“Did you know? My heartbeat began just 18 days after conception!” A cheerful baby image gazes down at us as we embark on a much-needed vacation from the Twin Cities to Duluth. Thank you, Pro-Life America, for the reminder that the tiny embryo I once carried didn’t have a heartbeat when it was supposed to.
“Real men adore babies,” another sign asserts, and I can wholeheartedly confirm that the “real man” in my life has an immense love for children. Just witness how he interacts with our adorable nephews. However, my husband won’t be welcoming fatherhood this January as we once imagined. I experienced a miscarriage around the same time another sign reminded me that my fetus would’ve developed fingerprints by nine weeks post-conception.
Had I not experienced pregnancy firsthand, I might have missed the subtle distinctions here. Counting from conception makes nine weeks sound much sooner than the eleven weeks typically used by the medical community and nearly all expectant mothers.
These signs upset me on multiple fronts. I’ve identified as pro-choice for as long as I can remember. Growing up Catholic, the pro-choice perspective handed down by my mother during church was rather unique. While the priest preached against abortion, I innocently asked my mom what it was. She explained that if the priest had his way, women might resort to dangerous methods like coat hangers to terminate unwanted pregnancies. (She later apologized for being so graphic, recalling how young and impressionable I was at the time). My mom’s words resonated with me far more than the priest’s did.
My college guitar, adorned with various stickers, proudly displays one that reads “pro-child, pro-family, pro-choice.” A book gifted by my oldest sister, Our Bodies Ourselves, and a friend’s sharing of her teenage abortion experience solidified this perspective as non-negotiable.
Yet, I hadn’t contemplated the emotional weight of this stance until recently. Writing this feels as vulnerable as when I sat in a hospital gown at 4 AM discussing the state of my uterus with an ER doctor. I understand that people I care about hold fundamentally different views on this issue, but I’m sharing my story in hopes that we can each navigate our own paths. If yours is similar, my heart goes out to you.
A month and a half before that emergency room visit, I was overjoyed to discover I was pregnant. My online searches were filled with baby product ads, reflecting my anticipation and excitement. Planning was my forte, and this news aligned perfectly with our vacation timeline and my work schedule.
In line with tradition, I decided to wait to share my news until after 12 weeks (as the world counts it, not from conception). Eight weeks in, my older sister texted me with her own exciting news: she was also eight weeks pregnant! I was overjoyed to respond with “me too!” It was thrilling to think about our children growing up as cousins so close in age.
That joy quickly turned to sorrow as I learned I was experiencing a miscarriage—first possibly, then probably, and ultimately, definitively. The depth of emotion I felt about wanting a child was profound and unexpected. It was a feeling I hadn’t anticipated, certainly not from someone like me, who values science and understands the statistical realities of pregnancy loss. Biology—or simply bad luck—robbed me of my choice to carry this child, leaving me devastated.
I can hardly fathom how much more painful it would be to have the choice to terminate a pregnancy denied by law. I suspect the emotions those women experience when choosing to end a pregnancy mirror the intensity of what I felt about my choice to become pregnant. As I lay on the couch during my miscarriage, I reflected on the news surrounding Whole Woman’s Health v. Hellerstedt. I simply cannot support denying a woman the right to a safe, legal abortion. If I can choose to be pregnant, then others should have the right to choose not to be. It’s that straightforward.
I find these signs infuriating, a constant reminder that I am no longer pregnant. I am angry that someone believes they know better than women about the fate of their own bodies.
Driving through states where these billboards are prevalent, I felt overwhelmed by their presence. To cope, I began reading each sign aloud, humorously adding “begins at conception” to the end, akin to the classic fortune cookie twist:
“Wendy’s French Fries Exit 11 begins at conception.”
“Recreational loans for ATVs and Snowmobiles begin at conception.”
It may seem callous, but those signs felt callous too.
As I reflect on my journey, I am reminded of the importance of choice—whether it’s about pregnancy or any other aspect of our lives. It’s essential that women have autonomy over their bodies and their choices, a belief that I hold dearer than ever.
For more insights on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource. And if you’re considering options for conception, this site is a great authority on the subject. For further reading, visit this blog post for more on home insemination.
Summary
In this reflective piece, Jamie Lee shares her personal experience with miscarriage and how it has strengthened her pro-choice beliefs. Through her narrative, she emphasizes the importance of choice regarding pregnancy, acknowledging the deep emotional impact of both wanting and losing a child. The author critiques societal messages that undermine women’s autonomy over their bodies and highlights the need for safe, legal abortion access.