Trisomy 18 Foundation. After the procedure, my husband and I faced the daunting task of discussing our options.
Making this decision was the most difficult experience of our lives. Armed with knowledge, we understood that doctors would not take any life-saving actions once she was born. Our primary goal was to shield her from suffering, yet the thought of actively ending her life was unbearable. As her mother, my instinct was to protect her. We resolved to terminate the pregnancy, often described by the Trisomy 18 Foundation as “saying goodbye early.” This method would allow us to hold her, create memories, and have her remains for cremation. We were determined to make those fleeting moments count.
Despite my intuition about the diagnosis, I was shattered when the confirmation came. I vividly remember sobbing, repeating, “She was so wanted. I wanted her so much.” I believed that obtaining the procedure would be straightforward since abortion is legal in the U.S. Initially, even my doctor was optimistic. However, a few days later, she informed us that due to the political climate, local hospitals would not perform the procedure. Instead, she directed us to an abortion clinic in Atlanta, four hours away, specializing in late-term abortions. It wasn’t our preferred option, but I was desperate to protect my child from pain.
Upon arriving at the clinic, I was informed that we would not be able to hold her or take photos. Although heartbroken, my overwhelming desire to prevent her suffering took precedence. We were also told we would be segregated from women terminating pregnancies for other reasons, and I would qualify for a one-day procedure.
As we drove to Atlanta, I felt like a fugitive, worried about being judged for making a decision I believed was right for my daughter and our family. Only a few people knew of our plans. No one should feel that way when making healthcare decisions for their loved ones.
At the clinic, we were not separated from the other women. As I sat in the waiting room, surrounded by women who were terminating healthy pregnancies, it struck me that I didn’t desire a perfect baby, only one that would live. If the laws in our state had been different, we could have avoided this ordeal altogether, undergoing the procedure with our own doctor in a hospital setting. Reflecting on it now, I recognize that those women were just as desperate as I was, their reasons for seeking abortion equally valid.
After waiting for what felt like an eternity, we were called back three times, but each time, I anticipated being separated from the others, only to be disappointed. I found solace in my husband’s presence and in the book I had brought, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, which inadvertently mirrored our situation. After nearly four hours, we were informed that a paperwork error meant we could not proceed that day; we would have to return a week later. An ultrasound revealed that our daughter had minimal brain matter and a significant decrease in amniotic fluid, confirming our fears about her kidneys being non-functional.
The decision to terminate was agonizing, and the thought of returning to Atlanta was emotionally unbearable. We chose to return home and let nature run its course. Each day, I was left wondering if she had already passed away, carrying the weight of uncertainty. Frequent visits to the doctor filled my mind with tormenting questions about her potential quality of life and the impact on my marriage and our five-year-old daughter, who longed for a sister. I was overwhelmed with anxiety and lost significant weight in a matter of weeks. Yet, I forced myself to rise each morning, attempting to create a semblance of a life for my daughter, even as I felt trapped in a fog.
Lily was stillborn, and I found solace in knowing she would never experience suffering. I made a commitment to share our story and advocate for change, fighting against laws that restrict a woman’s right to make healthcare choices for herself and her child. I have engaged in discussions online, spoken at our state legislature, and participated in campaigns to promote awareness. No shame should accompany such a selfless act a parent can take regarding a sick child. If parents can make decisions for born children declared brain dead or terminally ill, why should we be denied the same for our unborn child? Is it merely because she had not yet been born?
While I passionately defend a woman’s right to choose, I equally support a woman’s right to carry to term. There is no universal solution when a family faces a dire prenatal diagnosis. Every parent wants what is best for their child, and we should be free to make those choices.
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In summary, the heart-wrenching journey I faced while deciding to end my daughter’s life stemmed from love and the desire to protect her from suffering. I am committed to advocating for the right to make healthcare choices, emphasizing the importance of individual circumstances in these deeply personal decisions.