The very week of the procedure, I became an ardent activist for abortion rights, writing letters to politicians, telling the story of our loss, hoping to show the reality behind later abortions. I went from writing those letters to working with Planned Parenthood and the National Abortion Federation, and as that first year without our child went on, I found myself in state capitals all over the country, cornering legislators, giving interviews, making myself heard.

Although my specific procedure wasn't directly referenced in the so-called partial-birth abortion ban being circulated at that time, the broad language of the bill still would have made it a target. If President Clinton hadn't ultimately vetoed the legislation, the procedure I'd undergone would not have been available to me. The language of hr-760 is only slightly less vague.

Just over a year later, Barry and I discovered we were, thankfully, joyfully, a little scarily, pregnant again. But at 17 weeks, an ultrasound showed that this, too, was an anencephalic pregnancy. Again, I had to end my pregnancy. Again, full of grief, we drove back to the clinic in Iowa City and were ushered behind the bulletproof glass. Last year, Barry asked for a divorce. I don't know if I'll have the chance to try to have children again. I don't know if I can have a healthy baby. And I don't know if I even want to try -- again, it's partly because of the legislation the president has said he'll sign into law. I don't believe people understand the impact of this ban. It will take options away from women like me -- a woman who finds herself 20, 22, 24 weeks pregnant with a fetal anomaly will not have an option.

Michelle, 33, Houston

My husband, Rob, and I had tried so hard to conceive our second child -- I'd even been on Clomid, a fertility drug, for a year -- that when I became pregnant in April of 2001, we felt the difficult part was behind us. Although I knew of things that could go wrong during a pregnancy, I never thought they would happen to me.

We scheduled an ultrasound at 21 weeks to learn the gender of our child. When the technician suggested I go to the bathroom and release my bladder so they could get a better view of our baby on the monitor, I didn't sense any apprehension in his voice. But when I came back into the exam room, our obstetrician was there. And when he looked at the screen, he told me there was terrible news. My baby had anencephaly -- basically no skullcap from the eyebrows back, and no brain. There is no cure.

My options were to terminate the pregnancy, either through induced labor or through a medical extraction. Or I could continue my pregnancy and deliver a baby that was most likely dead or would die very soon afterwards. It was also quite possible that because I wasn't producing as many hormones as I would during a normal pregnancy, my body wouldn't know when it was time to go into labor. I could carry this child for 42 or 44 weeks, and even then labor might have to be induced. So many other things could happen to put my health at risk: I stood an increased chance of placental abruption and uterine rupture, and future pregnancies might be made much more difficult.

I chose to terminate my pregnancy as soon as possible. It was a very difficult decision for my husband and I to make, but the one we felt was right for us: I have always associated giving birth with life, not with death. My baby had already started kicking and moving. I couldn't imagine wondering for the next 20 or so weeks, "Did she die today? What about today?" And what was I going to tell my 2-year-old daughter? How would I explain that the baby growing inside Mommy's tummy wasn't coming home with us? I think I might have considered carrying my baby to term if I'd been able to donate her organs. Maybe then her dying would have felt like it had a purpose -- if I'd been able to give life to four or five other little babies. But the legal system considers this "harvesting" -- giving birth to a baby just for its organs -- and so it wasn't an available option.

My own doctor couldn't do the procedure because he worked out of a Catholic hospital. That was also an issue for me: I was raised Catholic. And although I've always been staunchly pro-choice, it was unsettling not to have my faith backing me in such a time of need. But although my mom has very strong faith in the Catholic Church and my aunt is a teacher at a Catholic school, they were extremely supportive of me. Everyone in my family was, which surprised me a little. I worried someone might try to talk me out of the procedure, but the attitude I encountered instead was, "What's best for you, is best for you."

The procedure was scheduled over two days. The first day, my cervix was dilated, and a final ultrasound was done. I turned my head so I wouldn't see the screen. The second day, I went back in to the clinic and had the actual procedure. I did have the option of staying awake (with only my body numbed), but I choose to be asleep.

Physically, I responded fairly well to the procedure. But emotionally, I was devastated. I couldn't sleep or eat. I felt phantom kicks for weeks. I'd taken a month off work, only saying that I'd lost my child, but as soon as I got back, co-workers were constantly asking how I was. I know they meant to be kind, but I just couldn't handle talking about it. I decided to resign. I needed time to mourn the loss of my baby.

If I'd been forced to carry my baby to term, I can't imagine what my state of mind would have been. I would have gone crazy. I look and listen to protesters and think, "They've never been in our shoes." If they actually have, and are still protesting, then I respect that. And I know a lot of women do discover their baby has a problem and still decide to carry to term. I completely respect that, too. Each woman knows what is best for herself, what she can and cannot handle or endure. We're the ones who have to be at peace with our decision.

Recent Stories