THE DAY I CONSIDERED ABORTION
Could I trust God despite my baby’s potential birth defects?
Andrea Stone
I had no reason to suspect I was pregnant; my period was only a day or two late. But all weekend, I just didn’t feel right. So first thing Monday morning, I took a pregnancy test.
Positive.
I felt as though a lightning bolt struck me. The test couldn’t be right. Two years earlier, my husband, Joe, had had a vasectomy. Joe and I’d been married seven years, and we already had two children—a four-year-old daughter and a not-quite-two-year-old son. We were convinced our family was complete; at 39 and 33, Joe and I felt too old for new-baby all-nighters again.
Then cold fear squeezed my heart: I was on Accutane, a prescription acne medication known to cause severe birth defects.
The rest of the day was a blur of raw emotion and overwhelming worry. My physician rushed me into her office and verified the home-pregnancy test results. She referred me to a genetic counselor, telling me not to make any decisions till I saw her. She never said “abortion,” but she alluded to it.
My husband and I grew up believing and loving God. We were convinced abortion was murder. How could anyone kill a helpless baby just because the child was “inconvenient”? That’s what I thought—until God rocked my world that February morning.
Days later, we met with the genetic counselor. Based on my age, my relatively short time on Accutane (two months), and my forgetting to take two doses the week I conceived, the genetic counselor told us our chances of having a baby with severe defects were 30 percent. Then she described the drug’s potential effects: organ defects, malformed head, misshapen ears, or no ears at all. She said we needed to decide whether to go through with the pregnancy. Horrified, my brain shut down. Joe was in a state of shock. I cried. Joe held me but didn’t say much. What could he say?
Next I saw the dermatologist who’d prescribed the medication; he told me horror stories about babies whose mothers had been on Accutane, and pleaded with me to abort. Pulling myself together, I assured him that I’d consider this option, but that I wasn’t ready to make a decision.
The genetic counselor had said I was likely to miscarry. So for a few weeks, I clung to that hope. If God would take the baby, I wouldn’t have to agonize over my decision. It would be out of my hands. But the pregnancy continued. I had morning sickness. I gained weight. And I didn’t miscarry.
I passed Planned Parenthood’s office one day as I drove home from work. It would be so easy to go in there, take care of this problem, and go on with my life, I thought. Who could condemn me for making such a painful decision?
But suddenly, I realized I’d been trying all along to answer the wrong question. The question wasn’t, “Should I have an abortion?” but, “Do I trust God?” Everything became clear: I’d told God he was Lord of my life. Now I needed to act on that belief.
But deciding to continue my pregnancy didn’t make it any easier. When I was six months pregnant, Joe and I passed a group of special-needs kids in the mall. One had suffered such severe burns, I wasn’t sure whether the child was a boy or girl. Shocked, I did a double take. Then, after they passed, I sobbed in the middle of the mall. Will people do that when they see my baby?
Some days I knew God was at work. I felt closer to him than ever before. My family, who lived 2,000 miles away, prayed for us constantly. Friends from church also loved us, prayed for us, and supported us. Yet despite all these caring people and my loving husband, I still felt alone; no one could completely share my pain.
Most of the time, however, I was afraid I’d made the wrong decision. Sometimes I went days without praying. So much raw emotion spilled out when I did, I couldn’t handle it.
In October, my doctor induced labor. I’d had seven ultrasounds, and whenever the radiologist noticed a potential problem, later ultrasounds proved OK. But we knew not every problem showed up on an ultrasound. Right up to the end, Joe and I weren’t sure what to expect.
The night our daughter was born, my husband rocked her and started to cry. “Can you believe they wanted us to kill her? And here she is—perfect.” Her heart was fine. Her head was normal. We would have aborted a perfectly healthy baby.
Faith turned three last October. Joe chose her name halfway through my pregnancy because we were on such a journey of faith. People always comment on what a happy child Faith is. I’m convinced she’s happy just to be alive. And when Faith smiles at me with her little dimpled cheeks, I thank God I scraped together a mustard seed of faith and didn’t have the abortion.
Once, a few months after we’d had Faith, someone asked if we thought God allowed her to be healthy because we were faithful. Absolutely not. God decided to make her that way because he’s God, not because of anything we did or didn’t do. When we give our life to God, it belongs to him, and he can do anything he pleases. If Faith had been born with severe birth defects, we still would have loved her—no matter what.
Today my faith in God is different. It’s no longer merely intellectual. It’s alive, deep, strong. As Joe and I grow in trusting God, life gets even more exciting. We never know what tomorrow will bring, because God’s in charge.
Abortion no longer is a political election-year issue to me. It’s personal. It’s raw and powerful. My blood turns cold when I think how easily I could have gone to Planned Parenthood and ended my struggle. I’d have gone on with my life, but I’d never have known the joy of Faith.
Andrea Stone is a freelance writer who lives in Maine.