January, 1990. At thirty-six years old, I had a happy family with three healthy children and a successful career. My life was seemingly perfect, except for some ongoing nausea, dizziness, and shortness of breath. I was pregnant. While I did not plan to have more children, this pregnancy delighted me. My best friend at work was pregnant and our babies were all due at the same time. We shopped for maternity clothes and baby clothes planned our nurseries. Despite being an unexpected pregnancy, I was excited. The shopping and the planning were fun.
But something wasn’t right. Since this pregnancy was considered geriatric, my doctor recommended an amniocentesis. He assured me there was less than a one percent risk of complications, though complications didn’t really cross my mind. I worried about the health of my baby, but I was also worried about what was going on with my own body. I’d always been healthy but my sudden limitations were frightening. I ran a half-marathon during my pregnancy with my oldest. The doctor told me I shouldn’t worry, that my blood pressure was high but I should enjoy my pregnancy. Go shopping, he said. That would take my mind off things.
The amniocentesis was not nearly as painful as I had imagined and I left the doctor’s office feeling optimistic. Halfway home, though, my panties felt wet and they were getting wetter. I tried to move around as little as possible and called the doctor as soon as we walked in the door. I was actively bleeding. The doctor ordered complete bedrest and told me to come back to the office the next morning. I was terrified as I continued to bleed.
I returned to the doctor. He told me to spend the next two weeks in bed and to check in on a regular basis. My blood pressure climbed and I continued to lose amniotic fluid. As more blood and fluid leaked, the prognosis for me carrying the pregnancy became increasingly grim. I laid in bed and cried as I felt fluid, blood, and hope leaking from my body.
My follow-up appointment was on Martin Luther King Day. I remember there was almost no traffic, a rarity in Atlanta, and we made it from Fayetteville in record time. The doctor said the results from the amniocentesis were not back. My blood pressure was concerning but not terribly high and I had traces of protein in my urine. He wanted to wait for the test results. At that point in time, I wondered what he might have seen (or not seen) on the sonogram. His manner was grim as he told me to go back home and wait.
The phone rang as soon as we walked in the house at nearly five o’clock. “We need to talk,” the doctor said. “Come int tomorrow morning.” He wouldn’t go any further until we were face to face. I cried myself to sleep, steeling myself for bad news.
We arrived at the office and were immediately escorted into an exam room. The doctor told me my baby had defects incompatible with life. There was virtually a zero percent chance the baby would live and, given the health problems I was already having, he wasn’t sure I would survive the pregnancy. The safest option for me was an abortion. He left the room so that my husband and I could have some privacy. It didn’t take long to arrive at a decision. Abortion was the only option. My three children deserved to grow up with their mother.
My husband held my hand as the doctor inserted the laminaria in my cervix and I went home for another restless night. It had been three weeks since my nightmare began. The nightmare wouldn’t end the next day but it changed.
I grieved hard. I felt I had failed my baby though I knew I hadn’t done anything to cause the baby’s problems. I knew I had made the right decision. My three children, ages 3, 9, and 13, needed their mother. I can’t grasp the fact that there are people who think I, and women in similar circumstances, should willingly sacrifice my life for a baby who would survive. The decision to get pregnant is a decision a woman needs to make in consult her doctor, without the interference of the government.
Let doctors practice medicine and let women have the right to control their own bodies.
Dr. Suzanne Minarcine 