A year ago today, we terminated a pregnancy. We made the heartbreaking decision to let our daughter go after a grim diagnosis. This was by far the worst day of my life. I remember the day very vividly. I remember entering the operating room and just breaking down. One of the nurses took me in her arms and reassured me that a sick child wouldn’t have the life she deserved and this act was out of love and to spare her a lifetime of pain and suffering. She assured me that I was making the right decision for me and my family and understood my emotional turmoil.
The weeks following this procedure, I cried continually. I cried myself to sleep, I cried when I woke up, I cried throughout the day. I ached for my baby to be back inside of me. I ached for her to be healthy. I hated the card that I was dealt. I resented anyone with a healthy pregnancy. I hated anyone who welcomed healthy children into their lives because it seemed easy for them.
I look back on this past year and I recognize that a lot has changed. I am not religious and I am minimally spiritual, but for some reason, I feel like I have to thank my first daughter for sending me her sister, who is happily kicking away at the moment. In honor of our first daughter, we are naming our second daughter with the name we had chosen for her. I toyed with whether or not I wanted to name her with the same name, or if I wanted to choose a different name before I got pregnant and when we found out it was another girl. Ultimately, we decided to keep the name. The name is not only one we love, but it also honors her memory and gives more meaning to it, at least it does to us.