Essential Estrogen

While shuffling through the email that had accumulated in my inbox while I was away from the computer, I found the following note (changed slightly to protect the writer):

... I am 23 years old. I just lost my daughter on March 27... Nothing changes the fact that my daughter is gone. And no matter what I would do, it doesn't change my broken heart and the feeling of emptiness. I was hoping you might have some advice for me. I'm at a loss and just daze off into nothing a lot. I have a support system and they are doing all they know how to do... I need someone who has been here before. I found your poem to your son and I thought you might be able to tell me something. Anything you can offer would be deeply appreciated...

Without fail, at least once a week, I not only receive, but read and answer email messages written by women who have suffered some form of pregnancy loss. No matter where the women who contact me are within their own grief, I feel compelled to tell them up front that they will never again feel whole. While time has done a remarkable job of healing the edges of the hole that has been placed through my stomach -- and it feels as real as a shotgun blast -- even time cannot fully close the gap.

I've been through three pregnancy losses -- the first mid-term, the second full-term and the last in early pregnancy. The first loss happened nearly 13 years ago. Three years later, the unthinkable happened again. The final blow came just months after the full-term stillbirth. Since that time I've been open about what happened in each of the pregnancies and about the details of the losses. Because of that openness, I'm sure many believe that I'm "passed it" or that I've "moved on." The truth is that I haven't. More importantly, I've come to understand that despite the fact that I've had two more healthy children following the losses, I will never be fully passed what happened. There will always be that unexpected smell, tune, flower, color or something that triggers an unhappy memory.

I think this path more than anything else is what places me, as well as other women who've had similar circumstances, in a precarious position. I can honestly and truthfully say that I've never met a woman who has gone through pregnancy loss who was not in favor of a woman's right to choose. I think that's because we have a greater understanding of the true emotional and physical toll that can come with a pregnancy. By that same token, we've all had starring roles in the grief process. We know how much hurt and misery follows the loss of a wanted and loved child. It's a tightrope walk through egg shells that leaves us without comfortable footing at either end of the reproductive health debate.

On one hand, those who refuse to see abortion or birth control as ever being a necessary or moral choice do not grasp the real and true danger we know exists within pregnancy. There are times that pregnancy feels more like a blindfolded walk across hot coals on the edge of a cliff than an occasion to celebrate and await the joyous arrival.

On the other hand, women who have been through pregnancy and child loss never want another woman to experience what they have. We will do everything in our power to ensure that the choice a woman has made -- regardless of what that choice may be -- is the one she wants. Choice is a serious responsibility, and with responsibility comes risks and consequences. While this rarely puts us at odds with others within the pro-choice community, there have been instances.

We are either the loose cannons or the peace makers, depending on your point of view. But our stories are powerful, honest and raw. To put it bluntly, we cut through the crap of protesters, lawmakers shifting in their seats, Supreme Court appointments, and clinic bombings to arrive at the only thing that really matters -- the family, the woman, the specific situation. That scares the hell out of those on either side of the issue who line their pockets with the misfortune of others.

A few years ago, I was invited to come to a predominately anti-abortion conference to share the story of my first pregnancy loss. It was a pregnancy that I very much wanted, but it was never meant to be. Due to several severe neural tube defects, the child I was carrying would die. It was also doubtful that I'd ever make it to term. Roughly 26 weeks into the pregnancy, and after visiting several doctors, we made the decision to terminate. I think because of that experience, I somewhat understand what families go through as they debate if a loved one should be removed from life support. Although I never want another family to be placed in that spot, I will say that I'm very grateful the decision was ours -- not the doctors' and, definitely, not the government's.

The organizers of this particular conference, at my prodding, also invited another woman I'd been corresponding with for several months. She had lost a daughter to anencephaly -- one of the terminal defects that also took the life of my son -- but she and her family chose a different path. Absent other major defects, she was able to carry to term and gave birth to a daughter, who lived for 13 minutes after birth.

Although I hadn't considered it before arriving that day, I think many in the audience were prepared for what they thought would be a heated exchange between my friend and me. At the end of our part of the program, however, I don't recall there being a tear-free face. I confessed that I always assumed the other woman -- not to mention the general public -- thought less of me because of my decision to terminate. She then admitted that she had felt somewhat obligated to carry to term, and did so more out of fear of what people would say and think than out of a real want or desire. She wanted her older children to have a support group around them, and worried that a decision to terminate might keep some from giving that type of grief support to them.

She said, given the social climate, she took the "easy way out." Ironic, isn't it? Carrying a child for nine months -- knowing for most of that time that once you give birth the child will die, if he/she doesn't die during birth -- then birthing and spending 13 minutes before watching your daughter take her last breath is considered the "easy way out."

On the other hand, because of my decision to terminate, I lost the support of both family and friends. Our family was pushed from our church because our "situation caused a rift within the congregation." On the day I chose to remove life support on someone I knew so briefly yet loved so dearly, I walked through layers of protesters who screamed that I was a murderess. Once inside, I learned that my son had already died a few days earlier, and that I'd spend the next weeks fighting a serious infection.

I need to close this post because I know there is a woman somewhere out there who won't sleep tonight... or maybe will sleep for hours and hours, trying to ignore the emptiness that's been left behind. I don't know the exact circumstances of her loss. In all honesty, it doesn't matter... and it shouldn't ever matter.