The Hardest Road: Our Experience with Termination for Medical Reasons Across State Lines

I live in Georgia. I was 22 weeks pregnant when everything changed.

We’d gone in for a routine anatomy scan, the one we’d quietly been looking forward to for weeks. I remember thinking we might go out to lunch afterward, celebrate with a milkshake or a new baby outfit. Instead, we left with the ground ripped out from under us.

The Diagnosis

The scan showed multiple severe anomalies. The words came one after another, like blows: spina bifida. Bilateral club feet. A large abdominal wall defect with his intestines and parts of his liver outside his body.

The specialists were kind, measured, and direct. We were told that if our baby survived the pregnancy, he would face multiple surgeries immediately after birth. Lifelong complications. Potential paralysis. Months, maybe years, in and out of the hospital. And there were more unknowns. We were told to prepare for the possibility that things could get even worse. What did that even mean? How could they get worse.

The final recommendation was clear: we could continue the pregnancy and provide comfort care after birth, or we could consider termination for medical reasons (TFMR).

And in that moment, I felt like I had aged a decade.

What It Means to Have No Choice at Home

Living in a red state like Georgia, we were told that TFMR was not an option. The laws had changed. There was no path forward for us within state lines. No compassionate care. No quiet goodbye. No medical support. Just a wall.

I wasn’t a reckless teen. I wasn’t trying to “get out” of parenthood. I was a mother already in my heart. I loved this baby deeply, I imagined his name, his nursery, his life. And now I was being told by 'the state', the place I paid taxes, the place I voted, that my heartbreak didn’t matter. That my baby’s suffering didn’t matter. That I had to leave my state to access medical care.

Finding a Clinic Out of State

After the initial shock, we got to work. At least it was seomthing to throw my grief into. A problem I could fix. However fucked it was. I called clinics in nearby states. Wait times were long. Some wouldn’t take us. Others needed multiple steps and sign-offs.

Eventually, we found a clinic in Colorado (though others we looked into included New Mexico, Illinois, and Washington). The staff were calm, kind, and deeply experienced in TFMR cases. They had worked with countless families like ours already. Families coming from restrictive states, carrying babies with lethal or life-limiting conditions, seeking one final act of love. We booked our flights the next day.

Traveling for Care with a Broken Heart

Traveling while 22 weeks pregnant, knowing we were traveling to say goodbye, is something I can’t fully explain. I was in maternity leggings and a hoodie. People smiled at me in the airport. A stranger offered me her seat on the tram. I nodded and whispered “thank you” and tried not to fall apart. I carried prenatal vitamins in my carry-on. I still felt my son kick. In the hotel room the night before, I pressed my hands to my belly and whispered,

I’m sorry. I love you. I want more for you than this.

The Procedure

The clinic treated us with such compassion. We were not rushed. We were not judged. The doctors explained every step. The nurses held my hand. There was music playing in the background. My partner stayed by my side the entire time. The staff asked if we wanted keepsakes.. things like footprints, a memory box, a photo. They spoke of our baby like he was real, because he was. And even though we were only there for a few days, they made us feel like we belonged. Leaving the clinic was both a relief and a heartbreak. The physical pain faded quickly. Almost too quickly. It felt too easy when the pain was gone. The emotional ache remained, but it was less tangible. Some part of me wanted that physical pain to be there so I could direct my anger at it. But it was gone and so was my belly.

What Comes After

Back home, there were no flowers. No casseroles. No cards. No one really knew what had happened except a few close friends. Even then, we didn’t know what to say. It’s a strange kind of grief. Complicated. Political. Private. I didn’t miscarry. I didn’t choose this flippantly. I made a decision from a place of fierce love. To protect our baby from pain, to spare him a life of surgeries and limitations, to honor what we knew.

And yet I felt like I had to hide.

I still do, sometimes.

Why I’m Sharing This

I’m sharing this for anyone in a red state who might find themselves in the same unbearable position. For anyone Googling late at night, typing in "where can I go for an abortion at 22 weeks" or “TFMR in Georgia.” For the parents who are terrified and exhausted and can’t believe this is happening. You are not alone. There are clinics. There are funds that can help with travel. There are social workers and support groups and therapists who understand. There are other parents who have walked this road. Quietly and fiercely, with love as their compass.

Things That Helped Me

• Choosing a clinic that specializes in TFMR.

• Allowing myself to grieve: We named our baby. We lit a candle. We talk about him.

• Talking to a TFMR-informed therapist: Not everyone "gets it." Finding someone who does is invaluable.

• Connecting with others: I found groups that helped me feel less alone.

A Final Word

I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. The diagnosis. The decision. The forced travel. The silence when you get home.

But I am proud of how we loved our son. I am proud of the care we sought. And I am proud to speak his story in safe circles, even if it is in whispers.