Spring is a season of new beginnings. Flowers bloom, days are longer, and winter boots are cast aside to make room for flip flops. Discovering I was pregnant with my first child just a few days before Father’s Day was an exceptionally wonderful way to end the season in 2007. My husband and I had been trying to conceive for nearly a year, and I had an appointment with a fertility specialist before the month was out, so I was elated. Not only was my reproductive system functioning properly, but I was going to be a mom! After getting confirmation from my cousin that there was indeed a nearly invisible second line on my home pregnancy test and that it meant I was definitely expecting, I rushed out to K-Mart. I picked up yellow and green Onsies and booties, along with baby bottles and a pacifier. I put the pregnancy test in a velvet bracelet box, and placed everything in a gift bag. I couldn’t wait until Sunday to give my husband his gift, so as soon as he got home I gave it to him.
For the next three months I floated on air. I couldn’t keep my hands off my belly and was in maternity clothes by my sixth week of pregnancy. The fact that my “baby bump” was the belly fat I usually camouflaged by sucking it in is irrelevant and beyond the scope of this piece. I read What to Expect When Expecting and subscribed to Baby Center’s weekly pregnancy tracker emails. I avoided deli meats and soft cheeses. I took all of the vitamins my doctor prescribed (even the iron, which made me literally full of shit). I did everything I was supposed to do to ensure that my baby was healthy.
As the weeks passed and my baby grew from the size of a rice grain to the size of an orange I celebrated each milestone. I was relieved when I reached 13 weeks, as I was officially out of the nerve-wracking first trimester. Our baby was healthy and my body was able to carry and sustain our nugget. Thanks to my mild obsession with everything pregnancy and baby related, I spoke fluent OB-nese and at each check up I knew exactly what to expect. So, when my doctor’s office called me 18 weeks into my pregnancy to tell me that my alpha-fetoprotein (AFP) test came back elevated I didn’t bat an eye. High levels of AFP may suggest a developing fetus has a neural tube defect such as spina bifida or anencephaly. I had already learned, from my extensive research, that the AFP test has a high false positive rate, so I knew that was the case with me. The next step would be an ultrasound to confirm that my baby was just fine, and the test result was a false alarm. My husband and I had already begun to feel the baby’s first kicks. I was excited to catch an unexpected glimpse of our tiny miracle before our next check-up.
The next day my husband and I watched as the ultrasound tech scanned and measured our baby. I was 18 weeks pregnant, but our baby’s trunk and limbs were the size of a 19 week-old fetus. Great! The baby would be healthy and strong. The head measurement was that of a 17 week-old fetus, but it would catch up. We were sure to let the tech know that we wanted the baby’s sex to be a surprise. I was still reveling in the joy of the grainy black and white images of our baby when the doctor walked in to explain the ultrasound results to us. Our baby had spina bifida and severe hydrocephalus. The neural tube did not fully close, leaving an opening along the spine and the spinal cord exposed. This led to an accumulation of fluid on the brain. Once born, a tube to drain the fluid and relieve pressure would have to be permanently inserted into the skull in order to keep the baby alive. My husband and I were informed about our options.
We could carry the pregnancy to full term, at which point our child would be confined to a hospital bed for life. Alternatively, we could terminate the pregnancy. Nothing could have prepared me for this news or the choice I was faced with. When we were finally able to talk, my husband and I quickly decided that the best option for us would be to end the pregnancy. Deciding to terminate a pregnancy at nearly 19 weeks is only the first choice women in this scenario must make. The next choice I had to make was the manner in which I wanted to end the pregnancy. I could either have the fetus removed mechanically, or I could elect to have labor induced. I wanted to see and touch the tiny being that had been somersaulting in my womb for the last few weeks, so I chose to induce labor.
The next few days were filled with a deep sense of loss for the baby that would never be. I wondered if the doctors were right, but I kept coming back to the ultrasound measurements I had seen. There was clearly a wide disparity between my baby’s body and brain development. I cried every day leading up to my appointment. On Friday, September 28 I walked into White Plains Hospital’s labor and delivery unit, to give birth to a baby who would never open his or her eyes. One of my friends from high school met me at the hospital with dinner. Two other childhood friends and the receptionist from my doctor’s office joined my husband, my mom, and me as we prepared to simultaneously say “Hello!” and “Good bye!” to our baby. They stayed long past visiting hours while we all waited for the Pitocin to do its job and labor to begin. Labor did not start Friday. My husband, my mom, and I continued to wait all day Saturday for labor to start. I read the book, I’ll Love You Forever to my belly while listening to the baby’s heartbeat on the doppler monitor I asked to have left in my room. By that evening my delivery doctor broke the news to us that if I did not go into active labor by the next day he would have to terminate the pregnancy mechanically and I would not be able to see the baby. I prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
After nearly 36 hours in the delivery room, I began having painful contractions in the early morning hours of Sunday, September 30, 2007. Surrounded by the love of my family and the compassion of the doctors and nurses, Angel Holloway left my body at 3:42 am. I was never so happy, nor so grief-stricken in my life. When I was discharged from the hospital later hours later, I walked out to a beautiful autumn day with the sun shining brightly. My belly was still swollen and my arms ached for the baby girl I would never know. My heart was full of love for what was and sorrow for what would never be.
Months later I told a friend of mine about my experience. Her mother was a nurse at the hospital at the time I delivered Angel and she saw her. She told my friend that she had never seen such a severe case of spina bifida in her career. In that moment, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I made the right decision. In an ideal world, on another plane, no woman would have to make the choice I made. However, the reality that we live in comes with innumerable difficult decisions. Sometimes all we have to choose from is a rock and a hard place, where neither choice is comfortable, but one better fits your unique situation. Those were the options I was faced with.
In the end, the choice was mine and mine alone to make. No other person on Earth had the right to tell me what I could or couldn’t do with my body. Today, millions of women in the United States go through pregnancies similar to mine. The only difference now, for far too many of them, is that they have no choices. The attack on women’s bodies and autonomy has eliminated any option other than carrying a pregnancy to term. Eleven years after holding my baby for the first and last time I continue to weep. The tears I have shed writing this are not only for my daughter, but for the women and girls who no longer have the ability to make such personal decisions about their own bodies.