Counselled to Abort, Chose Life and Found Life in Jesus Instead
During my second pregnancy while I was living in Rio de Janeiro, my husband accepted a job offer in Canada, and we had only two months to prepare for the move. We had a two-year-old daughter and I was pregnant with our second child. We were not yet Christians.
The thought of not having our baby in Rio was a blow at first because the benefits my husband’s company provided us with allowed for excellent private medical care. My top-tier hospital felt more like a luxurious spa than a medical facility. But, having the baby in Canada would automatically grant him Canadian citizenship, which would be a valuable asset.
In Brazil, we have both public and private healthcare systems. When a pregnancy is confirmed, you're referred to an obstetrician, who may be from the public system (which you don’t get to choose) or you can pay for a private specialist you’ve researched or someone has recommended. I had done my research and booked an appointment with a highly regarded obstetrician. She was respected by her peers, had numerous publications in international journals, and had a beautiful office in the same clinic where we had done our Canadian immigration medical exams.
After a few consultations, I scheduled a morphologic ultrasound, the one that checks the baby’s internal organs and development during the first trimester (around 12 weeks). As with all exams, I was calm but anxious to hear that everything was normal. The ultrasound was done at a large hospital, and the doctor performing it was an older obstetrician recommended by my doctor. Unlike in Canada, ultrasounds in Brazil are typically done by doctors who show and explain to you the images on their monitors.
In my case, the doctor noticed that my baby’s nuchal translucency (the amount of fluid at the back of the neck) was abnormally high. This measurement is used to screen for potential syndromes, including Down syndrome. The doctor tried several views, but the amount remained consistently off. No other markers for any syndromes were found. He explained that my baby had a 60% chance of having a syndrome and said he would report it to my doctor so we could discuss the option of termination. Just like that, "abortion" was mentioned for the first time, and I was in shock.
Abortion is legal in Brazil only under specific circumstances: if the pregnancy is the result of rape, if the mother’s life is at risk, or if the fetus is diagnosed with anencephaly. None of these conditions applied to me. At first, I was overwhelmed by the information, but it became clear to me that if you have the means to pay for it, some doctors are willing to perform illegal abortions, claiming it’s safer than women resorting to clandestine procedures. This doesn’t happen in the public system, but it’s a reality in private practice.
What upset me more than the abortion suggestion was the diagnosis itself. However, I was distressed by the offer and decided to stop seeing that doctor. I left the hospital and went to see my obstetrician. After confirming the grim prognosis, she not only recommended abortion but also suggested that having a child with special needs could destroy a marriage. She knew about our upcoming move and made it clear that a baby with a disability would not fit into our plans. My husband, ever the engineer, focused on understanding the statistics and probabilities of the diagnosis, while she remained evasive and clinical. It was an awful conversation, and I just wanted to leave and stop hearing her voice. As we left, she told us that she’d be there whenever we made our decision.
We returned home to our two-year-old daughter, and it felt like our world had collapsed. What should we do? Had we known this earlier, maybe we wouldn’t have accepted a job offer so far from our family in Brazil. We didn’t want to consider abortion, but I was crushed by the news. Within days, I lost all the weight I had gained and could do nothing but cry.
Through a work colleague’s suggestion, we visited yet another doctor who yet again suggested abortion, and the fact that it was illegal in Brazil only reaffirmed the uncomfortable reality: if you have money, you have options. Shockingly, this doctor said, “You know, one day you and your husband will die, and this”—gesturing toward my belly— “will be the responsibility of your daughter. Do you want this for her?”
Finally, at another clinic, the doctor there reviewed my previous ultrasounds and clarified that our baby didn’t have a 60% chance of having a syndrome, but rather, the chances had increased by 60%. In practical terms, that meant the probability of having a baby with a syndrome had become 1 in 80—still high in medical terms, but not as dire as we had initially been led to believe.
We then met the clinic’s founder, an older doctor who was the kindest person we had encountered throughout this ordeal. He sat us down calmly and asked, “Does it matter to you if your baby has any syndrome? Would knowing that change your decision?” We answered that we would keep our baby under any circumstances, but with our move to Canada just weeks away, the reality of having a child with special needs was something we would need to consider. He suggested a genetic test that would give us a definitive answer, though there was a 1% risk of miscarriage associated with it. We agreed to go ahead with the test the following week.
During this time, I was incredibly sad. I couldn’t enjoy the precious moments with my young daughter. I felt numb and distant, unable to be the mom I wanted to be. Our full-time babysitter, who had become a friend and confidante, would sit with me as I cried.
The day of the procedure arrived. Without anesthesia, a needle was inserted into my belly, guided by ultrasound, to collect a sample of the amniotic fluid for genetic testing. After 14 days, we received the results: our baby did not have any syndrome. We also learned that our baby was a boy.
That was, without a doubt, the best day of my life.
Looking back on those days, I can only describe the feeling as being submerged in a giant wave—unable to breathe, not knowing which way was up or where the bottom was. During this time, a few people prayed fervently for us—my mom and a friend who was a pastor. Even though we weren’t Christians at the time, but we prayed too, even though I couldn’t understand God’s ways.
That all happened in Brazil more than ten years ago. Today, I see how many lives were touched through that experience. Not only did God spare our son’s life, but it was through this experience that my husband and I both decided to be baptized and publicly testify to His grace in our lives. Years later, I learned from our babysitter that my mom had often gone to her room to pray, and the two of them would cry together in intercession for us. I also discovered that my babysitter had given her life to Jesus, and that my story had been a significant part of her decision.
When our son was about six or seven, he unexpectedly thanked me for letting him be born. He had never heard this story before, and I knew that was God healing the last traces of guilt I still carried in my heart.