Dear Sandra and Ray

Dear Sandra and Ray,

Let’s start with what we have in common. We think babies are precious. I should know – I gave birth to one nine months ago. Here’s her picture: blue eyes like her mama, square eyebrows like her dad. I marvel everyday as I feed her from my body, lift her high to smell lilacs for the first time, watch her face erupt in a grin when her daddy walks into the room. We made this being and yes it’s a cliché – but I feel so lucky that we get to watch her grow up. We named her Meridian, as in the meridians of energy through the body, the Prime Meridian wrapping around the globe, the meridian (high point) of the day.

My first pregnancy three years earlier was not as planned. Don’t worry, I was married – in fact I think it was the lingering romance just a few weeks after the wedding that allowed us to – unconsciously/consciously – neglect to put on the condom a few times. I remember peeing on the stick while my husband Morgan was out of town and texting him a picture of the two pink lines. (His response – one wide-eyed emoji.) But the rest of that first trimester is a blur - until an ultrasound at 12 weeks when the technician told us there was “something wrong with the baby’s chin.”

As a pregnant woman, the medical industry of obstetrical care offers you a LOT of things to worry about, especially if you have a didelphys (double) uterus or are of “advanced maternal age” like me. But this was the first time I heard we should be concerned about a chin. It sounded so unnecessarily alarmist – the fetus was the size of a lime according to my What to Expect app, what did its chin matter at this point? But we dutifully went to the high-risk OB we were referred to, where the waiting room was full of young Orthodox Jewish couples dressed in black and gray, sitting silently next to each other. We figured they were getting extensive genetic testing – like for Tay-Sachs, which Morgan’s brother and wife had found out they were carriers for during their second pregnancy.

The specialist did another ultrasound and told us that it was more than likely a wait and see situation since it was so early on. But of course they didn’t miss a chance to send us for more tests. Their fertility specialist Shoshana became our genetic counselor. We called her our “Genetic Concierge” since we were on the phone with her multiple times a day as she walked us through the blood panels and Panorama test (both normal), then the amnio and microarray analysis. (This one was truly the worst, due to my deathly fear of needles.) After two weeks, the amnio results were clear; another two weeks and the results of the microarray analysis were normal. We felt freed for a moment from the clutches of the Western medicalized system. We went to lunch with friends at Junior’s Cheesecake and revealed to them that it was a boy (you can’t avoid finding that out when doing genetic testing). I had an appetite finally and polished off the cheeseburger and accompanying fries. Then my phone rang. Shira informed me that now they wanted us to come in for a 3-D ultrasound. “Is 3D just what social media requires these days?!” I said bitterly to the table. But we scheduled the ultrasound for the next day, fine. If that’s what they wanted.

Back at the high-risk OBs, yet another tool was placed against my only-slightly protruding belly. As we gazed at the strange image, we could both see it – this little being, our mutual collaboration, was missing something.

I wish you could have been there, but let me describe it to you: everything looked fine from forehead down to lips, then the profile suddenly dipped, fell back, and there was a massive slant down to the neck.

The doctor moved us into his stark office – a single framed medical license on the wall and a plain desk – simple and uncluttered, like the truth. Morgan clarified – “So despite all the tests – even though there is nothing genetically wrong showing up – the physical problem at this level is… bad enough?”

Yes, the doctor said, he would even go so far as saying it was not micrognathia – a small chin – but in fact agnathia – no chin. And the most pronounced case he had ever seen, which meant massive hospitalizations at the very least. At the worst, immediate death.

Morgan and I got in the elevator, tears streaming down our faces, and made our first parenting decision. We knew we had to save our child from pain.

***

Unlike for my sister-in-law in Maine, there was a surgical option for a second-trimester termination in New York… an abortion clinic.

When we walked up to the clinic that day, that’s when I saw you. Sandra, you wore a flowery dress. Ray, you held a sign. You said something, taunted us as Morgan and I passed - something along the lines of Jesus wants all babies to live. If I hadn’t seen the sign I would have thought you were kind older people clinging to each other, sharing well wishes with passersby. When I figured it out, I went numb, which I think is what happens when a blinding rage has nowhere to go. I remembered what I had heard – often folks aren’t even actual pro-life supporters, but are paid – like $50 a day or so – to stand there and yell at women. I almost felt sorry for you. Almost. I wondered if maybe you had made enough money for the day because when we came out of the clinic back on busy Park Avenue, you were gone.

***

Now, with my baby girl standing up on my lap, pulling off my glasses, laughing when I make raspberries in her ear, I thank the Goddess for what we went through. I thank those beings who came before her. It put us in the right place for our Meridian (high point).

I feel like I can only reach out to you now because I finally have this baby – any baby – like I guess you wanted me to. Maybe now you would think I was acceptable. I don’t know if you were passionate about your stance, or just paid for your time. I don’t even know your names. I imagine you as Sandra and Ray. Two older people with one sign. I want to go back to Park Avenue on a day that you’re protesting – me, my husband, and our smiling infant. You might even hug us, affectionately poke Meridian’s little button of a nose. Some part of me would love that.

And then I could ask you - How would you have wanted me to do it, Sandra? When I saw you on the worst day of my life - what did you want your sign to do to me, Ray? Did you want to insert yourself into my doctor appointments? Would you have sat with me when they outlined exactly the kinds of pain my child would have felt throughout his entire life? Would you have tried to control my questions, told the doc to deny me all the information I was seeking, all the options I desperately needed, prayed for me while dooming me to bring my child into life only to suffer? Or perhaps you would have liked to determine the way that I had the termination - made me go through a labor that would have resulted in more physical and mental suffering. Put my body through that to satisfy your beliefs?

Then I would ask - Have you given birth, Sandra? (I know you haven’t, Ray.) When I finally gave birth to Meridian (nine days late, and nope, not a C-section after all), I found I had to match the power of each contraction with a loud sound, a deep OOOOOOOOOOH! that went on as long as the contraction did, to be able to make it through the pain. Did you have an experience like that? Well, now that I have been through a “real” birth, I can tell you – that decision to terminate was a birth too. I had to become BIGGER to make that decision - bigger than my body and the trauma it was going to go through. Connected to a higher source of wisdom, of compassion, of truth. One birth was training for the other. And both were the actions of a parent - the age-old sacrifice for what is best for another being. The joy and pain in that. I don’t know if you have kids, Sandra and Ray - no judgment if not. Just, if you do, then you know what I mean.

I used to think the term pro-choice was kind of wishy-washy – just avoiding the word abortion it felt like. Generalizing and sanitizing until it’s almost a meaningless phrase. Sure, aren’t we all “pro” having choice in our lives? But I think of it differently now. To be for choice – your own and that of people you don’t even know – means accepting that we all have a power greater than ourselves, that we may have to grow bigger in order to handle it.

Will you trust me, Sandra and Ray? Will you finally give me that love? I’ve finally tried to fulfill my fantasy, to imagine I actually know your names. If I could, I would wrap my arms around your imaginary shoulders. Pull you into a deep, juicy hug. I’d show you pictures of my sweet baby, videos of her crawling and cooing. I’d tell you my whole story, all the gory details. Your faces would soften, you’d put down your sign. You’d cry with me maybe, grip my arm during the tough parts. You’d recognize in me a good parent, a strong woman. You’d share with me the sorrow, and now the sweet joy. No judgment, no wishing it was different - you’d understand that the pain is what got me to this point and creates the beautiful picture now. You’d wipe your eyes and ask for a copy to put on your fridge. You would celebrate with me this life-giving force – and the life-taking which is just the other side of the coin. I know it’s scary to accept it. But you can be bigger than yourself, too. Please. Love me and trust me and give me my autonomy. You owe me so much more, but nothing less. Give me my choice.

Addendum: This piece was written before the Dobbs decision and overturn of Roe v. Wade. I hope my story - and plea for my autonomy to be respected - can still be heard, amidst the pain, chaos, and sharp politicization of the moment. I’d like to think the compassion I try to express for those “on the other side” could have an effect. I’m honestly not sure. But I believe we have to continue to share our stories - they are the real truth behind these headlines; the expression of actual lives, bodies, and minds that are affected by these decisions. Our stories assert our autonomy when it is being ignored or wiped away. They are political acts, and they have impact. At least, I have to believe that. ~Julie Kline