Getting the Diagnosis
When I look back on that day, it’s as if I’m watching someone else’s life unfold. The shock, the numbness, the way my body went into survival mode. It’s all a blur, yet certain moments are so vivid. One minute we were expecting, planning, dreaming. The next, we were sitting at our dining room table, hearing the words that would change everything: "incompatible with life."
I remember feeling the room spin. My body flushed hot, the pit in my stomach growing heavier as I tried to process what our doctor was saying. Hypoplastic left heart syndrome. It was one of the conditions they thought they were seeing in our baby’s heart. I had no idea what that meant, but I knew it wasn’t good. He warned us not to dive too deep into researching yet. Still, my mind raced. How could this be happening? How could something be so wrong with our baby’s heart?
The waiting was unbearable. Our doctor did everything he could to get us in for a fetal echocardiogram as quickly as possible, but even waiting one night felt like an eternity. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think about anything other than what might come next. I could feel my baby moving inside me, this precious little life, and I was terrified.
When we finally went in for the scan, the silence was crushing. I lay there for over an hour as the technician gathered images, Taylor by my side, neither of us saying much. We both knew this wasn’t good news. When the cardiologist finally came in holding a box of tissues, I knew exactly what was coming. That box of tissues spoke volumes.
The diagnosis was confirmed: hypoplastic left heart syndrome, along with a few other things I could barely pronounce, let alone comprehend. He showed us diagrams of what a normal heart looks like, then what our baby’s heart looked like. I’ll never forget staring at that drawing, wondering how something so vital could be so wrong. The reality hit hard: our baby’s heart wasn’t going to work. Not outside of my body.
The doctor laid out our options, but they all felt the same. Whether we continued the pregnancy or chose to end it, the outcome was painfully clear: our baby wasn’t going to survive. That realization is one I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It’s not just heartbreaking, it’s soul-shattering.
In the moments that followed, something unexpected happened. Our doctor, with his kindness and empathy, gave us a gift: permission to consider our own well-being in this devastating decision. He told us he’d seen families go through every option, and he’d seen the toll it takes. He gave us space to feel, to grieve, and to know that no matter what we chose, it was okay. It was compassionate.
We made the decision together—Taylor and I—that ending the pregnancy felt like the most compassionate choice for us and for our baby. Hearing our doctor say it out loud, affirming that it was a compassionate choice, gave us a sense of peace in a time when peace felt impossible to find.
This is the story I’m sharing with you today. It’s raw, it’s deeply personal, and it’s still so painful to relive. But it’s important. Not because I’m trying to tell anyone what to do in a similar situation—these choices are far too personal for that—but because I want to shed light on the reality of these moments. No one ever expects to be in this position, but if you are, I want you to know you’re not alone. There is no right or wrong choice, only the one that feels right for you and your family.
Thank you for reading and for holding space for my story. It’s not an easy one to tell, but I hope it brings some understanding, some empathy, and maybe even some comfort to someone who might need it.
