Past Due

I wanted to blog over the weekend, but my internet was down. I had planned to write about the fact that yesterday, February 24, was the due date from my first, miscarried, pregnancy. It's funny to think of that, because right now I can't imagine being ready to actually have a baby. You know, like one that's out of the womb and in the apartment. In my mind, the five months that stretch between now and my new due date are somewhat eternal, and hold endless possibility for the cleaning of closets, the acquisition of supplies, and the reading of all of those books that I keep requesting from the library.

In an interesting coincidence of timing, France's high court ruled today that parents have the right to official recognition of miscarried and stillborn fetuses, regardless of their stage of gestational development. This means that in France, someone who miscarries a pregnancy will now have the option of naming, registering, and burying the fetus. Proponents of the new law say that it will help families deal with the grief of pregnancy loss. Critics worry that assigning the fetus such rights will chip away the legal status of abortion.

Unfortunately, I think that both sides are correct. I've spent enough time in the world of intentional conception lately to know how pervasive and devastating the pain of pregnancy loss can be. I have no doubt that many women would indeed take comfort in a recognition that yes, they were pregnant, and the life that they had hoped to welcome into the world was lost to them. Knowing how important this is to many women, it's hard for me to argue the official recognition of such "lives." And yet, I remain committed to a world in which abortion is a safe, legal, accessible option for any woman who wants one.

Part of the problem is that the abortion-rights lobby, in the United States at least, has tied itself to the rhetorical strategy that life begins at birth. While this makes sense as a justification for the legality of abortion, it simply doesn't resonate with the experience of many women who have been pregnant. Anyone who has seen a ten-week ultrasound is shockingly aware of the striking resemblance the fetus bears to an actual person.

And so, my own position is somewhat less morally comfortable. There is no doubt in my mind that there is a life growing inside of me right now, a life that has been growing for the past 17 weeks. And similarly, there is no doubt in my mind that I should have the right, that any pregnant woman should have the right, to terminate such life.

It's a hard thing to write. It's a hard thing to say out loud. After all, so much of the language of choice avoids the issue of life, the issue of a living being. And perhaps that's simply a political necessity. But as I grapple with the messy edges of my own feminism, I feel like I have to acknowledge this contradiction, to own the uncomfortable space between my lived experience and the rhetoric of a movement I vehemently support.