She wanted another baby. Texas’ abortion ban shaped every pregnancy that followed.

Kaitlyn: Living in Texas right now is pretty hard. I love it, and I don’t want to leave, but sometimes I feel like my state wants me to leave. Sometimes it feels like they don’t want me here. They don’t want my family. They don’t want to protect my children.

In 2018, when we started our family, I thought I was going to have fertility struggles. I’ve had endometriosis and some other things, so we started trying early. Then I got pregnant on the first try. I had a very uncomplicated pregnancy. Pregnancy is hard—don’t let anyone tell you it’s not—but it was very normal. I had access to all the care I needed. I never felt like my doctors weren’t able to do something they wanted to do. And I have a lovely kid now.

In 2021, when we started trying again, I thought I’d just get pregnant again, we’d have our second child, and we’d be a little family.

I got pregnant in July of that year, and Texas’ abortion ban went into effect in September. I remember I was out of state when my best friend sent me an Instagram post about it and said, “This is so sad.” I remember thinking, I’m so grateful that after this pregnancy I’m done. I won’t have to worry about this.

Four weeks later, at our baby’s first-trimester scan, the doctor came in and said they’d seen something abnormal. The baby’s limbs were measuring really short. That’s not something they normally track that early, but they were so short that it was noticeable. They referred us to a maternal-fetal medicine specialist.

My husband came with me to that appointment. I took so much for granted. He hadn’t even come to the first-trimester scan because I thought, We’re good. We’ve already done the genetic testing. Everything’s fine.

The specialist did a very detailed ultrasound with this huge screen and an incredibly powerful camera. Within about fifteen minutes, he turned it off and said, “We need to talk.”

It was just one thing after another.

First, he told us the baby’s hands and feet were clubbed and weren’t developing properly. Then he explained that all of the limbs were bowed. Then he told us the rib cage was measuring much too small.

He said, “We think this baby has skeletal dysplasia. There are a lot of different types, and we could do more testing, but it would really just give us a name. When I see something like this this early, I can tell you this is one of the lethal forms of skeletal dysplasia. These babies don’t survive very long.”

Editor’s note: Skeletal dysplasia affects how a baby’s bones grow and develop during pregnancy. In its most severe forms, the baby’s chest can be too small for the lungs to develop enough to survive outside the womb.

I was obviously devastated. But I’m this child’s mother, so my first instinct was to ask, “What do we do? How do we take care of this pregnancy?”

He explained that the baby would most likely develop osteogenesis imperfecta, or brittle bone disease. Something as simple as bending down to pick up my three-year-old could break the baby’s bones, so we’d have to talk about bed rest.

I remember thinking, Okay. I can do that.

Then I asked, “What about birth?”

He said we’d most likely have to do a C-section because the bones would be so fragile. But the bigger concern was that the baby’s rib cage was too small to support lung function. Most likely, the baby would be born, take a breath, and suffocate.

Again, I remember thinking, What do we do?

You go to a doctor because you expect them to tell you what to do.

So I asked, “How do I take care of my baby?”

He explained that the baby would need immediate medical intervention, would most likely be placed on a ventilator, and probably would never come off of it. Their entire life would most likely be spent in a hospital. Then he told us he didn’t know of any baby with this condition who had survived birth.

I asked again, “What do I do? How do I help my baby?”

I wasn’t even thinking about abortion yet. Then, as I was asking those questions, all the pieces started coming together. I realized this baby was going to die, and this doctor was telling me to carry the pregnancy to term.

Finally, I looked up and asked, “When do we talk about termination? Is this something where you would do an abortion?”

He just looked at me and said, “I really think it’s important for you to get a second opinion. But you should get it outside of Texas.”

That was the moment I realized this law was real. We couldn’t do anything here.

He couldn’t tell me where to go. He couldn’t tell me what to do next. All he could say was, “You should go outside the state.”

I remember leaving that appointment completely devastated. As we were walking out, a nurse stopped me and said, “Wait. I need to give you something before you go.”

She handed me my medical records and said, “You’re going to need these.”

When we got home, my husband and I just sat there in shock. It was almost like we were filling in the gaps that each of us had blacked out during the appointment. We talked through all of the diagnoses and the potential harm our baby would face.

I really applaud my husband because he said, “I don’t know how you would survive carrying this baby to term either.”

It wasn’t a hard choice. I think I probably thought it would be harder, but it wasn’t. It was very much, This is a life of pain. We have this opportunity, and it’s my job as this child’s mother to take on this burden. Even if people yelled at me or protesters called me names, it was my job. I’m their mother. I’m supposed to shield them from pain.

I didn’t care who was going to be mad at me, who wasn’t going to speak to me anymore, or who thought what I did was wrong. I knew it was right. My husband knew it was right. It was what we wanted for our baby.

So we knew pretty quickly that we needed an abortion. Then it became a question of, How do we do it?

I’m very lucky that I have family in Kansas, so I knew if I could get there, I’d at least have people to stay with. We started calling clinics.

Editor’s note: Kansas’ abortion laws required Kaitlyn to attend a counseling appointment first, and wait at least 24 hours before returning for her abortion.

On top of all of that, I was trying to get my own medical care when all I wanted to do was grieve. I had lost my child. Whether it was that day or a few months later, my child wasn’t going to be here. I wasn’t going to have baby showers. I wasn’t going to put together a nursery. I wanted the chance to grieve that loss, but instead I had to organize my own health care.

My husband actually went out and bought a printer and scanner because we had to print forms, sign them, and send them back. He set everything up in the bathroom so I could be crying, grieving, and throwing up while filling out paperwork. I was more distraught than I ever thought I could be, but every time the phone rang, I had to pull myself together, talk to another nurse, and get another approval.

Finally, we found a clinic. They reviewed my records, agreed with the diagnosis, and were willing to see me before the clinic opened one morning.

We flew to Kansas. I was lucky. I had family who could stay with my son and my dogs. My boss was incredibly supportive. I had child care. I still got paid. I had airline points. I was able to stay with family. I had all of these things working in my favor, and it was still the most traumatic thing I’ve ever been through. I think about women who don’t have those resources.

I remember waking up that morning in Kansas, and all I wanted was my dog. I just wanted to cuddle with my dog on the day I was saying goodbye to my child.

Instead, I got into a rental car and drove to a clinic with protesters holding signs and calling me a murderer. I remember thinking, These people don’t know. They’ve clearly never been faced with this kind of choice.

I met all the waiting period requirements, met the doctor about ten minutes before the procedure, and then we did it. I remember they asked if I wanted to do anything with my baby’s remains. I hadn’t even thought that those were questions I was going to have to answer. 

Editor’s note: Kaitlyn underwent a dilation and curettage (D&C), a common procedure used to remove tissue from the uterus, during her abortion in Kansas. The same procedure is routinely used after miscarriages, childbirth, and other pregnancy complications to prevent severe bleeding and infection.

The only thing I regret about the whole experience is not thinking more about how I wanted to remember our child. But that’s what happens when women can’t get care in their own communities. They have to find doctors they’ve never met. They have to hold strangers’ hands. They have to do it by themselves, at great personal expense. It was emotionally exhausting. It was physically exhausting. It was draining on my marriage. It was one of the worst times of my life. 

I remember being home a week later and struggling to get out of bed to take care of my son. I went back to work just two weeks after that first appointment. I didn’t even know how I was going to function, but I needed to keep going.

Nobody stopped to remember that I was losing a child. I was losing a future. I needed space to grieve, and I was never really given that space. All of the time I had away from work was spent getting health care.

I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened because of the bounty hunter law. Who knew what someone would do if I told them I’d had an abortion? So it was just me and my husband.

It was a very dark few months.

Even though I did technically choose to have an abortion, I also lost a child. I lost a future and I lost the completion of my family. And I never got a chance and a space to be a grieving mother and to be supported.

My husband and I always saw ourselves having two kids. We really wanted to complete our family while our children were close in age. We knew that if we wanted to grow our family, we needed to keep going.

Just a few months after our abortion, we tried again, and I got pregnant. I’m blessed with being very fertile. I actually found out because I was getting a COVID test, and the doctor looked at me and said, “Oh, you’re pregnant!”

We didn’t tell anyone. We decided we’d just wait. When I was about eight or nine weeks pregnant, I started spotting at work. I didn’t want to believe it. It was light spotting, so I just kept pretending it wasn’t happening.

After several days, I finally went to my doctor. They did an ultrasound and confirmed that I had miscarried. About half of the fetal tissue had already passed, but some of it was still there. They told me I could go home and continue miscarrying naturally, but they didn’t know how long that would take.

To prevent infection and help the process along, my doctor prescribed Misoprostol because she knew my goal was to have another child.

I was devastated. I’d just gone through this one-in-a-hundred-thousand pregnancy, and then my very next pregnancy ended in miscarriage. I know miscarriage is common. My doctor even reminded me that one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage, but all I could think was, I’m never going to get my family.

I took my prescription to the pharmacy. I handed it to the pharmacist, expecting to pick up my medication like I had so many times before.

Instead, they told me they were going to need more proof.

If you had been a fly on the wall, my head probably spun around. I remember thinking, No, you don’t need more proof. You’re worried I’m having an abortion—the kind you don’t think I should have.

Now, to be fair, I don’t know what that pharmacist personally believed. I think that was the culture of fear Texas’ abortion ban had created for providers.

I said, “Thank you. I’ll take my prescription back.”

I walked out. I wasn’t going to ask for more permission or more approval to satisfy these state laws.

Instead, I found an online pharmacy, called in the prescription, and they said, “No problem.” It was delivered the next day.

I’m very fortunate that I was still able to get the medication I needed. But it was another example of the chilling effect these laws have.

Once again, my doctor was telling me I needed health care, and my government was telling me I couldn’t have it.

I remember feeling this overwhelming despair that I was never going to have that second baby. There was so much guilt and so much self-blame. Because I’d had an abortion, I convinced myself I’d done this to myself. I’d gotten pregnant with my son so easily, and I let a lot of the stigma, the public conversation, and the shame weigh on me. I blamed myself, and I started to believe I was never going to have another child.

After back-to-back miscarriages, on top of a pregnancy affected by a significant genetic anomaly, my doctor said we should start looking at IVF.

Editor’s note: Kaitlyn became pregnant with her daughter, Collins, through IVF after several miscarriages. The pregnancy remained healthy throughout.

With Collins, my fifth pregnancy, we conceived through IVF, so I was monitored very closely. At 39 weeks, I was scheduled to be induced. We couldn’t get into the hospital, so I finally just went in because I’d hit this mental wall. I was going to meet this baby. I needed to be done being pregnant. I needed her to be physically here, outside my body, where someone else could protect her.

Throughout that pregnancy, I was so afraid. I was so on edge and so focused on protecting myself, protecting my baby, and protecting my family that I didn’t enjoy being pregnant. I didn’t sit and talk to my daughter. I didn’t want to decorate her room. I didn’t do any of the joyful things because I was so convinced it was going to end badly—that somehow the state was going to jeopardize my care again.

What I find comical—because if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry—is that the only thing I’m apparently good at in pregnancy is delivering babies. The delivery itself was actually very easy. It took a couple of hours, and then they put her on my chest. She wasn’t crying much, and they were drying her off and doing all the things they normally do. I just kept asking, “Is she okay? Is she okay? Is she okay?”

I had a doula with me. She finally took my face in her hands and said, “She’s here, and she’s perfect.” It was like I needed someone to snap me out of it.

I remember patting Collins on the head and quietly saying, “It’s okay. You’re here now. It’s over.” I just kept saying, “It’s over, it’s over.”

I was so happy, but I was also just exhausted, not only from delivery, but from everything that had happened over the previous few years. After all of that, she was finally here.

I love my son, but holding Collins was a different experience. It felt like all of my babies were there with her. It felt like those other pregnancies were somehow with us, too.

I was completely in bliss.

Until I wasn’t.

While I was holding her, my doctor popped her head up from the end of the bed and said, “Your placenta isn’t delivering.”

I think I ignored her the first time.

Then she came over to my bedside and said, “We have a problem. It’s been about fifteen minutes. Your placenta isn’t coming out. Parts of it are, but you’re probably going to need a D&C. We’re willing to wait a little longer to see if it happens on its own.”

I really didn’t want another D&C.

So I said, “Let’s wait.”

I held Collins a little longer, but then I started getting really cold and shaky. The nurses became worried that I might drop her, so they took her from me.

My husband looked at me and said, “Go get the D&C. It’ll be twenty minutes. You’ll be back with her, and this will all be over.”

So I consented. By then, it had been about thirty minutes since I delivered. Then we waited.

And we waited.

And we waited.

I just kept asking, “When are we going? I want my baby back.”

I started getting sicker. I was violently shaking. I was shivering. I was throwing up. In between vomiting, I kept asking, “When are we going to the OR? I’m bleeding.” Even my doula started to get nervous.

Finally, about fifty minutes after delivery, they took me back to the operating room.

I remember lying on the table while doctors and nurses rushed around the room. Cabinets were opening and closing. People were shouting. Everyone seemed to be looking for something. I just kept thinking, Why aren’t we ready? We’ve been waiting forever. What’s happening? I tried to ask, but I didn’t realize how weak I’d become.

Then I felt something wet on my arm. I’d had an IV placed for delivery, and I realized I was bleeding out around it. I grabbed a nurse walking by and pointed to it.

They told me I was probably going into hemorrhagic shock. Two nurses immediately sat down and tried over and over to place another IV. 

I remember lying there thinking, I’m never going to get to name my daughter. I truly thought I was going to die.

By this time, I had bled for an hour and forty-nine minutes. 

When I finally woke up, my husband told me I’d actually been gone for almost four hours. My arms were covered in bruises from all of the attempts to put an IV in.

At the time, I didn’t connect any of it to the abortion bans. That didn’t happen until later, when I tried to file a complaint. Several hospital staff mentioned that D&Cs weren’t really being done at the hospital anymore. Other doctors later told me that a lot of the delay may have been because people were trying to locate equipment, get authorization, or figure out whether the procedure could move forward.

But as I’ve shared my story and talked with other women, I’ve heard more and more stories about delayed care. Knowing that I was bleeding while the hospital may have been dealing with administrative issues, authorization, equipment, or supply problems to get me the procedure that would save my life is devastating.

The hospital has never told me exactly what happened. 

The irony is that lawmakers don’t want D&C equipment used to end an unwanted pregnancy.

But women need that exact same equipment to treat miscarriages, retained placentas, and obstetric emergencies. The men who wrote these laws don’t understand that.

It’s also why I keep speaking up.

The people who wrote these laws don’t understand women’s health care. They don’t understand emergency care. These bans have a chilling effect, and women are paying the price.

A few weeks after I came home with Collins, after I had started recovering from the blood loss and the transfusions, I looked at this tiny little baby girl and thought, This can’t be the world she grows up in.

The state had shown me, over and over again, that it didn’t care.

I knew I was going to have to fight for her.

If you or someone you love have been denied abortion or other reproductive care, contact Abortion in America or reach out directly to our team at Amplify Legal.

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