Note: This clip is as it appeared in Celebrate Life. There is no longer a computer archive of this article, but Dori does have a clip she can fax or mail.

by Dori Stubbs

    No, I was not raped, young, poor or unwed. But in November 1988, despite using birth control, I found out I would again suffer the painful throes of childbirth in August 1989. My 2-year-old son, Jordan, would have a baby brother or sister for a companion - if I lived that long.

    Two months into my pregnancy I lay flat on my back, stuck in a sterile hospital room and not allowed out of my narrow bed. I had a pregnancy-induced deep vein thrombosis, a large blood clot in my upper right leg with smaller offshoots blocking the blood flowing through my veins and arteries to my heart, lungs and brain. Should one of those clots have let go and traveled to any life-giving organ, I could have been dead instantly.

    One morning I had woken up with excruciating pain in my right leg. Hardly able to walk, I hobbled around and assured myself the pulled muscle would ease in a bit, and it did. But pregnant and panicky, I scheduled an appointment with my doctor just to be on the safe side.

    He misdiagnosed the problem as a pinched nerve in my back.

    Two days later he told me to put my life in order. My condition was fatal.

    Though delirious with pain, I clearly remember his assurances that the miracles of modern medicine were already at work stabilizing my precarious health, and he was hopeful I would survive. If I did, he said, I should consider my "options." My doctor would support whatever I decided.

    The drug heparin would prevent the clots from dislodging and begin dissolving them. But because the DVT was a result of pregnancy, if I did not inject myself three times a day in the stomach with this wonder drug, the chances of a DVT recurring were almost 100 percent, and I could be dead before diagnosis. Even with heparin, guarantees remained nonexistent. If I chose to carry my baby to term, I stood the real chance of losing both our lives.

    During my upper teen-age years, I infrequently contemplated the hard, heart-rending "what if" dilemmas. I considered myself pro-life, but because I was sexually active, secretly wondered if I faced an unplanned, unwanted pregnancy, might I consider an abortion? Out loud, I claimed all babies have a right to life. Inside, ambivalence.

    In that hospital room, at age 24, I faced dealing with an unplanned and now unwanted pregnancy.

    But when challenged by reality, I never even debated such questions as "Whose life is more important, mine or my baby's?" or "I already have one child, should I risk depriving him of his mother?" At first, I did not have to worry about such things.

    Morphine kept me doped up to the point where clarity of thoughts was impossible. But as the pain medication wore off, I hugged my son and husband and fought to keep myself and my unborn baby alive, facing one of the most difficult pregnancies any woman can.

    I realized there was no choice between my life or my unborn baby's; one life was not more or less important than another. We both deserved an equal chance to live. Her life was secure in my womb, and I did everything possible to ensure we both survived till she could live without the support of an umbilical cord.

    I injected my burgeoning belly full of heparin three times a day. Pain from the clots kept me on crutches for two months. Because stress had to be kept to a minimum, my doctor refused to allow me to return to work, but required that I exercise regularly and rest plenty. And gain all the weight I had lost plus 30 more pounds.

    Despite my obedience, however, I nearly lost the battle.

    At my due date, I stopped giving myself the shots. I simply could not face any more needles poking me and leaving little bruised dots all over my stretched skin. I neglected to inform my doctor. But during an ultrasound, a bright, observant, concerned technician, aware of my condition, asked me, "How come you don't have any bruises from the needle injections?"

    I had not realized the seriousness of my actions. Clots can form rapidly and people can die just as quickly.

    My doctor immediately induced labor, and after 32 hours, I held the brown-eyed, auburn-haired baby daughter I was willing to risk my life for: Katie Elizabeth. She turned 10 in August.

    For all the men and women who are certain that abortion should remain an option in these "what if" situations of rape or life-endangerment, my experience convinces me even more that it cannot be a choice. All lives, whether living in our busy, hectic world or resting quietly inside the womb, are equally deserving of life. I did not choose to continue my pregnancy or not choose to have an abortion. I simply valued life above all, Katie's and mine.

    What if? What if a mother's life is endangered? What if I was alive today, but ended my daughter's life before she was born? Incomprehensible. What if? What if there were no abortions?

    Life is a risk. No risks, no life. Abortions take away our risks and our lives.

    What if?

    There is only one answer.

    Life.

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