Abigail, our third child, was due on Mother's Day, 1994. The nursery was ready and our family was ecstatic. My husband, Bill, an emergency room physician, had delivered our other children, and would do it again this time. Jon, our oldest child, would cut the cord. Katie, our younger, would be the first to hold the baby. Abigail had already become an important part of our family.

In April, at 36 weeks of pregnancy, our happy expectations crashed. An ultrasound showed what all my previous prenatal testing had failed to detect -- an encephalocoele. Approximately two-thirds of my daughter's brain had formed outside her skull. I literally fell to my knees from the shock. What I had thought to be strong, big, healthy baby movements were in fact seizures caused by the compression of the encephalocoele that continued to grow, as Abigail did, inside my womb.

My doctor sent me to several specialists, including a perinatologist, a pediatric radiologist and a geneticist, in a desperate attempt to find a way to save her. But everyone agreed she would not survive outside my body. They also feared that as the pregnancy progressed, before I went into labor, she would probably die from the increased compression of her brain.

Our doctors explained our options. The first: Let "nature take its course," which meant wait and see. But how could I let my daughter suffer the ongoing seizures? Second: Abortion. My God! I thought. Here I am at the tail-end of a pregnancy, a planned and very much wanted pregnancy. How can one even utter the word "abortion" now? I had never even heard of an abortion in the eighth month. I asked about a C-section. The doctors said they perform sections to save babies' lives, and since my baby couldn't be saved, they didn't want to risk the possibility of hurting my future fertility. I didn't want to take that risk, either. The only thing I was sure of at that point was that I wanted more children.

We agonized over our options, although as I write that, I know it doesn't convey the heartbreak and rage we felt. It was hard even to think of these as "options." I wanted my daughter to be born with a brain inside her skull, the way it should be. We decided to make our choice based on what was best for Abigail. If I could have chosen death for me so that she might live, I would have.

I am a registered nurse. Both Bill and I understood the medical risks of each alternative. We also understood that the question was not "Is she going to die?" A higher power had decided that. The question was "How is she going to die?" To this day, I thank God that that decision, at least, was mine.

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