.png){kind=logo}
By Darcy Houchin
In 2019, my husband and I decided we wanted to begin the process of family planning. I went to the doctor to discuss what this meant, and after many appointments and lab draws, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS). The medication I was prescribed to treat PCOS helped, but I didn't expect that it would take years until I would finally be able to conceive.
In February 2024, I was visiting my sister in Alaska when I decided to take a pregnancy test and saw a faint positive. I was scheduled to fly home the day before Valentine’s Day to celebrate our 7-year wedding anniversary and planned to surprise my husband with the news. But before returning home, I miscarried. I remember lying on my sister's guest room floor, crying so much I was vomiting. Instead of celebrating our first child together when I returned home, my husband and I held each other closer and did our best to carry on. We never saw them on an ultrasound.
After losing my dad as a teenager, a best friend in high school, and my grandmother, who was my closest family member, shortly before this, I was no stranger to having to say goodbye to loved ones. This loss hurt, but nothing could have prepared me for what I would soon endure.
The following month, without really trying, we found ourselves with another positive pregnancy test, just 4 days after my 29th birthday. Unable to contain our excitement, we bought an at-home blood test to determine the sex of the baby and learned we were expecting a girl. We excitedly talked about everything under the sun to prepare for our desperately wanted baby.
My husband accompanied me to every doctor's visit and every ultrasound. My first ultrasound was at 8 weeks, and I remember being told to breathe because I was holding my breath waiting for the technician to confirm there was a heartbeat. There was. I spent every free minute over the next few weeks saying, “Once I get through the first trimester, I'll be in the clear.” I changed my habits to make my body the best home for our baby girl. When I reached 14 weeks — the second trimester — we celebrated. The first trimester had been hard. I hated every second of being pregnant, but it was so worth it, and I would do it all over again if given the chance.
In June 2024, I invited my family to an ultrasound place so they could all see the baby and we could confirm the sex. During my pregnancy, everyone joked that we were probably having a boy because the blood test had said girl. Well, they were right — and we all got to see my son moving around on the screen, happy and healthy. We all fell in love with an image on a screen, and it was beautiful.
Later that month, family from across the world gathered for a reunion, and I got to share my pregnancy with family members I only see every few years. One of my cousins got married that same week. While we celebrated them, we shared the news of our son with every person we encountered at the wedding.
Three nights later, on June 25, I woke up at 4:29 a.m. to use the restroom. Instead, my water broke as I stood up. In that moment, I knew my baby wasn't far enough along to survive.
My husband drove me to the hospital about an hour away. I was admitted to a room in the ER before he could even park the car. While everyone else was getting out of bed and heading to work for the day, I was in a hospital bed with my world crashing down around me.
By noon, I was admitted to labor and delivery. They told me I would need an abortion; otherwise, I would have to wait until my baby died inside me, be induced into labor, and have to deliver this dead baby I already loved so much. My husband reminded me that at the beginning of my pregnancy, we had decided that if we were ever in a situation where he needed to decide between saving me or the baby, we would choose me. Rather than risk me getting sick while our child died inside me — which would have taken a horrible mental toll on me — we decided to get an abortion.
After we informed the doctors of our decision, they told us we had to wait 24 hours due to Michigan’s mandatory 24-hour delay law. I sat in the hospital labor and delivery unit hearing mothers welcoming their new babies into the world while I clutched my stomach and felt mine dying.
While I endured this cruelty, a Michigan judge happened to issue a preliminary opinion that it was an unconstitutional violation of Proposal 3 to require women to wait an arbitrary 24 hours for an abortion — and suspended that law.
By 5:00 p.m., I was told I could receive the procedure that night. By 7:00 p.m., my procedure began, and by 11:00 p.m., I was in bed at home recovering from the worst day of my life.
Not only do the actions of our lawmakers and judges affect our future children and grandchildren — they affect our friends, family, and people like me right now and in real-time. That judge’s decision changed the course of my care that day, and I am so thankful that I didn't have to continue needlessly suffering. I'm not sure where my mind would have gone that night if I had to endure that pain for a full 24 hours. I will forever be grateful to the diligent people fighting in Lansing and all over the world to remove restrictions on abortion care that make traumatic experiences like mine a bit easier for others.
Are you ready to share your story related to abortion, birth control, IVF, gender-affirming care, or other reproductive health care? Click below to submit your story.
Comments