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“I don’t have a job now, but I plan to in the future. My husband and I will figure it out. If my lupus flares and puts me out of work, my husband will always be here to support me. He’s not going anywhere,” I pressed.
“And what happens if you die during this pregnancy, or in labor?” Dr. Malach asked. “You’ll leave the child motherless, and that’s not fair to the child, nor to its father. Your husband will be left to take care of a sick child alone. I understand that all women want to be mothers, but it’s unethical to bring a sick child into this world. Morally, it’s wrong and selfish.”
Bile rose in my throat. He couldn’t be serious. “What are the chances my child will end up with lupus?”
I wanted to hear him say it—to prove to him that he was wrong. Everything he said was disgusting. Sick kids deserved to live, too.
He huffed, like he was annoyed by the question. “It doesn’t matter, because even if you gave birth to a normal child, you couldn’t take care of them. You can’t work because of your lupus—it’s that simple. I don’t understand how you think you can hold down a job and be a parent at the same time, because it isn’t realistic for someone with your condition. I’m only trying to prepare you for the inevitable reality.”
According to him, sick kids didn’t deserve to live, and disabled people couldn’t be parents. He was quite the fucking tool. Disabled people could be just as good of parents as anyone—better, even, I bet.
“My baby and I at least deserve a chance,” I insisted.
“A chance for what?” he asked, like he actually gave a shit. “To suffer?”
My stomach sank, leaving a gaping hole in the middle of my abdomen. Is that what I’d be doing to this child—bringing it into a world of never-ending suffering? Could I have a baby while we were still fighting the priestesses? Was it better if they didn’t exist at all?
“If you’re this insistent on getting pregnant, we have the means to do it the right way,” Dr. Malach offered. “You could abort this unsafe pregnancy, then we can explore the option of in-vitro fertilization. We’ll be able to test the embryos to make sure we give your baby the good genes, and get rid of the embryos that are abnormal. I can make a referral now.”
He turned to his computer. I felt my skin crawl when he said the word abnormal. Is that what he thought I was, and what he thought this baby would be if they came out sick?
“I don’t want that,” I heard myself say. I wasn’t even sure I said it at first, because I no longer felt attached to my own body. It felt more like I was hovering above the room, watching this doctor take my future away—a future I’d only just discovered was a possibility for me.
“We can certainly wait on the IVF discussion,” Dr. Malach said, before pressing a few keys on his keyboard. “But we should get you in for that abortion soon. There’s an opening this afternoon?—”
“I said I didn’t want an abortion,” I snapped.
He backed away from the computer. “You’re right. Perhaps we should talk to your husband first, see what he thinks about all of this. Does he have any preexisting conditions?”
“Just depression,” I said. It’d become such a normal part of our lives; I didn’t think anything of it.
Dr. Malach’s lips turned down. “Your husband is likely not a suitable candidate, either. Depression can have genetic components. There’s enough mentally ill people in this world. We don’t need another one. You don’t want to have a child that’s messed up, do you?”
“My child won’t be messed up!” I yelled, shooting to my feet. “My baby could end up with lupus and depression and every other diagnosis in the book, and they’d still be a better person than you. You’re cruel to assume this baby doesn’t deserve to live, and that mine and my husband’s lives are of less value than anyone else’s.”
Dr. Malach crossed his arms and turned his nose up. “If that’s the way you feel, then proceed with the pregnancy. But understand that your body will fail.”
“Show me the evidence,” I demanded. “I want to see the statistics on how many women with lupus die in pregnancy. What organs are going to fail, and what’s the cause of death?”
“That data is difficult to find, Miss Taylor,” he said condescendingly. “We don’t exactly have specifics, and I can’t give you any answers on that, but it’s my professional assessment that you will die.”
“You don’t know anything,” I sneered. “If you don’t have the data, then how can you possibly come to that conclusion? You don’t know what’s going to happen to me.”
He arrogantly leaned back in his chair. “You’re misunderstanding what I’m trying to tell you.”
“How is it possible for me to misunderstand that you told me it’s too dangerous, but you don’t have any information to give me on why?” I pressed.
He gave an indignant sigh. “Look, you’re not only gambling with your life, but you’re gambling the life of a child. If you pass away because of this pregnancy, it’s on you, not on me. I gave you medical advice, and you chose not to listen to it.”
“I guess I’ll just die then,” I snapped, before turning on my heel and fleeing the room.
I raced down the hall, choking back sobs. It hit me halfway down the hall what a horrible thing I’d just said, because I had almost died—more than once. I’d fought so hard to stay alive. Could I really let my body give up if there was something I could do to prevent it?
The truth was, I couldn’t make this kind of decision right now. There was a baby inside of me, and I had to weigh the horrible decision of whether to let it live, and put my own life at risk, or terminate the pregnancy, and live with the thought of what could’ve been for the rest of my life.
I pushed through a doorway that I thought led outside, but instead I found myself standing in a courtyard filled with trees and flowers. Clinic walls boxed me in on four sides, though the sky was open above me.
I had the thought that I couldn’t run from this, and I was so fucking tired of running.
