At 4:00 p.m. I went to the local clinic for a routine ultrasound. I was 26 weeks along and ecstatic to be a first-time mom. I left the clinic thinking that all was well with my womb. An hour later, the phone rang. A nurse told me that I needed to come back the next morning. The doctor needed to speak with me. I couldn’t sleep that night. There was something wrong with my baby, so wrong that I couldn’t be told over the phone.
I was 22 years old; my boyfriend, Jeff, was 21. He was just as thrilled as I was to be a parent. We weren’t your average young couple, but up to this point, I had the average pregnancy. The next day I met with Dr. Ephgrave, my doctor’s partner. My regular obstetrician was out of town. With no expression, she told me: “The ultrasound shows that your baby has something called anencephaly. He has an opening on the top of his head. I’m not going to lie. He’s not going to live. He probably won’t even make it through the delivery. Spare yourself that pain. We can get you in on Monday to have a late-stage abortion.”
I was furious. I was six months pregnant. I loved this baby. And this woman had the nerve to reveal his condition to me like she was reporting the weather. “There will be no more conversation about this,” I told her. I stormed out of the clinic in tears. I pulled my mom out of work. Hysterically, I told her about the woman’s attempt to push me into an abortion. Mom calmed me down, looked into my eyes and said, “You never know. Miracles do happen.”
When I told Jeff about the doctor’s suggestion he considered agreeing with her. “You know, Miranda, maybe if we do it, we can have another baby sooner,” he said. But I refused. I have always been pro-life about other people’s children. And now, I was definitely pro-life about my own. I scheduled a visit with Dr. Stoltz, my regular physician, who didn’t provide much comfort. He referred me to a perinatologist, a baby specialist. But Dr. Stoltz didn’t forget to add, “You can still do a D&C if you change your mind.”
Dr. Boyle, the perinatologist to whom we were referred, was amazing—I thank God for him. He explained everything in great detail. Dr. Boyle carefully told us that most anencephalic babies are not born breathing. So we prepared ourselves for the worst and prayed for the best.
When Nathan was born his airway was plugged. The nurses just stood around, doing nothing, but my mom started yelling, “Clear the airway! Clear the airway!” So they did. With his first breath my little boy showed off his big cheeks. He had a thick mop of dark hair and he looked like Jeff. Nathan had big, deep eyes. Except for the open spot on his head, he was perfect. And we got to hold him during the little life he lived.
Nathan started having difficulty breathing while I was holding him in bed. I handed him to Jeff. He never came back from the problem breathing. Nathan lived a few minutes short of 10 hours—longer
than the doctors said he would. I didn’t know that I could cry so hard. I was 22 years old and now I was faced with planning a baby’s funeral.
Two weeks after Nathan died, Jeff’s friend asked me if I could take care of her baby for a month. I don’t know how she had the guts to ask. But I’m glad she did. That little boy was born a month and a
half before my son. I even accidentally called him Nathan. But he helped me begin healing. I rocked and loved him. And he helped me realize that life would go on.
Today, Jeff and I are married. Our little girl, Hannah, gives us more joy than we ever anticipated. I am overprotective of her to a fault. Jeff and I are thrilled to be blessed with our daughter and our own lives. And we know that Nathan is happy and looking down on us. My husband and I see the silver lining in our tragedy. Jeff is now very pro-life. He is grateful he had a chance to hold his son. When Nathan was born my parents were considering divorce. But his short life helped repair their 28-year marriage. Nathan helped us understand why every person has value. I will continue sharing his story
until everyone realizes that even the shortest life can make the greatest impact.