An American Nightmare: Young, pregnant & living in Texas

Her fetus had no chance of survival. Texas didn't care.

Content Warning: Descriptions of severe fetal abnormalities

Some names have been changed to protect the identities of those interviewed.

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There was a point during their 11-hour car ride home when Terry’s boyfriend debated whether or not to bring her to an emergency room. Terry was pale and lightheaded, and had terrible blue-ish bags under her eyes. “She was looking really, really bad,” Eric, 22, tells me. “At a certain point she just faded.”

But the couple were only halfway home, and Eric didn’t want to stop at a hospital at 3am in one of the reddest parts of Texas. Not when they were coming from a New Mexico abortion clinic. “He was worried that they would call somebody and report us,” Terry, 21, says. And so he drove on. 

Terry and Eric’s nightmare began just a few days earlier at a 15-week ultrasound appointment. It had been a normal day, Terry says. She and Eric had gone out for breakfast in Round Rock, where the young couple lives, and planned to see a movie when the appointment was over. They thought they’d be learning the gender of the baby that day, and had picked out names in anticipation: Ren for a boy, Summer for a girl.

But at the appointment, Terry noticed that her OBGYN was getting quieter and quieter the longer that she looked at the ultrasound. The doctor left the room, and came back with a phone number, address, and instructions to make an appointment with a specialist immediately. 

It was at that point, Terry says, that she began to go numb. 

Just a few hours later, the couple were sitting in front of a maternal fetal specialist in Austin delivering unthinkable news: Terry’s fetus had not developed at all above the neck—there was no head. It was a one-in-a-million abnormality, the specialist told them. And while the fetus obviously had no chance of survival, there was still heartbeat present. 

In Texas—which enacted a near-total abortion ban in 2021, and a total ban shortly after Roe v. Wade was overturned—that was a problem. 

Texas’ abortion law doesn’t have an exception for fetal abnormalities, not even lethal ones. The state requires women to carry pregnancies even when the fetus has no chance of survival, a cruelty that Republican legislators don’t like to talk about. 

Eric was baffled, he says, as the reality of the law sunk in. “Like at that point there has to be some sort of reasoning to allow these special cases,” he said. “It’s so cutthroat, and that’s what really makes me mad.”

The couple had to process more than just the horrific news about the fetal abnormality: Terry, herself, was also very ill. And waiting for her pregnancy to end on its own carried a serious risk. She hadn’t been feeling well for a few weeks—she had trouble keeping food down, and was often too tired to get out of bed. Terry figured it was just a difficult pregnancy. But lab work revealed issues with her kidneys and liver, and found that she was severely malnourished and had elevated blood pressure.

As sick as she was, Terry wasn’t at an ‘imminent’ risk of death—not yet, anyway—and Texas law requires the danger to a woman’s life be a “medical emergency” in order to qualify for an abortion. 

Because the deliberately vague language of the law isn’t medical terminology, doctors in the state have been left to struggle with just how close to death a patient needs to be in order for them to legally provide care. As a result, multiple Texas women have come close to dying after being denied abortions. (Fifteen of those patients are suing the state right now.)

And while Texas Governor Greg Abbott has claimed he wants to “clarify” the ban to “make sure that the lives of both the mother and the baby can be protected,” the state is actually suing the federal government in opposition to a rule that requires hospitals to give women life-saving emergency abortions. 

For Terry, the concern was that if doctors waited for her fetus’ heartbeat to stop, or until she was ‘sick enough’ to legally warrant an abortion, her health’s already-rapid decline could become irreversible.

And so she had two choices: Leave the state for an abortion, or wait and take her chances. “I kind of shut down,” Terry says. 

Terry’s specialist was unequivocal: He recommended that she terminate the pregnancy.  “There’s only one thing that we can do to assure that you walk out of this healthy,” she says he told her. 

It’s advice many Texas doctors wouldn’t dare give—no matter how dire the circumstances. After all, state law prohibits “aiding and abetting” an abortion, and allows civil action against anyone who does. (NPR reports that the law has doctors “talking code” to patients in order to avoid speaking directly about abortion.)

Terry’s OBGYN, however, who is anti-abortion, gave different advice. She recommended that Terry carry the pregnancy until she went into labor—whether she was able to carry the pregnancy to term or gave premature birth. The doctor claimed it would be emotionally better for Terry to have a moment with her baby. 

“As much as I wish I had the chance to hold my baby,” Terry said, “I don’t think anyone would want to see something that has no head.” What made Terry feel even worse was that her OBGYN pushed her to remain pregnant even as she explained the serious risks to her health.

“It felt like ‘does my life matter in this, or is this just about bringing a baby into the world for a moment’? It felt like my life didn’t matter, like I could just die and it would all be for nothing.”

Dr. Chloe Zera, a maternal fetal medicine physician and associate professor at Harvard Medical School, tells me, “It is very much the standard of care to offer termination, but like any other patient care situation, the best response is compassion.” 

Dr. Zera says ideal treatment for patients like Terry is full spectrum pregnancy care—providing patients all the information they want in order to make a decision. 

“For some people it’s very cut and dried, ‘I want an abortion,’” she says. For others, it might mean carrying the pregnancy and offering palliative care for the fetus. In her hospital, most patients with severe fetal abnormalities would have pediatric sub-specialists, nurses and social workers involved in their case. “We try to wrap around people with care,” she says. 

The ability to get that kind of full spectrum care, though, depends on the kind of insurance you have, access to physicians, and—as in Terry’s case—what state you live in. 

And so instead of being wrapped in love, and provided with a slew of experts to help her through a nightmare that few will face, Terry—just 21 years-old—had to come to terms with conflicting advice from two doctors and a backdrop of fear and isolation. 

In the end, the decision was clear. Terry and Eric made calls to multiple out-of-state clinics and—amazingly, given the long waitlist at most providers—they found a place in New Mexico that could see her the following week.

For both, any feelings of confusion or helplessness soon gave way to anger.  “I should not have to sit there all night staring at the wall and thinking about how the baby I wanted was still in me, with a failing heart and no head,” Terry tells me. “I’ve never been that angry before in my life.”

Instead of being able to take a moment to grieve their loss, the couple spent the next few days sorting out the logistics of the abortion. Because Terry was in her second trimester, the procedure would be expensive—between the abortion, travel and lodging, they would have to come up with about $2,000. 

They made too much money to qualify for help from an abortion fund, but not enough money that the cost wouldn’t seriously hurt them. Terry only had $300 in her savings account.

The couple couldn’t go to their friends or family for financial help, either—they’re religious, and staunchly anti-abortion. Terry’s father once told her that if he knew someone who had an abortion, “he’d be more than willing to exercise his second amendment rights.” 

When I asked if she thought her father might react differently given the circumstances, Terry was adamant: “I would get a lecture on how it's my motherly duty to bring my child into the world.”

And so they paid for the procedure out-of-pocket, using the entirety of Eric’s most recent paycheck, and told friends and family that they were going to New Mexico to go hiking. “I felt like a criminal,” Terry says. “We lied to everyone we knew to get out.”

The clinic appointment was early in the morning, so they found a nearby Motel 6 to sleep at the night before. The couple didn’t have enough money to cover a second night, though, so Eric would have to drive them the 11 hours back home after the procedure. 

When they arrived at the clinic a few minutes before it opened, Terry and Eric were struck by the nondescript area. “If you weren’t looking for it, you would miss it,” Terry said. But the minute it hit 8am, two guards stationed themselves outside of the doors. 

Later, Eric told Terry that while he sat in the waiting room during her procedure, different people would come up to the clinic doors and try to get in. They would claim they were there to support a patient, but it seemed as if they might really be protesters. Each one was turned away, but still, it was nerve-wracking. What if someone was able to get in?

Inside the procedure room, the mood was different. “The nurse held my hand, petted my hair and talked to me,” Terry said. “She kept me calm and wiped my tears.”

After the procedure, Terry had to stay in recovery longer than expected: there had been a bleed behind her placenta that wasn’t visible on the ultrasound, and so doctors kept her at the clinic for a few extra hours to ensure she was safe before leaving. By the time Terry was discharged, the couple realized they’d have to drive through the night to get home. 

“He did his best to make sure that I was comfortable,” Terry says. But it’s not so easy to drive for hours after such an emotionally and physically taxing experience.  Still—despite how scared Eric was of how poorly Terry looked in the car—they both say they made the right decision to drive all the way home without stopping at an emergency room in a conservative town. “We wanted to get as close to Austin as possible,” she says. 

When I pointed out that no one did anything illegal—people are allowed to travel out of the state for care—Terry responded with a sentiment that anyone who follows abortion news knows is true: What the law says and what the law does are two different things. 

“We’ve heard things about people getting reported and a whole investigation happening,” she said. Besides, Terry told me, she knows other states are considering the death penalty for abortion. What happens if Texas considers a law like that, and her name is on a list somewhere? She didn’t want to risk it. 

That’s also why, a few weeks after the abortion, the couple still hasn’t told anyone. It’s not only fear of their friends’ judgment—but the knowledge that someone could turn them both in. After all, the state’s so-called ‘bounty hunter’ law allows private citizens to sue anyone they suspect of being involved in an abortion (that’s doctors, nurses, even people who drove to the out-of-state clinic) for at least $10,000. 

The isolation, though, is painful; their community is a big part of their lives. “I go to church almost every Sunday, I’m friends with the pastor,” Terry told me. Now when she walks out into the world she feels as if she’s wearing a huge sign that announces she’s a criminal.

“It felt as if we were robbing a bank,” Eric tells me. “That’s how bad it felt, and it shouldn’t have to feel like that.”

Dr. Zera says that when it comes to pregnancy, there should be no government involvement. “The constellation of things that can go wrong in a pregnancy is so vast that you can never write legislation that captures the complexities of it,” she says. “It takes a real lack of humility to think that you could write a good law that could encompass all of that.”

Today, Terry and Eric are trying to get back to their normal lives. They still haven’t told any friends or family, which makes going about their day to day routines strange. They have to pretend as if everything is fine. 

Eric says he tries to let himself feel all the grief and anger, but when he goes to work he has to push it all down. Terry, on the other hand, told me she just feels defeated. 

“I wish I could move past it. I’ve never felt defeated before in my life. I failed math tests, I’ve lost sports games, but I've never felt defeated. Not like this.”

It all just feels pointless, she says. The suffering, the guilt, the pain and the loneliness. She should have been able to have an abortion close to home, she says, so that she could heal and be in the comfort of her own bed instead of driving for hours, afraid.

And that’s what Terry wants people to understand about her experience and the Texas law: the pain that it caused her. The pain it still causes. “I want to force people to see what they’re doing,” she says.

“I want Greg Abbott or anyone who voted for this law to look me in the eye and tell me that I deserved what happened. That I deserve to be punished by the law for what I’ve gone through. I want them to look me in the eye.”

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