'My Friend Said She'd Rather Have an Abortion Than a Child Like Mine'

I was sucking down a giant iced Americano at 4 p.m., preparing for a long night ahead, when a friend told me she'd rather have an abortion than a child like mine.

In fairness, I had put her on the spot. We were out for coffee and the topic of pregnancy and IVF had come up, when she said she couldn't bear the thought of raising a disabled child and that she would have an abortion if she found out her fetus had any severe disabilities.

I tried to keep quiet and failed. "What about Johnny?" I blurted, "Would you abort him?" The metal café table wobbled and creaked as she picked up her cup of decaf and said, "Maybe". It came out of her mouth so fast and casual we both knew what she meant was, "Yes".

Johnny is my 6-year-old son. He is severely autistic and cannot speak. He is on the end of the spectrum that isn't celebrated on quirky dating shows or in TikTok trends.

The aftermath of the parenting conversation

A few hours after my awkward coffee date, when I was holding him extra tight; my face buried in his head of wild curls, my friend texted me to apologize. She said she will always feel horrible about what she said but also reiterated that she still felt strongly about aborting a disabled child. I understand that she wasn't being intentionally cruel, just brutally honest about her views. Parenthood is so difficult and intimidating already. I responded "It's tough for sure," and left it at that.

The night my friend said she'd rather have an abortion than a child like mine, I felt a strange absence of anger towards her. I felt deeply quiet. I wasn't sure what was happening at first, just that I was holding my little boy very close for as long as he would let me.

That night I dreamt of him sitting alone in a room alone, crying and confused. He was in a room of kids who hadn't been "chosen" by potential parents.

I woke up without the dread that usually floods me as soon as I'm conscious. I felt an unfamiliar sense of peace. I reached over and put my arm around my son; he had crawled into bed with his father and I in the middle of the night as he often does.

What was happening to my brain, I wondered. Someone had said they would rather have no child at all than a child like mine. Why did I feel better than I had in years?

Instead of devastating me, it felt like the conversation had humbled me and rewired my nervous system overnight. The usual nonstop lamenting about the unfairness of a life I didn't choose was gone, and in it's place? A deeply unfamiliar feeling of gratitude.

Considering abortion when a fetus has complications

I knew in my heart that there was a chance I would have chosen to have an abortion if I'd known about my son's condition in advance and it chilled me to the bone. The stark truth of it terrified me. It brought me to a place of acceptance I had never reached before.

My friend had heard me vent for years about the misery of special needs motherhood—the guilt and frustration and heartbreak that my little boy couldn't speak to me. I had gone on endlessly about the isolation I felt from other parents because my son couldn't be in their class, club, or sports program. I talked about his tantrums, his 3 a.m. wake up times, and the hundreds of hours of therapy I'd sought out so he could learn basic skills like washing his hands and pointing as a form of communication. I raged over the fact that we were at the mercy of social service agencies with endless waiting lists, massive turnover rates, and overworked therapists.

I had made my life sound like Hell, which is how it felt a lot of the time. If any part of her had ever been willing to embrace the idea of having a disabled child, my nonstop grief parade would surely have stamped it out. She had the chance to avoid going through the pain I had loudly endured, and she had simply said she was willing to take it.

Parenting a disabled child

I never had to decide whether I would keep or abort my disabled child. I got pregnant on my first try and the genetic testing I took to screen him for chromosomal disorders showed none. The test didn't screen for autism. The best science available indicated I would have a typically abled child.

Had I been able to see the future, I would have seen a day care provider expressing concern about Johnny's devolving speech skills at age 2. I would have seen myself in a storage closet at work, receiving the phone call from a cheerful psychologist who let me know that at the tender age of 3, she could already tell Johnny was intellectually disabled, would never live independently and would be eligible county's vocational program when he was old enough. It felt like a thousand doors slamming shut on his future—and mine.

I cannot say with confidence that I would have chosen this life without the context of what it feels like to hold him close, to catch a fleeting glimpse of eye contact with him, or watch him eat an entire mini watermelon in one sitting.

There are so many things I would not have chosen. I would not have chosen for him to be unable to tell me why he's crying—if he's in pain or scared or just angry I'm playing the wrong episode of "Curious George".

I would not have chosen the abject terror that comes with knowing there will be no one to fight for and protect and care for him when my husband and I die.

But I'm grateful that I didn't have to choose whether or not to have a severely disabled child. My friend's comment melted away the years of rage and resentment that fueled my waking hours. So, I am now grateful for that conversation. The idea that given the choice, I might not have chosen my little boy broke my heart. Anger and sadness still take their turns with me some days, but I've turned a corner and grown up a lot in the months since that conversation.

I can focus more clearly on Johnny's hugs, giggles, and his love of spinning and eating cookies—usually at the same time.

Last year he learned to jump. He is learning to use a picture board to tell me which movie he wants to watch. Every small success is so precious to me.

Liz Brown is a mother, writer and advocate for disability rights and maternal mental health. She lives in Los Angeles, CA. You can read more of her work here.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.