One Woman's Choice

My mother, too, was a proponent of the miscarriage story. She told two of my brothers the truth; she told the third that I'd suddenly lost the baby. That brother's wife was a Catholic, and my mother was taking no chances.

"People are funny,'' she said.

I've heard the abortion debate my whole life, and while I was a newspaper reporter I had covered stories about clinic bombings and protests. I interviewed Randall Terry of Operation Rescue when I was in my twenties. I talked with his supporters who stood outside clinics and imitated babies crying, begging "Mommy, don't kill me,'' when abortion-seekers passed by.

Once I became one of those women ending a pregnancy, I found myself wondering how I'd react under that kind of pressure. I remember a cop I interviewed once telling me about a "good rape,'' one where the attacker was a stranger and there was no ambiguity, no chance of blaming the victim because she had drunk too much or invited her date in for coffee. I wonder if it's the same for abortion. If your child will be born with a severe disability, is there a "Get Out of Jail Free" card or are you still a baby killer?

While I have no doubt there can be joys and victories in raising a mentally handicapped child, for me and for Mike, it's a painful journey that we believe is better not taken. To know now that our son would be retarded, perhaps profoundly, gives us the choice of not continuing the pregnancy. We don't want a life like that for our child, and the added worry that we wouldn't be around long enough to care for him throughout his life.

For some reason, I expected our baby would look like Mike -- sandy-colored, silky hair, hazel eyes. I hoped he would inherit Mike's personality -- mellow, an antidote to my not-so-mellow.

One night, a few days after we learned of the diagnosis, I dreamed that I saw our baby: he had black hair like mine, but it was long, like a hippie's, the way I'd seen Mike in yellowed black-and-white photos from the '60s. In the dream, we were in a bookstore, the three of us. I heard gunfire. Then, the baby crawled away. I woke up missing him, mourning the child we wouldn't have.

I'm sure pro-lifers don't give you the right to grieve for the baby you chose not to bring into the world (another euphemism, although avoiding the word "abortion'' doesn't take any sting out of the decision to have one). Only now do I understand how entirely personal the decision to terminate a pregnancy is and how wrong it feels to bring someone else's morality into the discussion.

I was lucky. When I walked into the hospital, no one knew why, or cared. The nurses were kind and the doctor held my hand as the anesthesia took over.

As for that baby that will never be, I will remember him always. But I'm quite certain that I made the right choice for the three of us.

Maria Eftimiades is a national correspondent for People magazine. Comments: health@washpost.com.