Bodily Autonomy
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This autumn, fall for Moth Stories as we travel across the globe for our mainstages. We're excited to announce our fall lineup of storytelling shows from New York City to Iowa City, London, Nairobi, and so many more. The Moth will be performing in a city near you, featuring a curation of true stories. The Moth mainstage shows feature five tellers who share beautiful, unbelievable, hilarious, and often powerful true stories on a common theme. Each one told reveals something new about our shared connection.

To buy your tickets or find out more about our calendar, visit themoth.org slash mainstage. We hope to see you soon. Welcome to the Moth Podcast. For 25 years, the Moth has elevated personal stories to showcase the complexity of the human experience, to champion empathy, and to invite conversation.

As we wait for a ruling from the Supreme Court over the state of Roe v. Wade, we at The Moth produced this special podcast episode to shine the light on the depth and humanity of the issue and remind us that the decisions about our bodies are deeply personal.

Moth stories are true, personal stories. They're always about agency and choice. The right to have autonomy over your story, voice, and body are paramount to the work we do. Today we have two stories for you about bodily independence and healthcare.

Listen with an open heart and an open mind, as you do with all moth stories. And you just might find that these stories will help you process the discussions you might be having with friends and loved ones. Our first story is from Robin Utz. She told this at a moth main stage in Boston, where the theme was Give Me Liberty. Here's Robin live at the moth. I was pretty sure about my husband right off the bat.

When I met him, I loved how he talked about the things that he loved so much. He would have me come over to his apartment and we'd watch Soul Train YouTube clips until late in the evening and he would look at me with these adoring eyes and say, "It's the happiest place on earth." And I was like, "It really is." It took me no time to know I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him and it took pretty much no time to realize I wanted to have a child with him.

And the happily ever after has been easy. We're still as in love today as we've ever been. But the child part has not been so easy. It was after four years of trying, two rounds of in vitro, three frozen transfers from those in vitros, and a miscarriage that we finally got pregnant with our daughter, Grace Pearl. And we were just ecstatic.

The pregnancy went like a breeze. And before we knew it, we were at the anatomy scan, which happens a little over halfway through the pregnancy. And I could not wait. I wanted that profile shot. You know, you get the little like side profile that everybody thinks about with an ultrasound. And Jim wanted to see it too. So he came to the appointment with me. And we were having a nice time. We were just chattering about where we were going to get lunch and

It took me a little bit to notice that the ultrasound technician, Nicole, was not saying a lot. She was kind of making concerned noises and she goes, "There's not a lot of amniotic fluid. I want you to roll on your side and I'm going to talk to the doctor." So I do that, hoping that it'll prompt Grace to move to a better position. And she comes back and tries to scan again and no change. Grace has not moved. And she says,

"There's no amniotic fluid, and I'm sorry, I know that's not what you don't want to hear." And I'm like, "It's not? Okay." Alright, so she leads us down the hallway to go talk to the doctor, and I Google. I Google, you know, "second trimester, no amniotic fluid," and what stares me back in the face is "80 to 90 percent fatal." And I'm like, "Shit." It does not improve when we get into the doctor's office.

There is a waiting room in the doctor's office that is full of newborn pictures that my doctor has just delivered, most of them featuring her, and they're all smiling. And she comes in, not smiling, and introduces herself to Jim, my husband, as Jen. And I'm like, not Dr. Meyer, Jen. That's not a good sign. She explains the following. Our daughter's kidneys are huge. They're full of fluid-filled cysts. Basically, they're not working.

And the way that babies work when they're in the womb is amniotic fluid travels through the kidneys and is urinated out, goes through, is swallowed by them, and it cycles. And without that cycling, their lungs will never develop. They can't breathe. She explains that the prognosis is not good, and we burst into tears. To confirm this, she has scheduled an emergency second ultrasound an hour later, also in this hospital.

And for now, she lets us leave out a side door so we don't have to go through the waiting room full of expectant mothers with their full bellies for all of our sakes. I walk past a half-eaten birthday cake on the way out. We get outside and it is an unusually warm November day and people are milling everywhere and I cannot believe the earth has not stopped taking their lives with it. Just stopped in place. And I can't even stop. My parents knew that this ultrasound was happening right then.

and I can't not call them and tell them what's happened. So I call and my mom answers within a second and she's like, "How was it?" And I'm like, "Not good." And she drops the phone. I can hear her sobbing. My dad picks it up a few seconds later and asks what happened and I do my best to tell him while Jim's rubbing my back and silently crying next to me. And my dad asks if he can be there with us for the second ultrasound and we agree. And that's where we meet him in the waiting room for the second ultrasound. He

gives us each huge hugs and makes jokes about the reading material and I'm so grateful he's there. Dad jokes and all. And soon we're taken back for the second ultrasound and it's about two hours of detailed pictures of our daughter. She shows us the kidneys and the little black dots on them which are the fluid-filled cysts. And she shows us that there's no black background which is what amniotic fluid is. So there is not going to be that profile picture.

The doctor comes in and introduces herself as Dr. Gray, and my dad goes, "That's Gray's Anatomy!" And I'm like, "I don't think he's ever seen that show." I always loved that he was being humorous in that moment. She asks what we know, so we explain what we've heard so far, and she said, "That's right. There are two outcomes for your daughter. She'll either be stillborn, having been crushed to death by your body because there's no amniotic fluid, or she will be born

and the wheels will come off. I remember that phrasing, the wheels will come off. Without working lungs, she'll never survive, and she'll die within minutes, hopefully in my arms. My dad thought to ask, what are the odds for a baby like this? And she looked at him and said, none. And she looks at me and says, your baby would be the first if she made it. She then starts to explain the laws around abortion in the state of Missouri where I live.

She says that you have to first sign consents, which aren't always easy to schedule because only certain people can allow you to sign them with them. Then you have to wait 72 hours, I guess, to consider what you're doing. You also can't have an abortion after 21 weeks, 6 days. I'm 20 weeks and 6 days when this happens. And there's an upcoming weekend and a Thanksgiving holiday. So we have no time to think about it. We have to decide almost immediately if we want to be able to do this, if we choose to, in time.

She leaves the room to give us a moment, and we all just burst into tears. We're all hugging one another and just inconsolable. And I think about it, and I'm just like, what choice do we have? She's going to die 100%. And if we don't terminate this pregnancy, she will suffer 100%. And I look at Jim, and I'm like, we have to terminate, right? And he's like, of course we do. Even my dad, who was raised Catholic, agrees it would be cruel to do anything else.

The doctor comes back in and we tell her we've made our decision and she says, "I didn't want to sway you, but your risk would go up seven times if you didn't do this now. And that's just the risk of being pregnant." She explains that they will have somebody call us as soon as possible to get the signed consents scheduled because we're so short on time and we're lucky to be able to get in the very next day. Jim and I go to a facility where a doctor in scrubs meets us and takes us back to a conference room.

and there are papers laid out. Before I can even look at them, she pauses us and she says, "These are state mandated forms. They're not medical. They contain judgmental language that is designed to make you feel bad. It is not how we feel about you." I look down and I'm asked to sign saying that I have been offered to hear my daughter's heartbeat. I listen to my daughter's heartbeat on a home Doppler every other day. I have a recording on my phone.

were asked if we had been offered to hear or to see an ultrasound. I'd had three hours of ultrasounds just the day before. And I also had asked for extra ultrasounds because I wanted to see her any time I could. Then I opened a packet, and on the very first page, in bold, indented letters, it says, "Human life starts at conception. You are ending a separate, unique human life." And my grief was interrupted by outrage.

Nowhere in this documentation was how much Grace would suffer. None of it talked about the increased risks to my health. It was all just biased on one side. I wanted to light them on fire, but I assigned them. I had to. And that started the 72-hour clock. That was the longest time in my life. It was a slow marching through time where my friends seamlessly cleared their calendars to invite me over to do jigsaw puzzles and drink tea with them.

My parents came over and they removed every stitch of baby clothing and items out of our home. I took pregnancy-approved sleeping pills. I hugged Jim harder than I thought possible and hoped we could just meld into one person. I cried and cried and cried. And the night before the termination, I asked Jim how he wanted to say goodbye to Grace. While I thought about this, I thought about how sure I was about my decision.

I knew other people might make a different choice than I did. And there was a part of me that wanted to give birth to her and hold her. But I couldn't imagine doing anything but what we were doing because it felt cruel to do anything different. It was so definitive. And I never thought I would have an abortion. But I've never needed to think about it. Jim said he wanted to have a dance party for her. Our own little soul train. And he made a playlist of songs he'd always wanted her to hear. And always wanted to teach her about.

And so in our pajamas late at night in our living room lit by candles, we danced with Grace. We played Riot Grrrl music and some Rolling Stones and laughed at "Let's Spend the Night Together" because we'd always thought it would have a little different meaning with a newborn. And when Mick Jagger sang "Baby" I patted my little baby bump and we sang at it. And we slow danced to "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay" which Jim has always said is a perfect song just the way that it is.

We had to be at the hospital at 5 in the morning the next day. And in the operating room, as the pre-anesthesia cocktail hit me, I looked at my doctor in the corner, and I was like, I need you to know that I love my daughter. I'm doing this because I love my daughter. The nurse rubbed my arms, and I was gently turned and laid back on the operating table, and they put my headphones in. They told me I wouldn't be asleep. And so we played Grace's playlist. And that's how we said goodbye to her.

I'm pregnant again. It's a girl again. I'm so excited. I can't wait to see what she's like. And to teach her things. I can't wait to hold her hands while she's learning to walk. And to braid her hair. And to teach her about one of my favorite songs, Harvest Moon. I really want her to grow up in a world where she's valued. Where her humanity and dignity and her ability to make the best decisions for herself are respected. Thank you. That was Robin Utz.

Robin is an everyday person who has become a storyteller and advocate for reproductive rights and health care access. She's been featured in the Washington Post, Al Jazeera, and NPR's All Things Considered, among many other news outlets. She's lived her entire life in Missouri, where she frequently has living room pajama dance parties with her husband Jim and their little girl Hannah.

You can follow her story at DefendingGrace.com. Jill Chenault is up next with a story about independence. She told this at a Grand Slam in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Here's Jill, live at the mall. Richard Nixon resigned on August 9th, 1974. I know this because a year later, I was lying across the back seat of our station wagon, hot-ass vinyl seats,

Drenched in sweat, pretending to be asleep so my parents wouldn't talk to me. My father wouldn't turn on the air conditioning because it bothered my mother's sinuses, and she was sitting next to him in the front seat. On the radio, initially, was WJZZ, then public radio. No one had spoken for the hour or so that we were in the car, except for when my mother asked me if I was okay. As we got off the highway, I heard the theme song for All Things Considered.

As we pulled into our driveway, the host said that that was the first anniversary of Nixon's resignation. I didn't care about that. I wished I were riding my bike or playing tennis or just lying in the grass looking at the clouds. But there I was in that back seat, my face stuck to the seat, sweat running into my eyes, listening to a story about Nixon. We were on our way home from the hospital where I'd had an abortion. I was 14 years old.

I'd only had sex once and he was my first boyfriend and we weren't allowed to visit each other unless at least one parent was home. But he was persistent and I was curious and so even though I liked sports more than boys, I gave it a try. As soon as I missed my period, I knew. And back then, pregnant girls were sent away and if they came back, it was either with no baby or they suddenly had a baby brother or sister that polite people didn't ask about.

My parents wouldn't do any of that, but everybody expected me to become a lawyer like I'd announced in second grade. I couldn't be pregnant. I had planned on riding my bike all summer, and I was a good kid. I earned honor roll all the time. I was all city in track and volleyball. I played softball for St. Joe Park. I made nationals in tennis. I played the cello. I couldn't be pregnant.

I was going to ride my bike all that summer and just play in the sun until I was blue-black and the sun made my hair red. I couldn't start 10th grade with girls whispering and pointing at me. I had to do well at that school to make up for what my sister had done. I had to make my parents happy again. I couldn't be. I was going to ice skate at St. Joe Park that summer and I was going to play crack the whip. I just couldn't be pregnant. In the shower, I tried to will my body to force everything out into the tub.

I used a knitting needle to try to pierce my cervix and cause a miscarriage. I'd heard that taking poison, maybe Drano, would end it, but it wouldn't quite kill me. One morning after I'd sneaked to the downstairs bathroom to throw up, my mother met me in the living room. She took me by my shoulders and said, "What's wrong? Are you pregnant?" For the first time, her holding me in her arms didn't help.

She took me to a doctor out of town, a very small, soft-spoken woman whose beautiful Indian accent carried me to someplace far away. Maybe she'd say I was just sick, but she confirmed what I already knew. Over the next few weeks, I tried to will my heart to stop or have a stroke like my Aunt Shirley. I cried so hard I threw up thinking maybe I could convulse the pregnancy away. We never talked about whether I would have an abortion.

We just knew. My mother told me the date and then on August 8th she told me not to eat after 5 p.m. Nobody talked in the car on the way to the hospital. I gladly escaped into general anesthesia and I tried to stay there but then we pulled into the driveway. My mother got out and opened both back doors so maybe I could catch a breeze and I thought my father had gone in the house with her but when I finally sat up he was standing right there staring out into the yard.

I swung my legs out of the car, but instead of helping me up, he knelt in front of me. I prayed that he wouldn't. "Do you like sex?" "Oh my God!" I gave the only answer to that question from my father, "No." "Don't worry, you will. You're supposed to like it. I love it, but that's because I'm a grown man and I love your mother." "Oh God, please make him stop talking. Please! Just make him stop!"

One day when you're older and more mature, you'll want to have sex again. But that's my point. You're too young to make that decision. I still wanted him to stop, but I settled down. When you're ready, just tell us and we'll get you some birth control. You got that? I nodded. And don't you believe all these little boys talking about they love you and you're so pretty. Don't you fall for that. And don't start thinking that you're cute. Smart beats the hell out of cute every time. And you're very bright. We love you.

you're going to be okay. I don't agonize over having had an abortion. Sometimes I wonder how my life would have been if I'd had a kid when I was a kid. But then I think about what a good life I've had. I wasn't capable of raising a child, and I wouldn't ask my parents to do it for me. At times, I think about laying in that back seat in a puddle of sweat and tears trying to wish everything away. And even though I hated the choices that I had, I'm thankful that I had them. Thank you.

That was Jill Chenault. Jill comes from a family of storytellers. She's lived in a lot of places and worked as a criminal defense attorney, actor, writer, and dog walker. Her adventures provide plenty of material for stories.

The state of Roe v. Wade not only impacts women who are at the center of the stories you just heard, it is also a deeply intersectional issue that profoundly affects trans, non-binary, and cisgendered people across racial and social spheres. Rolling back Roe v. Wade creates a precedent to roll back other civil liberties.

If you're interested in more stories showing the importance of these issues through the experiences of those who lived them, visit themoth.org for an extended playlist. We hope you choose to share this episode or listen to it with those around you who may not otherwise hear these perspectives. That's all for this episode of The Moth Podcast. We wish you good health and thank you for listening.

Sarah Austin Janess is a director, The Moth's executive producer, and a co-author of the New York Times bestselling book, How to Tell a Story, The Essential Guide to Memorable Storytelling from The Moth. This episode of the podcast was produced by The Moth.

The Moth's leadership team includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Glodowski, Aldi Kaza, Sarah Austin-Gines, and Sarah Jane Johnson. All Moth stories are true, as remembered by storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.

The Moss Podcast is presented by PRX, the public radio exchange, helping make public radio more public at PRX.org.