The Race

This story explores late term abortion.

We’re running out of time; I remember my husband whispering as I shifted my bare feet in Dr. Randolph’s, or Dr. R’s -- as her patients referred to her -- cold steel stirrups. 26 weeks. Only two and a half months to go before we met our first, and probably only, baby boy.

In our excitement, we chose his name before the end of the first trimester. Robert, because by now every other suggested male name conjured ugly memories of overbearing, insensitive or ladder climbing men. I love Drew, my husband’s name, but he vetoed a junior. We decided on my family name for his middle one. We settled on Robert Andrews. The lilt of the name reminded me of the melodies I played on the violin.

Our nursery stood ready with brightly painted stark white closets and dresser drawers stocked with diapers, onesie’s, tiny socks, and pacifiers. The child safety-rated blonde wood crib waited in a corner of the sky-blue room, watched over by a mobile that dangled yellow bumblebees from its attached wires.

At 20 weeks --halfway through my pregnancy -- Dr. R diagnosed me with gestational hypertension. Or, she explained, in layman’s terms, high blood pressure brought on by pregnancy. Scary for someone with my 40-year-old uterus, an organ approaching the last of its baby-carrying years.

Dr. R prescribed medication as well as preventive activities to engage in and some to avoid. I swallowed the pills and followed the orders with the precision of the mathematician that I am. I made myself – and Drew -- eat bitter kale, broccoli and even brussel sprouts, gave up my rare steak, charbroiled hamburgers and anything moo related. I learned to love tofu, my buttery chardonnay a vague memory. I even started a neighborhood walking club.

I knew, in the back of my mind, that the blood pressure diagnosis could get worse, turn into preeclampsia, which for those of you who, like me, never had to concern themselves with the term, means that my organs might shut down, or that the baby might not develop as he should. I’m a practical, logical – mathematician – person so I’d researched this worst-case scenario. Sometimes, to save the mother and child, the pregnancy is terminated

Because life is full of God’s tests, today at my 26-week check-up, Dr. R examined me and diagnosed the dreaded illness. I am pro-life and I’m willing to take the risk to bring my baby to term. Maybe I could make it another month or so, schedule a C-section and produce a premature, but otherwise healthy, infant.

I didn’t come to my anti-abortion view until after I earned my math Ph.D. My big, uncomfortable secret is that I’ve had an abortion. In grad school, a chardonnay and tequila shots “blow off some steam,” evening turned into a one-night stand. I was so inebriated I don’t even remember the sex, or the person I did it with. I do recall that my period was late, and at first, I wasn’t worried. I concentrated instead on my dissertation.

As soon as I finished my orals, I refocused on my period, which still hadn’t shown up. I peed on a stick and watched, horrified, as the pregnancy line appeared. I didn’t know what to do, or how I’d manage, so I ended up at a clinic that performed abortions. I had to pass the protesters and then, wait, shivering and white faced, alone in the waiting room.

I had no idea how painful – or humiliating --the process would be. It felt as though a mini sharp tined rake was being drawn across my uterus and I screamed. The unmoved doctor ignored me, moving quickly so he could perform the procedure on the other anxious women in the reception area. Two days of doubled over cramping, excessive bleeding and constant nausea followed.

I met Drew a month later, fell in love, married him, settled into our life, and prayed for a child. I asked God’s forgiveness for the abortion I thought might derail my plans and to atone I became active in the pro-life movement. This pregnancy is God’s way of saying he forgives me.

When the Dobbs decision allowed my state to ban abortion, I celebrated by buying a new maternity dress.

I listened to Dr. R describe how the fetus was not “compatible with life,” explaining that I might die if something wasn’t done immediately. I refused to believe her.

“What are the chances that you’re wrong about the baby and he’s fine?” I asked.

A somber expression appeared on her sharp features. “I’m sorry, but I think it’s zero. The cure is to remove the pregnancy which is banned now unless your life is in immediate danger. I can’t help you, but I can get you to a doctor in another state who can.”

I pulled my feet from the stirrups and swung around so fast, both Drew and the physician raised their hands, trying, I guess, to stop me. “Drew, this is nonsense. We need a second opinion.”

He ignored me and turned to the doctor. “Do we have any wiggle room here? Can we wait a couple of weeks?”

She frowned. “I’m sorry but I wouldn’t. The problem is that we don’t know when her life will be in danger, and she really could die if you can’t make it to a hospital fast enough. The safest course is for me to make an appointment for you with that doctor I told you about and ask him to meet you at the hospital.”

“Absolutely not,” I said, grabbing my underwear and new brightly colored maternity dress off the hook. After I tugged the garment over my expanding waistline, Drew reached for my hand.

“Honey,” he said. “I know what this baby means to you – to us—but I don’t want to lose you. I can’t bear the thought, if you died, it would kill me.”

I shook my head, hard. “I don’t believe in abortion. I’ve fought against it for years. I signed petitions, wrote to my representatives, went to meetings, almost agreed to protest at a clinic. I can not do this.” Tears wet my cheeks as I begged. “We may not have another chance. I want a second opinion. Please give us the name of a pro-life OB. I have to try to save this baby.”

“No,” my husband practically shouted. “You’re in shock and not thinking about this clearly. What we need to do is get in the car and drive to the hospital the doctor suggested. Now.”

“I want another opinion first.” I met Dr. R’s eyes, pleading for a name.

She nodded and sighed. “I’ll give you a referral, but I’ll call and see if I can get you in later today or, at the latest, tomorrow. This doctor won’t perform an induced delivery but should confirm my diagnosis.” 

She clicked her computer screen, scribbled a name on a prescription pad, tore it off and handed it to Drew before lifting her cell phone to her ear. I listened to her argue with the other doctor about an emergency appointment until that OB agreed to see me in the morning. Relieved, I smiled at Drew. “It’ll be fine. God won’t let me die or lose this baby; you’ll see.”

We drove home in silence and Drew guided me to bed. An hour later, seizures shook my body and I listened as Drew shouted at 911 to send an ambulance. “Someone please help us,” were the last words I heard my husband utter before I lost consciousness.