How surviving the exceptional cases made me more pro-life

When my midwife told me my baby was going to die, I said, “OK.”

I often think about that moment. It was a humid August afternoon. The day before, I’d taken our toddler to visit “horsies.” I still have the pictures of us smiling; her sitting on top of my pregnant belly as I held her up to pet the mare. I’d fought through 35 weeks of debilitating nausea, progesterone shots with awful side effects, and general misery, but hope was on the horizon: I was finally well enough to take our daughter out for an adventure while her little brother kicked just below my heart. That was Thursday. On Friday, my husband and I were sitting in our family room, waiting for the results of an ultrasound, worried because we could tell the news wasn’t great. Maybe our son, Athanasius, would have some kind of special need? Maybe we’d need to induce early? It was probably that. I’d just heard his heartbeat and it was strong. I’d just watched him stretch and yawn on the screen. His chubby cheeks were perfect. Whatever it was couldn’t be that bad.

Time slowed and blurred. “Excess fluid.” “Shortened limbs.” “Weak heart and lungs.” Then, time stopped. “Fatal.” 

And I said, “OK.”

It wasn’t flippant. It was the moment when you find yourself stuck on the train tracks and you look up to find horror barreling toward you. One breath in. Utter powerlessness. One breath out. “OK.”

Twenty minutes later, when my mom arrived, time clicked back on and I felt my soul rip open. I clung to her and sobbed, “my baby” over and over. I don’t know how many times. 

We were supposed to meet him in just a few weeks. Instead, over the next 24 hours, I was taken into an operating room where they removed liters of excess fluid from my overstretched, exhausted body and his tiny, swollen belly before he was baptized and placed on my chest. His cries were gasps that became weaker, then stopped. I whispered, “It’s OK, baby. Don’t be scared. Mama’s here” as he died. His eyes never opened. I got to hear his voice, but I never saw his eyes. 

Survival

I don’t know how we survived losing him, let alone what happened over the next two years. There’s not enough space to explain how we learned his condition was rare, hereditary, and could affect our future children, nor how we prayed, conceived again, miscarried our sweet Shiloh, sobbed, begged God, researched like mad, clawed our way to the best health of our lives, begged God some more, hoped, and conceived again. I bought baby socks that said, “answered prayer.” We waited for 16 agonizing weeks to find out if our daughter, Magnificat, had Athan’s condition. 

She did. 

The nightmare we’d barely survived began again. She was dying, and my life was in danger. We were forced to induce at 21 weeks and, once again, we were ripped open as we whispered our love to her and kissed her goodbye. Once again, my mom held me as I bawled, “My babies.” 

Unthinkable openness 

Since 2022, pregnancy and birth have been my nightmare. I’ve spent cumulative years bedridden with sickness. I’ve been stabbed with countless needles. My body has been stretched, swollen, sliced open, and scarred in ways that affect my day-to-day quality of life — all to endure the most unfathomable trauma and come home with empty arms. I’ve lain awake at night wondering if my only living daughter would grow up without her mommy. I’ve watched my babies suffer and die. I’ve been through hell on earth — only to have the Catholic Church tell us if I get pregnant again with yet another baby who is destined to die — I have no right to end the pregnancy that would bring me such agony. 

The Church is, of course, entirely correct.  

There seems to be a misconception in pro-choice circles that says pro-lifers are either oblivious or indifferent to the suffering mothers may experience during pregnancy. I, and my babies, are the exception often used to justify abortion, yet I oppose it more vehemently now than ever. As my children and I faced death, abortion was proffered as a mercy that would end their suffering and send me safely home to my family. While I believe our doctors were well-intentioned, the offer was deceptive. Murder can never be mercy. 

The glory of sacrificial love

Legally, it was permissible for us to have our son and daughter killed. We could have hired a doctor to stop their hearts and barbarically rip them from me. We didn’t because, as human beings, their dignity is inherent and inviolable. Regardless of the laws, we had no right to decide when their lives would end. Tragedy does not negate the fundamental obligations of parenthood: to love and care for your children even when it requires great sacrifice. 

That’s why, when I was laboring to birth our sweet Maggie, and the doctor asked, “If [things go badly] and we have to choose between stopping her heart [to accelerate the process] and saving your life, what do you want?” I chose her without hesitation. It did not matter that we all knew she was dying within hours either way. No circumstance could possibly change the fact that I would rather die than have my child killed — not even her own terminal condition. I wasn’t being a hero. I was just being her mom. 

Parents who receive terminal prenatal diagnoses face terror and unfathomable heartbreak. Pro-choice rhetoric suggests abortion is a gentler option: mom and dad don’t have to watch their baby die; it happens quietly out of sight. Abortion advocates say it’s mercy because baby’s suffering ends sooner. The thing is, when your child is sick, you don’t have her put down like a pet; you hold her. Yes, holding my babies as they took their last breaths ripped my heart open. Yes, it required great sacrifice, but I’ll tell you this: it was worth it. It was worth it to know that, while we didn’t choose how they died, we did choose how they lived, and all they ever knew was love.

As it does when parenting any child, sacrificial love gave us more than it took. We could have had abortion. Instead, we had glory. Glory as we held our son and daughter and loved them into eternity. Glory as all of the terror and horror of death were held at bay for sacred moments of the true mercy abortion can never give. Now, we hold onto the hope that our precious little ones are waiting for us with the God who is love and we will be together again soon. Oh, what Glory that will be.

Marriana Heffner lives with her dreamboat husband and their beloved daughter somewhere in the middle of a Midwest cornfield. She delights in motherhood, hot tea, Tolkien, and all things Catholic. The Heffners believe God is calling them to bring a precious child into their family through adoption and they need your help. You can read more of their story and support their journey here.