We watched our little one wiggle and squirm on the ultrasound while the tech tried (mostly unsuccessfully) to get an image at the right angle so they could measure the neck for Down syndrome.
We opted out of everything except for the most basic genetic testing that insurance covers because it doesn’t really matter to us. Or at least, the outcome of the testing has no direct correlation to us continuing or not continuing with the pregnancy. That has never been a question for us.
We prayed for this little one, and whether they are completely healthy or not, they are ours. Ours to love. Ours to fight for.
As I watched my baby wiggle and squirm and clasp its little hands together, I was completely in awe of what God was doing.
At thirteen weeks we could see our sweet ones little outline almost perfectly formed. Nose. Lips. Arms. Legs. All of his or her fingers and toes wiggling around and responding to my own movements.
We are already so in love with this little being. And at just two and a half inches long, it’s humanity isn’t even a question.
It’s one thing looking at a still ultrasound. A blurry grainy captured side profile printed in a long sheet. It’s another thing completely to watch the little ball of life twisting and turning and adjusting and sleeping and waking all in the safety of your belly.
Our ultrasound tech had me shift from side to side and back to my back over and over again to try and get the baby to adjust correctly to the right angle. As I suspected, every time I was moved to my side, the baby immediately went to sleep. This is literally the only way I can rest myself so it made sense that that was more due to the babies preference than anything else.
The second the tech had me move to my back, the baby would wake up again and start twisting around and flailing its hands, trying to get comfortable. She had me cough to get the baby to move, and watching it respond to something as small as a cough, or my laughter was absolutely astounding. It was one of the most incredible things I have ever seen, and ironically I’m grateful it took so long to get the correct image because it gave us just a little bit longer getting to see our precious babe moving around.
While there was so much relief in having the confirmation that at 13 weeks everything still looked perfect, I couldn’t help but feel a pit in my stomach well up after that appointment.
At thirteen weeks we had already fallen so in love with this little one, and been so lucky to have already had multiple ultrasounds where we were able to see what life really looks like as it grows in the womb.
But the thing that kills me is I still have a choice.
I have eleven more weeks to decide if I want to continue with this pregnancy. I don’t need any medical reason, or any reason at all other than the fact that I have rights over my own body that my precious child doesn’t. This baby, this completely innocent perfect baby, has no ability to defend itself, and legally no “right” to life, even though I have watched it bloom on the ultrasound machine for the last 7 weeks. Even though I have watched it wiggle and squirm and use its teeny tiny fingers to touch its face. Even though I have watched it adjust to movement and sound, and seen it literally grow from less than an inch to almost three. I have seen the proof of life, but it doesn’t matter, because I have a choice, and someone somewhere decided that my ability to “choose” is more important than my babies right to live.
And before anyone starts arguing that a baby is not really alive because it can’t live on its own, that’s completely arbitrary too. Infants as young as 22 weeks have been successfully delivered and saved through incredible neonatal care units and dedicated nursing staff, which is to say that infants delivered when it is still legal to abort them have gone on to live perfectly normal healthy lives.
Not to mention the amount of people that could be deemed “not really alive” based on those standards because of their complete reliance on other people for basic functions. That is true of infants outside of the womb as well and a lot of small children, not to mention disabled people, medically fragile people, and even elderly people. By that logic anyone requiring a tracheotomy to breathe, or a breathing machine, or oxygen could be classified as not really alive because they have no ability to stay alive of their own accord. But you would never question their right to life. Even though in a lot of those cases, their condition is more likely to worsen than improve.
Anyone in a coma relying on machines to complete all basic functions for them could be put in that category as well, and yet we see family at their bedside sitting and praying for a miracle. Willing them to wake up. Asking God to bring their loved ones back. Some of these people have no guarantee of waking up, ever, and if they do, it could be with severe brain damage and disabilities, but where there is hope, still we press on.
Unlike with a coma patient, we have an exact timeline as to when an infant will officially be able to breathe on their own. There is no question of “if” they will, but simply when.
So why is my “choice” more important that my babies life? I don’t think it is.
I don’t think any “choice” should ever be more important than another life, whether that life is an infant one or otherwise.
So my encouragement is this: mama’s, be candid about your pregnancies. Tell people what it’s really like to watch your baby (and yes use the word baby) wiggle and squirm and grow. Tell them how tiny your baby was the first time you saw it’s heartbeat on the screen. How many weeks along you were the first time you watched it wiggle it’s little arms. Remind them how alive this precious little miracle is, and how equally valuable life is. All life. Theirs, and yours, and the precious fragile baby growing inside of you. They cannot advocate for themselves yet. It’s up to us.