Have you ever wanted something so bad you'd do almost anything to get it?
At 24 years old, I had baby fever bad. Catching a glimpse of a baby in a stroller would make me weep. A toddler riding on their daddy's shoulders put me over the edge. Watching a grandmother rock and coo their little bitty grandchild, well, I couldn't wait for the day I would have a little one of my own. I wanted to be a mother in the worst way.
Call it baby envy or an overwhelming case of maternal instinct whenever I heard a child giggle in the middle of Target or witness a mother reprimand a misbehaving little one, I wanted to be that mother.
The desire to procreate became so overwhelming I purchased a soft, squishy doll about 6 inches tall and carried her with me everywhere I went. I'd stuff my substitute baby in my jacket pocket or purse and touch it throughout the day to soothe myself when the thoughts of motherhood blacked out any other dreams I had.
Because it wasn't the time to have a child.
I was newly single, having just made the shocking discovery that the man I was engaged to was STILL married to his ex-wife. I felt betrayed. I felt stupid. I felt such shame, wondering how I could not have known. How did he hide this from me? Was I that blind?
In between the name-calling I loaded on myself for my poor decision-making regarding men, I could not shake my all-consuming desire to have a child of my own.
Then the unthinkable happened. My period was late.
I wanted a baby so badly, I couldn't imagine not birthing the one inside me. But I was floundering and a complete mess. How could I support a baby?
It was unnerving when I found myself rubbing my belly as I snuggled in my bed each night or discovered I had placed my hand between my stomach and the steering wheel, using it as some sort of shield of protection when I was driving home from the grocery store.
Sometimes I'd allow myself to think up names; I liked Jeff and Stephanie. Leena could be a girl's name; I'd spell it using the letters of my mother's name, Ena, so if it were a girl, she wouldn't forget the grandma she had never met.
But my decision would soon be made for me. I was spotting. It was probably nothing, but I made an appointment with my gynecologist just to be safe.
My ignorance was about to be on full display as he informed me an ultrasound was needed to check on the baby's health. A reasonable request, I thought as I made my way to the only place you could get one back then, the hospital. He told me to go there immediately, stay in the waiting room when the procedure was over, and as soon as he could, he would share the results.
I sat on the bench in the waiting area, thumbing through magazines, trying to distract myself from the decision that weighed on me.
The nurse tapped me on the shoulder and informed me I had a phone call at the nursing station. After a quick hello, the rest of what my doctor had to say was utterly foreign to me.
"I'm sorry to inform you, but you have an ectopic pregnancy. The nurse will show you where to go. I will see you in surgery in twenty minutes." Then there was a click; the familiar dial tone was humming in my ears.
I tried to ask the nurse what he meant by surgery. What kind of surgery? But she didn't answer and directed me to a room where I was told to put on a hospital gown and lay down on a gurney, and then she wheeled me down a hallway.
Suddenly, my doctor appeared beside me with a surgical mask pushed down under his chin. As we entered a room with bright lights, the anesthesiologist placed a gas mask over my nose as my doctor said, "I will try to save your tubes."
"What?" I'm sure my eyes looked wild as I desperately tried to get my mouth to form the sentence, "What are you talking about?" But that never happened. I was out in seconds.
No one explained what an ectopic pregnancy was or what it could mean for my ability to have kids. There were no cell phones, computers, or Google back then, so I couldn't ask Siri what the definition of ectopic pregnancy was.
There was no mother to call—she had died ten years before—and no time to ask my older sister if she knew what it meant. No one went to the hospital with me. No one held my hand or told me everything was going to be all right.
It was just me, alone and scared and in need of a medical procedure that I desperately needed. I found out later that an ectopic pregnancy means almost certain death for the mother if the pregnancy isn't terminated.
I am alive today because I was given that care.
Today, I think of the 24-year-old version of me. I think of the girls and women who have already died—and who will die in the years ahead—because of the current state abortion bans that deny them the care they need to simply stay alive.
Like me, these girls and women have dreams and goals and a purpose that can only be achieved if they get the medical care they need. Waiting until they are close to death may prove to be too late. It has been for too many women already.
I vote for life, their life.
Have you ever wanted something so bad you'd do almost anything to get it?
At 24 years old, I had baby fever bad. Catching a glimpse of a baby in a stroller would make me weep. A toddler riding on their daddy's shoulders put me over the edge. Watching a grandmother rock and coo their little bitty grandchild, well, I couldn't wait for the day I would have a little one of my own. I wanted to be a mother in the worst way.
Call it baby envy or an overwhelming case of maternal instinct whenever I heard a child giggle in the middle of Target or witness a mother reprimand a misbehaving little one, I wanted to be that mother.
The desire to procreate became so overwhelming I purchased a soft, squishy doll about 6 inches tall and carried her with me everywhere I went. I'd stuff my substitute baby in my jacket pocket or purse and touch it throughout the day to soothe myself when the thoughts of motherhood blacked out any other dreams I had.
Because it wasn't the time to have a child.
I was newly single, having just made the shocking discovery that the man I was engaged to was STILL married to his ex-wife. I felt betrayed. I felt stupid. I felt such shame, wondering how I could not have known. How did he hide this from me? Was I that blind?
In between the name-calling I loaded on myself for my poor decision-making regarding men, I could not shake my all-consuming desire to have a child of my own.
Then the unthinkable happened. My period was late.
I wanted a baby so badly, I couldn't imagine not birthing the one inside me. But I was floundering and a complete mess. How could I support a baby?
It was unnerving when I found myself rubbing my belly as I snuggled in my bed each night or discovered I had placed my hand between my stomach and the steering wheel, using it as some sort of shield of protection when I was driving home from the grocery store.
Sometimes I'd allow myself to think up names; I liked Jeff and Stephanie. Leena could be a girl's name; I'd spell it using the letters of my mother's name, Ena, so if it were a girl, she wouldn't forget the grandma she had never met.
But my decision would soon be made for me. I was spotting. It was probably nothing, but I made an appointment with my gynecologist just to be safe.
My ignorance was about to be on full display as he informed me an ultrasound was needed to check on the baby's health. A reasonable request, I thought as I made my way to the only place you could get one back then, the hospital. He told me to go there immediately, stay in the waiting room when the procedure was over, and as soon as he could, he would share the results.
I sat on the bench in the waiting area, thumbing through magazines, trying to distract myself from the decision that weighed on me.
The nurse tapped me on the shoulder and informed me I had a phone call at the nursing station. After a quick hello, the rest of what my doctor had to say was utterly foreign to me.
"I'm sorry to inform you, but you have an ectopic pregnancy. The nurse will show you where to go. I will see you in surgery in twenty minutes." Then there was a click; the familiar dial tone was humming in my ears.
I tried to ask the nurse what he meant by surgery. What kind of surgery? But she didn't answer and directed me to a room where I was told to put on a hospital gown and lay down on a gurney, and then she wheeled me down a hallway.
Suddenly, my doctor appeared beside me with a surgical mask pushed down under his chin. As we entered a room with bright lights, the anesthesiologist placed a gas mask over my nose as my doctor said, "I will try to save your tubes."
"What?" I'm sure my eyes looked wild as I desperately tried to get my mouth to form the sentence, "What are you talking about?" But that never happened. I was out in seconds.
No one explained what an ectopic pregnancy was or what it could mean for my ability to have kids. There were no cell phones, computers, or Google back then, so I couldn't ask Siri what the definition of ectopic pregnancy was.
There was no mother to call—she had died ten years before—and no time to ask my older sister if she knew what it meant. No one went to the hospital with me. No one held my hand or told me everything was going to be all right.
It was just me, alone and scared and in need of a medical procedure that I desperately needed. I found out later that an ectopic pregnancy means almost certain death for the mother if the pregnancy isn't terminated.
I am alive today because I was given that care.
Today, I think of the 24-year-old version of me. I think of the girls and women who have already died—and who will die in the years ahead—because of the current state abortion bans that deny them the care they need to simply stay alive.
Like me, these girls and women have dreams and goals and a purpose that can only be achieved if they get the medical care they need. Waiting until they are close to death may prove to be too late. It has been for too many women already.
I vote for life, their life.
