More on Choosing

Our families had a large part in our decision to have Ellie, though they don't know it. When Paul and I learned that I was pregnant with a baby with Down syndrome, we were so scared. The horrifying, unending enormity of it was daunting. It seemed so much easier to choose to have an abortion.

I knew that I'd feel guilty afterwards. I knew it would be hard to deal with. But it felt to me that occasional pangs of guilt would be easier to bear than a lifetime of taking care of a child with unknown but serious problems. I couldn't envision my baby with Down syndrome, let alone imaging her grown up, or fitting into my dream family, my dream life.

But I could imagine telling my parents, my sisters, my sister-in-law, and my parents-in-law that we'd chosen to terminate this planned and long-awaited pregnancy because the baby had Down syndrome.

They'd be supportive, I thought, but they'd be disappointed, too. They'd feel judgmental, even if they tried to hide it. They – especially Paul's parents – would feel different about me, about us, forever.

Realizing that I would feel ashamed to tell people that I loved and respected that we'd chosen to have an abortion instead of a baby with Down syndrome helped me to realize that abortion would be the wrong decision for me. If I was ashamed of my decision, I needed to look at it longer and harder. I needed to remember what I'd believed from the beginning – that we'd accept the baby that we were given, regardless of her imperfections.

Imagining about what my family would think reminded me of who I am and who I want to be and helped me to make the right decision: the right decision for me and the right decision for my new family.

The decision was almost moot, anyway. Because by the time I knew that I had a decision to make, I could feel Ellie moving and kicking. I was bonded. She was my baby and I already felt so protective of her, even as I was scared of her. This was way before I knew the range of what people with Down syndrome can accomplish. It was certainly before I knew that one day my daughter's developmental therapist would say, "She's a 2 year old trapped in the body of a 1-1/2 year old."