My phone rang while I was sitting in a restaurant, about an hour after my 20-week scan. It was my doctor’s number. My heart sank as I answered, and I immediately sensed something was off. “We couldn’t get a clear image,” the voice said, “so we want you to go to Calgary for a special 3D scan. Nothing is wrong; it’s just precautionary.” My gut, however, was screaming that there was more to this story than they were letting on.
A week later, we found ourselves in the bustling city for that 3D scan. The ultrasound lasted nearly three hours—three hours! Sitting in the waiting area, I glanced at my husband and whispered, “Something’s wrong. Regular ultrasounds don’t take this long, and the staff wouldn’t be this focused.” I’d been through a pregnancy before; I knew what a standard ultrasound felt like, and this was far from it.
When the scan finally ended, we weren’t handed a photo and sent on our way, as usual. Instead, a nurse led us to a small office, explaining that the doctor would see us shortly. The pit in my stomach grew heavier, my throat tightened, and my intuition screamed at me to brace for bad news. I can still remember the pungent smell of the cleaner in that room. Then, the door opened, and two people walked in—a woman and a man. The woman introduced herself as the doctor, then delivered words that hit me like a sledgehammer: “I’m under the impression you both already know your baby is missing its left hand.” I could only manage a faint, broken “no” before the tears came, uncontrollable and raw.
The doctor looked horrified, thinking our OB had already told us. She gave me a moment to compose myself before introducing the male doctor, who then discussed termination options, explaining that we could choose to terminate up to 27 weeks. I immediately saw red. What else was wrong with our baby that would even make them suggest that? My face must have gone pale because my husband asked what else could be wrong. Their answer was uncertain, only that more serious issues could exist. The male doctor handed us papers outlining termination. Without letting Chris speak, I blurted through my tears, “That’s not an option for us. If it’s just a hand missing, this baby can have more than a good quality life.”
The doctors left the room, saying they’d give us time, but there is no real amount of time that can prepare you for news like that. The tears I cried afterward were heartbreak, fear, confusion, guilt, and anger all mixed together. It felt like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. The drive home was spent in silence, each of us processing the shock. How do you process something this unimaginable?
At home, we had a vibrant, healthy 3-year-old son. How were we going to explain this to him? I had suffered a miscarriage just five months prior. Did I do something wrong? The guilt was crushing. And then there were our families, anxiously waiting for an update, and friends whose reactions we weren’t ready to face. The endless appointments, opinions, and “what-ifs” weighed heavily. Some who were supposed to support us questioned our choices, and ultimately, I lost a friendship over it. It was the most stressful and heartbreaking time of my life. But looking back, had I known then what I know now, I would have been able to enjoy the pregnancy more fully.
The news remained largely private. Only family and a few close friends knew. People would ask, “How’s your pregnancy?” and I’d plaster a smile on my face, pretending all was well. It felt like carrying a dark secret, not out of shame, but because I simply didn’t have the emotional energy to explain it, nor did I have answers. We chose not to do genetic testing; it was too risky, and the results wouldn’t change our decision. The uncertainty was cold and isolating, but it also revealed who truly cared about us—a small, invaluable support system that meant everything.
Fast forward to November 15th, 2017. The night was dark as we headed to the hospital for my C-section. Sleep had eluded me, my mind racing with unknowns. Yet I knew I had the most incredible husband by my side, and that our baby would be loved unconditionally, no matter what.
As they prepped me for surgery, my body trembled, tears streaming down my face. The OR staff were incredible, doing everything they could to comfort me while preparing for any outcome. Tension hung in the air, but hope lingered. When a nurse prompted Chris to announce the gender, she accidentally blurted out, “It’s a girl!” Relief swept the room, and when our baby was examined, the sheer joy and relief were palpable—she was healthy!
When Parker Elizabeth Skye was placed on my chest, I was instantly in love. In that moment, I knew without a doubt she was perfect.
As Parker’s mom, I’ve learned to protect her from stares and ignorant comments. It took me until she was six months old to share a picture of her hand, unsure of how people would react. She’s now two, and she doesn’t let her limb difference slow her down—she amazes us daily! Parker has taught us more than I could have imagined, changing our lives in the most beautiful way. We continue to educate others about limb differences and celebrate uniqueness. Parker, you’re going to do big things—truly, the sky is your limit.
If I only knew then what I know now…
