This article is part of a special series called “One in four: How abortion access shapes America.”
My name is Hajime White and this is my story. As a teenager, I learned what it meant to have no control over my body when I suffered the stillbirth of my first child, a baby boy. At that age, and during that time, going to the doctor and finding out you were pregnant was already scary enough. No educational books, pamphlets or doctor’s office literature could have prepared me for the trauma that would stay with me for the rest of my life.
I’ve worked for years as a doula in my state of Arkansas, where I provide support and care for mothers and babies — people who don’t always get the care and attention they need from our state’s medical system. My experience at 15 taught me that the fight for abortion rights, for access to information, support and reproductive care is not just for people seeking abortions. The more restricted our access to vital medical care, the more people will suffer like I did so many years ago.
The more restricted our access to vital medical care, the more people will suffer like I did so many years ago.
Most states have their own abortion policies and laws in place, including here in Arkansas, a Bible Belt state where abortion has historically been somewhat restricted, and where a near-total abortion ban has been in place since 2022 following the Supreme Court’s Dobbs decision. In my own work in the southeast region of the state, I strive every day to give women and their babies the support I did not have when I was young. But I’m challenged daily by the state’s restrictions on care and resources. As our election approaches, I fear we are moving swiftly toward a state that treats patients and young mothers like I was treated so many years ago: coldly, with a lack of vital communication and information, and no support.
Growing up in the Black community, abortion was not a word that would come out your mouth. You were to have this baby.
But in my situation as a young teen, it was different. My then-boyfriend, now-husband of 32 years, and I were scared, but we wanted our baby.
When my prenatal visits turned into having a pap test every two weeks, I didn’t know at the time that this was not the way prenatal visits are supposed to go.
Imagine that, during your 21st week of pregnancy, you go to the doctor for your prenatal visit. You hear your baby’s heartbeat die out over the Doppler, never to hear it ever again. You’re told the baby is not alive. This is when the trauma sets in.
But you do not get admitted to the hospital. You get sent home, with no real explanation. You don’t think at the time to ask for more information. After years of work helping mothers through pregnancy and birth, I now know what I experienced was what we call a “slick abortion,” or an undercover abortion, in which a pregnancy is not viable, but is allowed to continue.
But then, you feel the baby moving around in your body. You feel a stir of hope. You go for a second opinion, encouraged by your step-grandmother. You go that night with your family and your then-boyfriend, now-husband, only to be told, “Yes, the baby is gone and it’s a boy and he doesn’t have a brain.” It sinks in: Your baby is dead, inside of your body. You think you are going to die too, because there is a dead body inside of you.
Now again, you get sent home, not to the hospital. Again, still no explanation, no control over your body.
You still hold on to hope because you’re feeling the baby move inside of you. You find out later the baby was trying to expel itself from your body. Now you go to the hospital to be admitted for an induction. You arrive to get checked in, you have your gown with teddy bears on it and your own teddy bear in your hospital tote; you packed it as your security blanket. After you get to your room in the maternity ward, your family comes in, one at a time.
Years later, you find out your family had been told you may not make it and to say their final goodbyes. And you in the room, not knowing what is being told to your family. Now your mom is sent in the room to tell you to sign this form, it’s for the best. You try to read what is for the best. Later, you find out that your baby was being taken to be donated for science. My life was in the hands of the doctor whom I had put my trust in to care for me and my unborn child. Just to be left with scars. My life was in the hands of the doctor whom I had put my trust in to care for me and my unborn child. Just to be left with scars — emotional, physical, mental, anger, sadness and a bunch of whys. This is a mom who today has nothing of her son. Only memories of tragedy. No baby, no grave. I am left to do my own therapy. To tell my story every chance I get to keep me sane. My husband and I have raised six daughters since that first pregnancy, and each has brought us joy. But I still carry the trauma. What my husband and I experienced back then in doctor’s offices and waiting rooms was a warning. I had no control over my body. I was given little information. Now, I fear us going back to how things were then. I fear for others who are experiencing that same lack of control over their bodies, in so many different situations. Laws that seek control over people’s bodies can hurt all of us — not just people who seek medical care for abortions. My name is Hajime White and this is my story. I hope it does not become your story, too.
Hajime White
Hajime White is an educator, entrepreneur and doula in Arkansas. 
