My Pro-Life Story, Part 4

Continued from Part 1 and Part 2 and Part 3.

The next month, there was another baby on the way, and her little brother came two years later. By age 38, I had my four children. Along the way, though, I’d noticed that my own plans about having babies (in which month I’d prefer their birthdays; no summer pregnancies, please; not too close of a birthday to their siblings'; and that under-35 strategy) never worked out the way I’d expected. The miscarriages had made me realize what miracles babies actually are, of course—and that, clearly, I wasn’t in charge.

In the meantime, I’d learned a lot more about my Catholic Church’s teaching on family planning. That’s a topic for another post, but I’ll just say that it’s not simply a matter of “the more little Catholics, the better,” which is what I’d always assumed. When I researched the Church’s life-affirming position, I was surprised to find it spot on. Not only that, but when I considered the shocking concept of having a fifth child at the ripe old age of 40 it seemed selfish not to, given the many blessings that we have to share with another sweet baby soul.

And so, another fast forward, and I’m 40 and pregnant with #5. The baby was a girl, due in June. That February, when I was 18 weeks pregnant, my doctor failed to find her heartbeat at a routine appointment. My doctor held my hand as I cried while we tried and tried to find my baby's heartbeat; a few minutes later, "fetal demise" was confirmed by ultrasound.

My doctor told me that due to my baby's advanced gestational age, it would be necessary to induce labor and deliver the baby.

"Why," I sobbed, "can't I just be 'put under' and have a D&C," like the prior two miscarriages? I was fixated on the idea of being unconscious for the whole thing, as you can imagine.

"Oh, no, you wouldn't want that," my obstetrician said, referring to a 'Dilatation and Curettage' procedure at 18 weeks. "It would be too horrible. They would have to take the baby out in pieces."

Two days later, I went to Labor & Delivery at the hospital, where the staff induced labor and I delivered my baby girl, Margaret Grace. She was very tiny, very red (since at that age a baby's skin is still transparent), and very much no longer alive. The staff encouraged us to hold her, take pictures, grieve, and say goodbye. They had a tiny baby blanket and hat for her. We cried, and prayed, and a priest came to give her a blessing. We loved her, and we still miss her. Her brothers and sisters cried, and never got to meet her (they still talk about her--especially KLD who feels quite ripped off that she didn't get that baby sister). Not once did anyone ever suggest that Margaret was anything other than a baby, of course.

Imagine my horror when it occurred to me that this exact same experience could be re-enacted in another mother's life, with the chilling difference that the baby's heart was still beating when the whole procedure began.

"Oh, no, you wouldn't want that. It would be too horrible. They would have to take the baby out in pieces."

Imagine the horror of anyone doing that to a tiny baby--on purpose.

Click here for the story conclusion.