As I drove north from the Twin Cities to Duluth for a much-needed getaway, I glanced at a sign that proclaimed, “Did you know? My heart beat 18 days from conception!” A cheerful baby stared back at me, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of frustration. Thank you, Pro-Life America, for the reminder that the embryo I had carried did not have a heartbeat when it should have.
Another sign proclaimed, “Real men love babies.” I can certainly attest that the “real man” in my life adores children; he’s wonderful with our nephews. However, my husband won’t be welcoming a child in January as we once anticipated. I had a miscarriage just as I was reminded that my fetus would have developed fingerprints nine weeks after conception.
If I had not personally experienced pregnancy, I might have missed the subtleties in these signs. Nine weeks from conception seems much sooner than the 11 weeks that the medical community—and nearly every pregnant woman—uses to track pregnancy from the last menstrual period.
These signs evoke a deep anger in me for many reasons. I have identified as pro-choice for as long as I can remember. Growing up Catholic, my mother’s pro-choice beliefs, shared with me during sermons, were quite remarkable. While the priest condemned abortion, I innocently inquired about it, and my mother explained the dangers of illegal procedures. She would later apologize for the graphic details, but her perspective left a lasting impression that outweighed the priest’s rhetoric.
My college guitar, adorned with various stickers, proudly displays one that states “pro-child, pro-family, pro-choice.” The book “Our Bodies, Ourselves,” gifted by my eldest sister, and a friend’s candid confession about her own teenage abortion solidified my belief in a woman’s right to choose.
Until recently, I hadn’t deeply contemplated my convictions. Writing this feels as vulnerable as discussing my miscarriage with an ER doctor while wearing a hospital gown. I understand that many people I care about hold opposing views, but I’m sharing my experience—may we all have the freedom to navigate our journeys. If yours is similar, I empathize with you.
A month and a half before that ER visit, I was overjoyed to discover I was pregnant. My online world was inundated with baby product ads; my search history was filled with related queries. As someone who thrives on planning, this news fit perfectly into my life’s timeline: our pre-planned vacation would fall in the “safer” second trimester, and my maternity leave would end before the busy season at work.
I adhered to the tradition of waiting at least 12 weeks to share my news (in line with how most people calculate pregnancy, not from conception). Eight weeks in, my older sister texted me to announce her own pregnancy. I was thrilled. How often do you get to respond to such news with “me too”? She thought I was joking, and I was ecstatic at the prospect of our children growing up as close cousins.
That excitement quickly faded when I learned I was experiencing a miscarriage—first possibly, then probably, and ultimately definitely. The emotional intensity of longing for a child was overwhelming and unexpected. It was a depth of feeling I had never encountered before and certainly not what a rational person, aware of the statistics surrounding pregnancy loss, would anticipate after such an event. Biology stripped me of my choice to carry this child, and that reality was heartbreaking.
I can only imagine the devastation of having the choice to end an unwanted pregnancy taken away by law. I suspect that the emotional turmoil women face when choosing to terminate a pregnancy mirrors the feelings I had about my desire to become a mother. As I lay on the couch while my miscarriage unfolded, I absorbed the news surrounding Whole Woman’s Health v. Hellerstedt. Denying a woman safe, legal access to abortion is incomprehensible to me. My pro-choice beliefs have been reinforced: if I have the right to choose to be pregnant, others must have the right to choose not to be.
The signs reminding me of my loss infuriate me. I am angry that I am not pregnant. But most infuriating of all is that these messages suggest someone else believes they know better than a woman about what should happen to her body.
If you reside in a state where such billboards are absent, you can imagine the frustration of being overwhelmed by their presence elsewhere. As we continued our drive, I transformed my anger into humor, reading each sign aloud and adding “begins at conception” to the end, much like adding “in bed” to a fortune cookie. “Wendy’s French Fries Exit 11 begins at conception.” “Recreational loans for ATVs and Snowmobiles begin at conception.” Perhaps it’s callous, but those signs felt pretty callous too.
For those interested in navigating the world of home insemination, resources like this guide on at-home insemination kits provide valuable insights. Additionally, if you’re curious about IVF and its implications, this site is an excellent authority on the topic. For more information on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this resource.
In summary, my miscarriage has only strengthened my pro-choice beliefs, reaffirming that every woman should have the autonomy to make decisions about her body and reproductive health.