Stanley's Story

In this segment of “Personal Stories,” Kori shares the story of her son, Stanley; a deeply wanted pregnancy that changed course after a 20-week anatomy scan revealed severe fetal cardiac anomalies. She recounts the shock of hearing “incompatible with life,” learning the diagnoses (including hypoplastic left heart syndrome and total anomalous pulmonary veins), and making the decision to end the pregnancy as an act of love and compassionate care. Kori tells us why timely, barrier-free abortion access in Canada mattered to her family’s survival and healing. 

If you have a story to share, contact choicechat@humanistcanada.ca.

Content note: This episode includes discussion of pregnancy complications, termination for medical reasons, pregnancy loss, grief, and mental health impacts.

Thanks for listening to Choice Chat, a Humanist Canada podcast about choice, dignity, and reproductive justice. We’re glad you’re here. Do you have a story to share? Do you want to suggest a topic? Email us at choicechat@humanistcanada.ca or connect with us on social media. We look forward to hearing from you.

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Transcript

Stanley’s Story – Transcript 

 Producer (00:15.598)

Choice Chat believes in the power of real voices. In this segment, we're sharing personal stories from people who have faced deeply personal choices about pregnancy and abortion. These are stories of resilience, heartbreak, healing and hope told by those who've lived them. They remind us that abortion isn't just a political issue, it's a human one. By listening, we honour their courage and help dismantle the silence and stigma that still surrounds reproductive health care in Canada.

Kori (00:47.586)

My name is Corrie. As I record this, am 33 years old. Let me tell you a bit about me. I love sports. I grew up playing badminton and baseball and I still play both. But right now the thing that sets my soul on fire is my women's volleyball league. It's the best part of my week. I am extremely competitive. The kind of competitive that means I probably shouldn't be invited to your board game night. I am a daughter, a sister, a wife and a mother. And as I record this, I have one living child, Milo. But this story isn't about him. This story is about Stanley. Let me take you back to 2020. My husband and I were blissfully unaware of the imminent pandemic, planning our wedding, imagining our future. When the world changed, so did our plans. 

 We had a small intimate wedding in the fall. And we settled into married life. We bought a house. We started our full-time jobs and we felt ready for the next step, having kids. I tracked my cycle, learned the signs of ovulation and after just four months, we got a positive test. 

 We were going to have a baby. We did everything right. I called my midwife, booked my first appointment and at five weeks we told our parents. The first scan at eight weeks was magic. Our tiny little bean, heartbeat flickering on the screen. Of course there was a heartbeat. Why wouldn't there be a heartbeat? Nothing bad would ever happen to us.

 At 13 weeks, another scan. Everything looked perfect. Why wouldn't it? Nothing bad would ever happen to us. Then came the anatomy scan at 20 weeks. A long awaited moment, an exciting formality, a chance to get those cherished ultrasound photos. The baby was rolling, healthy and alive. I didn't even consider the possibility that something could go wrong. Nothing bad would ever happen to us. 

 That evening our midwife called. They saw something, something with the heart. They needed a closer look. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe they were being overly cautious. Nothing bad would ever happen to us.

 Two days later, we had a fetal echocardiogram. The baby was active, kicking, moving. Active babies don't have heart issues. Why would there be a heart issue? That night, our maternal fetal medicine specialist called. I sat in my usual chair at the dining room table. One I would never sit in the same way again. 

 The words cut through me, incompatible with life. 

 Everything stood still. My heart dropped. My face burned, tears filled my eyes, but I forced myself to stay calm, to listen, to absorb the words that would change everything.

 The next day we met with a fetal cardiologist. The scan felt endless. And by the time the doctor came in, the winter sun was already setting. We sat in a cold sterile room waiting. The doctor entered holding a tissue box. We knew. He showed us a drawing of a typical heart, then a drawing of our baby's heart. They were so different. I knew anatomy.

 I knew what I was looking at, and I knew without him saying that it was not a life our child could live. The doctor explained our options. He told us gently that if we continued our pregnancy, our child's life would be short, palliative, filled with surgeries, pain, and uncertainty. I could feel my body go into panic mode. I can't do this. I can't keep going. This poor baby. I don't know if I can make it through this.

 And then for the first time, he said the words, you have the option to end the pregnancy. I knew in that instant what I needed to do. I felt this wave come over me of relief. I knew I could not continue this pregnancy. I couldn't do that to our baby. I was relieved that I was able to offer this to my baby. We met with another specialist walking down the dim hallways late on a Friday night.

 We had never met him before, but the moment we sat down, we felt safe. He listened, he understood. He told us that if we chose to end the pregnancy, it would be an act of love. And I thought so too, that validation and understanding in the current world we live in was so precious to me. I went home and cried. I told our family, I researched, I learned the name of the defect. Hypoplastic left heart syndrome. It was bad, really bad. And there was more. Total anomalous pulmonary veins. Every new piece of information reinforced what I already knew. Our baby's life, for however long this baby survived, would not be one of joy. 

 Don't run too fast, your heart can't handle it. No snowboarding, it's too dangerous. You won't make it to college. You might not even make it to kindergarten.

 We loved this baby so much, but we knew for our family, we needed to let the baby go. In the days leading up to the induction, I tried to connect with the baby. I sang, I talked, but I realized I needed to know, was this a boy or a girl? 

 I called my midwife. She was in the car with her family when she answered, “I know what you're having.”, she said, in a way that I could almost tell she was smirking. Are you sure you want to know? “Yes.” She said, “it's a boy.” Our baby boy, Stanley. 

 On the morning of March 4th, 2022, the hospital called. It was time. At 9.04 PM, Stanley entered the world, cradled by the kind and gentle hands of our doctor who had been with us through it all.

 “Was he born alive?”, I asked. The doctor shook his head. I don't know what I wanted the answer to be. Maybe I wanted just a moment to hold him, to whisper that I loved him, to tell him I was sorry that this was his life. But I also knew this way, passing in the warmth of my body was the gentlest, most peaceful way he could go. Stanley is never far from my mind. He is woven into the fabric of our family, of Milo's life. 

 We talk to him often. And I am endlessly grateful that I had access to the care that allowed me to make my first parenting decision out of love. Accessing abortion care looks different for so many people. In the world we live in, there's so much hate spoken around the topic.

 I hope that in sharing my story, people can understand that each situation that a pregnant person faces and the reason that they choose to have an abortion, it's so individual, it's so unique. This was our first parenting decision. I didn't want to have to be put in this position. I didn't want to have to end a pregnancy. I never even considered that I might need to terminate a very wanted pregnancy.

 It has been an incredibly complex journey to navigate my emotions, navigate this alongside family and friends who provided unwavering support. Therapy, medications, extended time off work, all of that was needed. I was in a dark place for a long time. I grieved for my son. It was so unfair. It's still unfair. 

 And then I hear the media, the way they speak of abortion. If only they could understand this medical care was a gift I gave to my son. It was the palliative care he needed for a peaceful death. It's what I needed to maintain myself. 

 I knew had I been forced to carry out the pregnancy, I wouldn't have survived. Kori wouldn't have been there. I would have lost my spark. That competitive spirit would have been gone. I knew this was right for myself, for my son and my family. But I'd be lying if I said I hadn't had second thoughts. But when that happens, I come back to my story, the whole story. And it's not really a second thought. It's just that I miss my baby.

 I wish that it could have been different, but it wasn't. I am so incredibly grateful that we had access to abortion care. There were no barriers to receiving this care. Receiving safe abortion care helped me give a gift to my son. I was given the gift of letting him go in peace, and I will never, ever regret that.

Producer (10:23.768)

Thank you for listening. When someone shares what they've been through, it cuts through the silence and reminds us that we are not alone. If you have a story to share, we invite you to add your voice. Whether it's quiet or bold, painful or empowering, your experience could offer hope, comfort or clarity to someone else on their journey. Contact us by email at choicechat@humanistcanada.ca. Together, we're building a space where truth is heard, stigma is challenged, and choice is honoured.