I am torn. On the one hand, there is clearly interest among Motherlode readers for a conversation about prenatal testing in general, and Down syndrome in particular. I see that in the energetic, mostly thoughtful, sometimes harsh, discussion that has gone on in the comments threads (and in my in-box) in response to two posts by Amy Julia Becker this past week. (You can read them here and here.)

On the other hand, a goal of Motherlode is to keep the subjects varied. So I am running one more post on the subject today, from a reader whose experience raises a different subset of questions than Becker’s. And then I think we will take a pause on new posts on this topic, at least for awhile. But the comments will remain open; please continue to talk there.

Today’s post is from a reader, C.H., who wrote in response to Becker’s original essay about choosing not to have prenatal testing. C.H. was struck by the fact that Becker and her husband were united in their decision not to test, a unity born of the fact that they agreed they would not terminate a pregnancy if the tests came back positive.

C.H. asked about cases in which husband and wife do not agree. That was the situation she faced last year, when an amniocentesis during her third pregnancy confirmed Down syndrome. She and her husband had been divided on whether to have the test in the first place, and the decision of what to do next all but tore them apart.

She writes:

Three days after my first wedding anniversary, I faced the longest needle I had ever seen. My obstetrician, guided by a grainy ultrasound image, used the needle to withdraw amniotic fluid, which would be tested for chromosomal abnormalities. I was 31 and halfway through my first pregnancy.

Because I was enrolled in a research study, I had already been screened with two blood tests and a detailed ultrasound. Only one had hinted of an elevated risk. I was sure that the amnio would reveal no problems.

But my husband couldn’t stand not knowing. He couldn’t live with that shadow of risk hanging over us. He also couldn’t bear the possibility of parenting a disabled child.

I felt confident that we could love and care for a child with special needs. But I also felt that the baby I was carrying was fine. I squashed down any worry about my husband’s position and scheduled the amnio. As I predicted, it showed nothing abnormal. Five months later, we welcomed a healthy baby girl, and three years after that, a little boy who had passed his prenatal screenings without incident.

Then I conceived a third child. By now, I was 38. Once again, I got the call: “Your blood test and ultrasound show a slightly elevated risk of chromosome abnormality. We recommend further testing.” I saw a specialist and had a C.V.S. (chrorionic villus sampling) and amniocentesis done simultaneously. The doctor who performed the tests was gentle and encouraging. He handed me a videotape of the ultrasound and said he hadn’t seen physical markers for Down syndrome. I left his office thinking about names for my baby boy.

The next day, the kindly doctor called. My husband answered and I saw him turn white. I took the phone and heard the news for myself: Our baby had Down syndrome.

I flashed back to the first scare, seven years earlier. We were going to have to relive the debate we had then. Only now, instead of deciding whether an amnio was necessary, we were going to have to decide whether our baby would live or die.

There was no way to reach a compromise. One of us would win and be miserable. The other one would lose and be miserable.

Still we spent two agonizing weeks searching for an answer. We talked with our families, my doctor, a genetic counselor, a few trusted friends. We saw a therapist. The genetic counselor put me in touch with the mother of a child with Down syndrome. While she and her husband had both wanted to continue that pregnancy, they had come under pressure from other family members to terminate.

My husband and I sobbed and raged, together and separately. He stopped eating and sleeping. He expressed thoughts of suicide and of walking away from the family — emotionally, if not physically. There was nothing I or anyone could say to convince him that Down syndrome need not be a tragic diagnosis. He could only imagine a severely disabled child, one who would know nothing but suffering and pain.

I think I knew from the start that we would terminate the pregnancy. How could I bear a child whose father didn’t want him — was afraid of him? How could I rob my older children of their dad?

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking. I was already into my second trimester. I was terrified that I would soon feel the baby begin to kick and move. I scheduled the appointment and started jumping through hoop after bureaucratic hoop. It took almost another week before I underwent the procedure (facing down antiabortion protesters to do it; but that’s another post altogether).

It probably sounds like I am blaming my husband to absolve my own guilt. I get that. Whenever I feel a pang of regret, which is often, I berate myself for not being stronger, for not standing up for my baby. For failing him as a mother. That is my penance and I will live with it forever.

I’ll never know if we did the right thing. We did what we thought was best for all of us, especially our older children, under the circumstances. Those circumstances were complicated, nuanced, intimate. Yes, we are part of the majority that made the choice to end a pregnancy. But I want you to know that it wasn’t easy.