He Chose Her Over Our Dead Child

"Mrs. Ortega?"

Deidre jumped. Her hands, which had been tightly woven together in her lap, jerked apart. She pressed her palms flat against the cool leather of the sofa, trying to stop the trembling.

Dr. Frye stood in the doorway of his Upper East Side clinic. He didn't meet her eyes. He walked over to his mahogany desk, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, and sat down. He placed two thick manila folders on the blotter and pushed them toward her.

"Your results are back," he said. His voice was flat. Dull to the point of being somewhat frightening.

Deidre reached for the first folder. Her fingers were numb. She opened it and stared at the grainy black-and-white image paper-clipped to the top. A tiny blob in a sea of static.

"You're six weeks pregnant," Dr. Frye said.

A rush of hot air filled Deidre's lungs. Six weeks. A baby. After all the negative tests, after all the months of disappointment, there was finally a heartbeat inside her. The corners of her mouth lifted. She looked up at the doctor, expecting to see a matching smile.

Dr. Frye was staring at the second folder. His jaw was tight.

"However," he said, flipping the second folder open, "your echocardiogram came back with severe abnormalities."

Deidre's smile froze. "Abnormalities?"

"You have severe dilated cardiomyopathy." Dr. Frye tapped a graph that looked like a jagged mountain range. "Your heart muscle is enlarged and severely weakened. Your ejection fraction is critically low. Your heart is failing, Deidre."

A high-pitched ringing started in Deidre's ears. She shook her head. "No. That's impossible. I just had a little shortness of breath. It's just the pregnancy-"

"It's not the pregnancy." Dr. Frye's voice was gentle but unyielding. He pointed to the numbers on the page. "Your BNP levels are through the roof. Your heart cannot pump efficiently. The physical stress of pregnancy increases blood volume by fifty percent. Your heart will not survive that load."

Deidre stared at the graph. The lines blurred. "What are you saying?"

"I am strongly advising you to terminate the pregnancy." Dr. Frye leaned forward, his eyes finally meeting hers, filled with pity. "If you carry this child to term, the strain will likely cause catastrophic heart failure. You will die."

Deidre's hands flew to her stomach. She covered the flat plane of her belly protectively, her fingernails digging into the fabric of her silk blouse. "No. There has to be another way. Medication? Surgery?"

"None that are safe during the first trimester." Dr. Frye sighed. "I know this is devastating. But you have to think about your own life."

The ringing in her ears grew louder. Her vision tunneled. She was going to be sick. She forced herself to breathe in through her nose, tasting the sterile clinic air. She would not cry. She would not fall apart here.

A violent vibration shattered the silence of the room. Deidre jumped again, her hand flying to her Hermes bag. She pulled