"Shortly after moving [to Seattle], I became pregnant with our seventh child. This was not the kind of surprise we wanted.  Feeling that we had all the children we could properly care for -- five children living -- we had taken precautions to prevent another pregnancy.  My six previous pregnancies had weakened my body, and the doctors had discouraged me from having another child.

In the third month I began experiencing severe cramping and bleeding.  The doctors told me that I was passing fetal tissue.  Because of this and other complications, they were sure that I would miscarry soon.  I was admitted to the hospital for a week as the bleeding continued.  We waited for my body to dispose of the damaged fetus naturally.  Soon it became apparent that the pregnancy was not going to terminate, and one of the doctors suggested that I consider aborting it.   He believed that the baby, if carried to term, would likely be born with parts of its body missing.  I had no reason to doubt him. After discussing it with Joe, we decided to undergo the surgery.

The day before the scheduled abortion I was in the hospital to be examined by another team of doctors, and they were in agreement that we should continue as planned.  Just as the last doctor passed by me to leave the room, he said, "We don't understand why that little fellow is hanging in there."  I felt a chill pass through me, and the thought came to me. "Don't do this.  You must have this child.  He wants to be born."

When Joe came to visit me at the hospital that evening, I explained what the doctors had said and told him about my impressions that this child should be born.  We talked about going ahead with the pregnancy and having a deformed child.  Neither of us wanted to do it, but I knew that I couldn't live with myself if I aborted this child now.  Joe agreed that we had to keep it, and we met later that night with the doctors and explained our feelings.  They were adamant.  We must abort the damaged fetus.  They said that no doctors would approve the continuation of the pregnancy, and that they, certainly, wouldn't be a part of it.

I was discharged from the hospital the next day and began looking for a doctor who would accept me on my terms.  I finally found a young doctor who had just begun his private practice after spending several years in the Air Force. He felt a kinship with Joe because of their common background and agreed to take me on as a patient.  He saw some possibility that the baby might live, but he too was afraid it would be born deformed.  He put me to bed and gave me a list of orders to follow.

Joe and the kids were great in filling in for me around the house, and I used the time to take home study courses and finish my high school education. As the months flew by and we rapidly approached my due date, I became increasingly frightened.  We prepared the children for the likely outcome: that the baby would be born either deformed, possibly with parts missing, or it could die. Joe and I tried to comfort each other by recalling often my impressions upon hearing the doctor's words: "This little fellow is still hanging in there." This was during the times when hospitals didn't allow fathers in the delivery rooms, and the thought of facing this child's birth without Joe near me was terrifying.  Though the hospital staff agreed to let Joe stay with me during the delivery, they were apprehensive about Joe's possible reaction to it. They told him that if he fainted or become ill during the experience that their first responsibility would be to me.  He was asked to sign a waiver that exempted them from liability for him.

Labor began and I entered the hospital on June 19, 1968.  I was so frightened that my body shook uncontrollably.  Joe stood by me in the delivery room holding my hand and stroking my head.  He had to wear a green gown and white mask like the doctors. His gray-blue eyes tried to comfort me, but I could tell by the puffing in and out of his mask that he was terrified as I was.  As delivery approached, we tightly clutched hands.

As the baby was born, I watched the doctor's eyes.  I knew immediately that our months of fear and anguish had been in vain.  He laid the baby on my stomach so I could hold it, and Joe and I quickly looked over from head to toe.  We began crying.  Our son was perfect and healthy as any baby ever born.  I knew as I held him that, indeed, this baby was meant to come to me, and that it did, very much, want to be born."