I wasn't "thinking" last night, therefore, it seems some of you think this is MY story. It's not. I just shared it. I thought some of the (kind) comments were directed at Caitlin.

Article Part 1:

• I moved to St. Petersburg a year ago to start my life. My husband and I bought our home here, we were married here, and we planned to build our family here. I am 36 years old. I spent my early adulthood putting my life on hold for work and to earn my PhD in microbiology. For us, this pregnancy was our Hail Mary … our “one and done” miracle.
• My husband comes from a strict, fundamentalist Baptist family. His father and brother were the head preachers in their hometown church. The sheer, overwhelming joy we felt when we found out I was pregnant was indescribable. I was at the end of my first trimester — the exact milestone when expectant parents are told it is finally “safe” to share the good news. I wasn’t jumping the gun; we had waited patiently. We had spent the last couple of months picking out names, imagining baby furniture, and carefully selecting Mother’s Day cards. Our plan was to go to our ultrasound, get the radiogram, and tuck that photograph inside the cards to send to our mothers as the ultimate Mother’s Day reveal.
• Instead, today (Friday), I found out I will be spending this Mother’s Day trapped in a body carrying a pregnancy that is no longer viable, waiting for a state law to allow me to heal.
• Just hours ago, on the Friday morning before Mother’s Day, we arrived for the ultrasound. Our appointment was delayed. We sat in the waiting room, watching other pregnant mothers walk out holding the photographs of their babies. I sat there imagining the exact moment I would be handed mine.
• When we were finally called back, the sonogram started, and then … nothing. The technician gently suggested I wasn’t as far along as we thought and that we needed to do a more involved sonogram. I stepped out, got ready for the second scan, and then my worst nightmare happened. The screen was quiet. The doctor confirmed it: the pregnancy was not viable. It was not growing. I died inside. I finally thought I had done one thing right in my life, that I had something to look forward to, and in an instant, I had nothing.
• But the tragedy of losing a pregnancy is only half the nightmare when you live in Florida.
• Because I am a resident of this state, I cannot receive the immediate medical care required to expel this unviable pregnancy. As a scientist, I understand exactly what is happening inside my body. But rather than allowing my doctor to provide standard medical care so that my body can recover and my husband and I can try again, the law has tied their hands. I am forced to sit here, physically carrying the remnants of my shattered hopes, enduring an agonizing waiting game dictated by politicians rather than medical professionals.