And even though the subject of marriage, let alone child bearing, had not yet come up between Andrew and me—we’d only been dating for three months—we got engaged. Neither one of us had any idea what we were doing or what to expect, but there were things we strongly believed to be true: that we were in love, that our baby was made from this love, and that we were going to do our best to nourish the new life we had created together. We’d had sex, the pill didn’t work, and we made a baby. The question of whether I wanted one was moot. I knew that somehow my whole life had led me there, and I felt I had to take responsibility for my actions. Step up. Grow up.
- “Listen to me, Mira. ‘Partial Birth’ abortion is an inaccurate term,” is what Dr. Stein told me, over the phone, when I’d finally accepted her phone call. “You must understand that.” She explained how the term I had used to describe the D&E was a political one. Incorrect. Inaccurate. Charged with meaning. That the phrase was coined by the National Right to Life Committee, and that it was not recognized as a medical term by the American Medical Association. Or the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists. That the term “partial birth abortion” was false. A generalization. A terrible term. She told me that my situation, right now, was my body’s. That I hadn’t done anything wrong, that I couldn’t have prevented any of this, that I needed to understand this, and that this was a decision I needed to make for myself based on what was best for me. And that the best decision, the healthiest choice, for me, in her opinion, as a health professional, as my doctor, was to terminate the pregnancy, immediately. The only one who was going to survive this was me. Period.