I’m a Kentuckian, a doctor and a mother who had an abortion. I will not be silenced.

Hushed rooms ... I have been in these spaces — still spaces where news is given — the kind that once the words are spoken they hang in the air. The kind that once the words are uttered make you realize things may never be the same. I have been on both sides — the giving and receiving. These rooms have become battle grounds for politicians. They may not be present tangibly but they fight to be there so they can make decisions for women, legislate what they can and cannot do with their bodies. Encroaching further and further in places where they do not belong. These rooms loom large in my mind and my heart and more so this month when my adopted home, Kentucky has allowed these rooms to again be politicized. As a result of this encroachment, the two functioning abortion center’s doors are now shuttered. An all but complete ban on abortions — no exceptions for medical conditions nor rape or assault.

One of these now shuttered clinics provided healthcare for me in 2004. There are pieces of that time that my memory is unable to access. Memory is a funny thing, with chasms and crevices where things get stuck or hidden perhaps in some cerebral fold. Pieces of information lost among rap lyrics from the ‘90ʼs, minutiae about rare diseases and what is on the grocery list. I remember the skirt I had on when I went to my OB appointment, my favorite black with tiny flowers (thrown in the trash the following day). The anticipation of learning the gender, and the initial smile on my husband’s face learning it would be a boy — a brother for our 18-month-old son at home. I glanced up to the screen after the technician left the room and noticed the head circumference measurements were three weeks advanced. I mentioned this to my husband and he quickly reassured me and then we waited. Finally the doctor came in and said “Well, you all are doctors ...”

Words filled the room: “no cerebellum, complete heart defect, blind esophagus, trisomy......” The amniocentesis needle was inserted into my abdomen and we went home to wait. After what was surely an eternity of really only several days, we met with a geneticist and received the results and diagnosis— trisomy 13. From my training I knew what that meant. The geneticist said “incompatible with life” and maybe the only words I uttered In that sterile hushed conference room were, “can I tell people that?”

There are days and months that these memories stay right where I placed them in a compartment locked away but when I hear about legislation that limits a woman’s right to choose right here in my community, they come rushing back. When can we as women expect this onslaught of egregious attempts to control our bodies to stop?

I am a person of privilege. I had the ability to borrow money to pay for the termination of a pregnancy that would end whether I chose it or not, the loss of a child that I so desperately wanted. Although this is an attack on families and all women, it disproportionately affects persons or color and economically challenged individuals. In addition to controlling women’s bodies it also continues the subjugation of disadvantaged people in this country.

The effects of the legislation on access to medical care are far reaching. The influence beyond these rooms is poorly understood by the very individuals who fight to make these decisions. For instance in this country the Black maternal mortality rate according to a study done by the CDC in 2007 is 28.4 deaths per 100,000. This is abysmal. This abortion legislation will essentially force women to continue pregnancies — some pregnancies with fetal anomalies incompatible with life —placing women, especially Black women’s, lives at risk. The long-standing inequities and racial disparities that have kept Black maternal mortality rates so high continue affecting their ability to make decisions about their health and well being. The message is loud and clear — women’s bodies are not important, not as important as fetuses, even those who will not survive.

I support women who make those choices to continue pregnancies in terribly painful circumstances. The crux of my argument is choice — the kind that is discussed in these rooms — between physicians and their patients. Many maternal fetal medicine specialists will not practice in areas where they cannot ensure their patients can get medical care that includes termination. I want the best doctors to come to Kentucky and be in my community. My sister is one of the physicians who would be in Kentucky providing high-risk obstetric care to Kentuckians if maternal health care was prioritized by providing choice. She is practicing in another state due to the limitations on women’s health care in this state.

I am but one story — not special, not different. I am 1 of 4 women in the United States. I am your sister, your friend, your doctor. I emerged from that hushed room in 2004 a different person. I will not be silenced. The rights of women to terminate pregnancy, take birth control and otherwise hold dominion over their bodies is paramount to the health and well being of women and families. We must speak up and have our voices heard — I am a person who made the choice to terminate my pregnancy at 19 weeks — I have gone on to adopt and have another biological child. However, I returned home from that procedure to an empty nursery, and there are days when I am that same scared girl entering the abortion clinic with protesters yelling at me.

I had the ability to be able to choose to go to a clinic in this state and get my health care. That is not a choice today. I implore our legislators and their constituents to make it clear that these hushed rooms that I speak of be ones unadulterated by those who don’t belong there. I beg those making decisions to prioritize the health and well-being of women and mothers in this beautiful state. We can do better, Kentucky.

Courtney Markham is a physician in Central Kentucky.

This story was originally published April 22, 2022 at 8:48 AM.