Lucky

Most people feel comfortable announcing their pregnancies at 14 weeks. And why not?! You passed your NT scan and NIPT with flying colors! You’re in the second trimester! But I had already had 2 miscarriages and I wasn’t taking any chances. So, I waited for my 20 week anatomy scan when I saw my healthy little girl bouncing around before my eyes. Everything was going to be OK. She was, as my dad said, the sun coming up over the horizon. 

At 24 ½ weeks I took my dad with me for an ultrasound that would change me forever. The ultrasound revealed that my baby’s head was measuring a few weeks small. I had an amniocentesis that day and then waited five excruciating days for more ultrasounds and a fetal MRI that would confirm my worst nightmare. Multiple severe brain anomalies. Severe microencephaly, lissencephaly, ventriculomegaly and a piece of her brain missing. 

After consulting with many doctors about what her life (and mine) would be like, I made the excruciating decision to terminate my very much wanted pregnancy so that she would not suffer. So that her soul could be free to go on to live in a body that would function. A body that could walk and run and play. Swallow. Breathe. Grow to be a teenager. Not have to endure surgery after surgery. Not have seizures. 

I was 25 weeks and 3 days pregnant on the day of the fetal MRI and when I made the decision to terminate. That’s when it occurred to me that what I was about to do was actually...an abortion. After 3 years of trying to have a baby on my own via a sperm donor, 2 losses, thousands upon thousands of dollars spent on fertility treatments, and 6 months of loving the child in my womb, I was going to end her life. 

I’ve always been pro-choice but there was no fighting the internalized stigma of abortion. I knew I was doing the right thing for my daughter but what would other people think? What do YOU think? I didn’t know anyone that had ever done this, so far along.

And as if this wasn’t already the hardest thing I’d ever had to do, I would soon discover that even though it’s legal here in NY, it’s almost impossible to find a doctor that performs abortions this late in a pregnancy. I was told I might have to go to a clinic in Maryland or Colorado. At the height of Covid. That it would cost $7,000. Or $14,000. Or $25,000. Instead of taking this time to say goodbye to my baby I had to navigate politics. And FAST. Because the longer I waited, the harder it would be to get the procedure. 

The procedure. It’s called a D&E, dilation and evacuation, and it takes place over the course of 2, 3 or even 4 days. On day 1 the dilation process is started and the baby is given an injection of KCL which stops their heart. On day 2, 3, or 4, once your cervix is dilated, you return for the extraction of the fetus. I didn’t know any of this because even though I’ve been pro-choice as long as I remember I don’t know anything about 2nd and 3rd trimester abortions. No one talks about them. 

Or maybe they do, and I never bothered to listen.

That night, the night of my MRI, I finally connected with a clinic in Manhattan. I was told they could help me but that they would not do the procedure after 26 weeks. Why 26 weeks? Because that marks the beginning of the 3rd trimester. I needed to hurry. They told me to come in the next morning at 7:30 am.

The next morning? Less than 24 hours after receiving the worst news of my life? When was I supposed to process all of this information?

I asked for a consultation and was able to buy myself one more day with my daughter. 

***

On December 10th, Day 1 of my procedure, I arrived at 7:30am and waited patiently in a hard plastic chair for 3 hrs. The clinic was full. Not because these women were out there, thoughtlessly getting abortions, but because they had nowhere else to go. We all had to suffer through the waiting. 

As I lay on the operating table, the anesthesiologist ready to go, I placed my hand on my belly to say goodbye one last time and wept uncontrollably. When I finally caught my breath and my heart rate went back down, they placed the mask over my mouth and nose and I fell asleep, tears streaming down my cheeks. 

This was the single hardest moment of my life. 

I woke up numb. For the next 24 hours I held her lifeless body in my womb. I still looked pregnant. She was there. But she was gone. 

The next morning, I somehow made my way back to the clinic for part 2. There were just as many women there as the day before. Again, I waited. Cramped up. Hiding my protruding belly. But why? We were all there for the same reason. Though no one, I’m sure, was as far along as me. I was alone.

Finally, it was my turn again. I didn’t cry when they put me under this time, but when I woke up something was very wrong. I was told that the ambulance was on the way. They were transporting me to Bellevue because they couldn’t stop my bleeding. In and out of consciousness, the sirens barely audible from inside the ambulance. “Molly, do you know where you are?” I was in the emergency room. Doctors pressing on my uterus. Needles searching everywhere for a vein. Signing my life away on documents I had no business signing in that state, trying to figure out my insurance, my mother’s phone number, begging doctors to save my uterus, shaking uncontrollably, demanding that they hurry and get me into the operating room. 

I’m shaking again now just writing about it. My body always shakes when I think about it. 

When I woke up a couple of hours later, I learned that my body had gone into shock. I suffered from disseminated intravascular coagulation (DIC). I would have died if they hadn’t gotten me to the hospital. I had multiple blood transfusions. There was a balloon in my uterus and stitches in my cervix. A foley in my bladder. But I still had my uterus. I spent the next two nights hooked up to monitors in intensive care. Mom was allowed to visit on night 1, but I sent her home when I found out the guy in the next room had Covid. I watched The Flight Attendant on my computer (very bloody, very bad choice) and text banked for the Georgia runoff (I was truly on some other planet).

When I got home, I thought I would finally have time to grieve but instead I had to focus on my health. I’d lost so much blood that I was severely anemic. My skin was colorless. It was hard to get up the stairs. Racing heart. Short of breath. And I was traumatized. The sight of blood made me weak but I’d be passing large clots for days.

I looked in the mirror. My belly was gone. The only remnants of my pregnancy were the massive bruise on my right arm from the IV and my linea nigra running down my empty tummy. 

And then suddenly, overnight, my milk came in.  A painful and cruel reminder that I had no baby to feed. For the next two days I did everything to suppress lactation. Cabbage leaves, frozen peas, parsley smoothies, “No More Milk” teas, Benadryl, doubled up sports bras, zero stimulation. Rock hard, painful, leaking breasts. Then it occurred to me. I’m 42. I may never be able to breastfeed again.  

I asked my midwife about donating my milk. “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she compassionately explained.  But I pushed her to tell me more. I learned that my milk was preterm milk; just the kind of milk that preemies in the NICU need. And there was my answer. 

My mom found me a breast pump to rent, and I began pumping and grieving and healing. 

For the next 3 months I would pump every 3 hours with a 6-hour break at night. I got to share my baby’s milk with living babies who needed it. I got to experience “breastfeeding.” I got to prolong my pregnancy and love and nurture myself. The hardest part of pumping, for me, was stopping. I donated until my baby's due date, March 20th.  In the end, it was about 1,400 ounces - or about 87 lbs. 

I have a therapist, I've worked with a grief counselor, been to support groups, joined a Facebook group called Ending a Wanted Pregnancy with 2,000 + members and counting, and have done a dozen episodes of my podcast exploring grief.  In an effort to honor my daughter, I’m bringing awareness to TFMR. That’s what this is called, by the way. Terminating For Medical Reasons.  

***

When I discovered that my baby was sick, I felt like I was alone. People terminate pregnancies, but never this far along. Right? Because if there were other women like me, I wouldn’t have been so blindsided. There would be more clinics and doctors to help. My midwives would have known exactly where to send me for the procedure. 

But I was very wrong. I’m not alone. Thousands of birthing parents are going through a version of this torture every day. The difference is, they go through it in silence and in shame. 

I have had nothing but love and support from my incredible parents, family, friends and podcast listeners. I’ve had moments where I’ve said out loud, I’m so lucky and then laughed at the absurdity of feeling lucky while in the depths of despair.

But it’s true. I am. I’m lucky.  Because I can say all of this out loud and not fear being attacked, argued with, hated, shamed, or cast out. My heart breaks for all the other bereaved parents who have terminated pregnancies who are afraid to share their stories. Grieving in isolation. Internalizing shame. It’s just another layer of pain on top of unbearable pain. And it’s cruel. 

So that’s why I’m sharing all of these details with you. It’s not a secret. I’m not ashamed. When a birthing parent has to end their child’s life, they should not also have to navigate a cold-hearted system that forces them to sit in a crowded waiting room for hours on end, to look at ultrasounds of the baby they wish they could hold, to pay thousands upon thousands of dollars, to seek treatment out of state. NO ONE wants to go through this. I promise. 

***

As for what happened to my little girl...

It would take two months to get any answers. I finally got results back from advanced genetic screenings. She had two rare mutations on a gene associated with brain abnormalities. I carry one of these genes. And we’re assuming the sperm donor I used carries the other. A 1/25,000 chance.

I have her ashes right by my bed and I talk to her every night. I tell her I love her. I tell her I’m sorry. I hope she understands I did this for her. I hope she understands that I did this out of love. I hope she’s found a body that works. I hope our paths will cross again someday, somehow. 

As for me, I’ve learned that life is hard and that’s just how it goes. That bad things happen to good people. That I have no control. That pain is part of living. That I’m loved. That I’m incredibly lucky. That life is precious. I’m deeply sad but I still laugh, whistle and sing. I don’t have much faith that I’ll ever be a mom to a living child but I’m chugging along and doing all the things I can to try to make it happen because I know I’ll be pissed at myself down the road if I give up. 

Don’t forget. TFMR. Terminating for Medical Reasons. It’s a thing. People should know what it is before they have to live through it. 

~Molly Hawkey