We had our follow-up ultrasound. And after the discussion of many potential issues that our baby might face– ranging from a heart defect requiring immediate surgery to Downs Syndrome to ohmyheck, we don’t really know but the list of what-ifs is long …
We were told that aside from a niggling heart muscle detail that is most likely not really a thing, our baby looks healthy.
Which means they were wrong.
Weeks ago, when I sat in the exam room and was assured that I was a good candidate for a “voluntary interruption of pregnancy” (i.e., an abortion) due to “the circumstances” … they were also wrong.
So if I had been inclined to feel that raising a special needs child was overwhelming, or if I had viewed a life with Downs as incomprehensible, I could have killed a perfectly healthy baby out of fear thanks to faulty information.
Since sharing our story, I have lost track of the number of people who have reached out and shared that their experience was the same. And while I am grateful that our story seems to be falling onto the path of the cautionary tale (“There were concerns that he had XYZ, but they were wrong…”) I can’t help but grieve the mothers who are given that same kind of potential prognosis and simply can’t see living that life, for whatever reason. How many mothers who might have otherwise chosen to parent or consider adoption have grabbed on to the idea of “interruption of pregnancy” and taken it as a refuge from a flurry of conflicting reports and medical tests that say their baby is “defective” when in truth, he or she is just fine?
I won’t debate the definition of “fine” or “perfect,” as it applies to human life. Last night, I was privileged to view The Drop Box, a film that chronicles mightily the story of what can happen when God erases our idea of perfect and opens our eyes to what the word “purpose” is really all about. Then I came home, and I peeked in dark bedrooms to check on my sleeping children. All of them– “perfect” and “special.” I thanked God for each of them: the ones for whom the question, “Is this worth it?” was never asked, and the ones whose birth hinged on that dangling, leading word: choice.
For us, there was never a question of denying this baby the chance to live. There is no reason, for us, compelling enough to consider ending a pregnancy. But for others, the lines are not so black and white. And for them, I pray that the testing is sound. I pray that the doctors are always right. I pray that the numbers never lie. I pray that there is never a moment when a conservative medical professional feels the need to caution them about the odds, or remind them that there is an option should they not like the hand they may have been dealt.
Because sometimes, doctors are wrong.