Posted on 07/12/2006 1:00:02 PM PDT by madprof98
We don't feel capable of raising a severely disabled child. It would be different if we didn't have a choice, but we do.
A tear creeps down my cheek when she says it's a girl. I don't know why that makes me cry.
I'd really rather not know. She assumes that like most expectant parents we want to know.
But as its turning out, we aren't like most expectant parents.
We could be, though. In many ways my 45-year-old husband and I could be perfect parents. We're professionals, with university degrees, own our own house, it's even paid off (we're financially careful yuppies). We're also fit -- we do Ironman events, marathons, play golf, travel and help support my parents. But being healthy, and looking 10 years younger isn't enough to fool the gods that govern genetics. It turns out my 40-year-old eggs don't give a hoot that I'm physically fit.
And now our unexpected late-life gift, our 19-week-old miracle is turning out to be tragically flawed. A dreaded extra chromosome -- a triple X -- has robbed us of a healthy baby, the geneticist quietly tells us our child will be significantly lower functioning than other children. Definitely not the treasured only child, the little athlete, we had only so recently and so tentatively allowed ourselves to dream about.
We leave the office in a fog. Instead of celebrating our seventh wedding anniversary this weekend, we now have to make a literally life-changing decision, one too sensitive to share with family or friends. No one has actually said the word, they don't have to. We know what our options: To continue the pregnancy or not?
I cry myself to sleep. My husband researches triple X on the computer. We have to decide quickly because it's already 19 weeks into the pregnancy. We don't feel capable of raising a severely disabled child. It would be different if we didn't have a choice, but we do. Isn't it more cruel to bring a child burdened with so many disadvantages into the world?
The geneticist's carefully chosen words describe the best-case scenario. What's the worst? my husband asks. Doctors won't speculate, but say if we decide to keep the child, they'd like to be "involved." (Ouch!)
We spend a tense weekend, each worried about the other's emotional state. We had already decided if it was a Down syndrome baby (one in 30 chance for a mother over 40) we wouldn't continue. I thought even my church-going mother (who goes door-to-door collecting money for those who are anti-abortion, and their pro-life campaign) could forgive that. But what about this situation; it's not quite Down syndrome, but it's close.
I already know we won't tell our parents.
My husband drives me to the non-descript house in a downtown Toronto neighbourhood. The security guard checks my name off her list and refuses to let my husband in (standard policy). I wait in the ominously quiet but cozy waiting room. I'm curious to see who else is here. A miserable-looking Asian woman, older and more visibly pregnant than I am studies her hands in her lap. I'm guessing she, too, has found something unbearable in her fetus. Two young women, with tattoos and a Queen Street vibe, seem nervous, but not grieving (I assume) unwanted pregnancies. I meet a lovely 47-year-old women from out of town. She has two children and a heart condition. She can't take birth control pills because of her age and health, and this unexpected pregnancy could be fatal. She's angry it took her doctor so long to figure out she was pregnant.
She had to drive two hours to get here.
The procedure is deceptively simple. Doctors call it a D & E , dilation and evacuate, better known as an abortion. The doctor inserts fragile slivers of seaweed into my cervix then waits for the porous pieces to swell and enlarge the opening. It takes two days. It's uncomfortable, but no worse that being pregnant. On the third day, when the cervix has dilated, the doctor clears out the uterus: the evacuation.
A nurse holds my hand throughout. It's oddly comforting. I keep my eyes shut, I don't want to see or hear anything. Afterward, I fight the urge to cry. Two women throw up -- a reaction to the medication. The nurse says they have 20 patients a day. I feel sorry for all of them.
Why can't we just go to the nearest hospital? I hate the sanctimonious people who have made this more difficult than it has to be. No one begrudges couples thwarting God's plan by spending tens of thousands of dollars on fertility drugs, in vitro treatments, donor eggs, sperm, and surrogate mothers -- they get sympathy. But if you don't want to keep a seriously flawed baby, you bundle your pain in guilt and shame.
The other woman waits for me to say goodbye. She whispers "Good luck, try again," and brings me to tears. My husband picks me up.
His work sends flowers to me: his wife who had a miscarriage.
That's what we tell our friends and parents as well.
C. Smyth lives in Toronto.
It's the same thing, imo.
It is indeed the same thing ... and pro-"choice" "ethicists" like Peter Singer are already arguing for the "right" to kill born babies.
As opposed to sanctimonious Pharisees who think they're better than other sinners because their sins are easier to hide?
This article is a very stark reminder of how abortion is often a choice of despararation - and one all too easy to rationalize. I am aghast that no one on this board has any compassion whatsoever for the fact that this couple struggled with one of the hardest dilemmas they could have and took the immoral but easy way out.
Did they make the wrong choice? Sure. But, only by the grace of God go you or I.
Perfect parents but only to the "perfect" baby. I hope she had her tubes tied or her husband had a vasectomy, yeesh, what selfishness!
Like people who post just to call other people sanctimonious Pharisees?
Go away.
Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.