ARGYLE, Texas — Two days after the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, a 27-year-old woman gave birth to her fourth child, a boy she named Cason. Born after his mother fled domestic violence and was denied an abortion, he was among the first of many post-Roe babies expected in Texas.
“I love my kids and I feel like a really good mom,” said Cason’s mother, who asked to be identified by her first initial, T. “But because of this pregnancy, I couldn’t provide for them.”
One in 10 people of reproductive age in America lives in Texas, which will soon join half of all states banning nearly all abortions. Texas’ conservative leadership has spent decades restricting access to abortion while slashing welfare spending and publicly funded health care. Now even some pro-abortionists say their state is woefully unprepared for a likely surge in birth rates among poor women.
Overturning Rowe “creates a sense of urgency that will now hopefully create the resources. But unfortunately there is this gap,” said Aubrey Schlackman, founder of Blue Haven Ranch, a nonprofit that fights abortion and provides housing and other assistance for T’s family.
“We really want to limit abortion,” Ms. Schlakman continued. “But we personally weren’t ready to handle an influx, and I know so many of the other nonprofits we work with weren’t ready either.”
Texas is one of the most dangerous states in the nation to have a baby. The state’s maternal mortality rate is one of the worst in the country, with black women making up a disproportionate share of deaths. The state’s infant mortality rate, at more than five deaths per thousand births in 2020, translates to nearly 2,000 infant deaths annually.
Texas chose not to expand Medicaid under the Affordable Care Act, which helped lead to hospital closings and the formation of “deserts” in rural areas where OB-GYNs are scarce and prenatal care even scarcer. More than a quarter of women of childbearing age are uninsured, the highest rate in the nation. Medicaid covers low-income women during pregnancy and two months after giving birth, compared to 12 months in most states.
A proposal in the Texas House to extend postpartum coverage to 12 months was shortened to six months by the state Senate. Tens of thousands of children born to low-income parents disappear into waiting lists for subsidized child care.
In September of last year, Texas passed Senate Bill 8, banning abortions for patients with detectable fetal heartbeats, which usually begin at about six weeks. A recent Times analysis shows that abortion rates in Texas have fallen by just 10 percent since the bill passed, as more women travel out of state or order medication abortions through the mail. But poor patients often don’t have these options.
From Opinion: The End of Roe v. Wade
Commentary by Times Opinion writers and columnists on the Supreme Court’s decision to end the constitutional right to abortion.
“If we assume that only 10 percent of women are unable to obtain an abortion, that’s a huge increase in the birth rate,” said Elizabeth Sepper, a law professor at the University of Texas at Austin who studies religious freedom, health care law and equality.
“There is no way there are institutions willing to meet that demand.”
Three years ago, T. was an accountant for a chain of fitness centers. At $36 an hour, it was the highest paying job she ever held. She was proud to become the main breadwinner for her family after her high school partner lost his construction job during the pandemic. But early in her pregnancy with Cason, she developed complications that eventually forced her to quit her job.
The family scrimped, moving into smaller and smaller homes until late last year, when they finally had to move in with her partner’s mother. The couple were unloading their belongings with their young daughter in a stroller nearby when “he snapped at me,” said T. Her partner choked her, she said, until she lost consciousness. When she was revived by a stranger, she had trouble speaking and a ring of bruises around her neck. Terrified for her children, she fled the next morning to a domestic violence shelter, she said.
She said she had never wanted an abortion before. But the prospect of raising four small children alone and giving birth alone fills T. with despair. She agonized over the needs of her three children and the victims. “If I do this, I’ll make sure they’re always good, always taken care of,” she said, she remembers thinking.
“It was a very difficult decision, but I felt it was a smart one for me.”
Her sister drove her to Southwest Women’s Surgical Center, an abortion provider in Dallas. But Texas had just passed Senate Bill 8, and providers told T she was about seven weeks pregnant — too far along for an abortion in Texas. Can he travel to New Mexico? In the waiting room, T. was sobbing. Travel was impossible. She had no money and so few childcare options that she had brought her young daughter with her to the meeting. She didn’t know about medical abortion.
T joined his sister who was waiting in the parking lot. She was sitting in the car, distraught, when an anti-abortion “sidewalk consultant” approached.
“‘You’re not alone. If you’re pregnant and you need help, we can help you,'” the counselor told her on the sidewalk, T recalled.
“I just started crying,” T said, “in relief.”
The next day, the woman T met in the parking lot referred her to Birth Choice, an anti-abortion pregnancy resource center located in the same office complex as the abortion provider.
Some anti-abortion crisis centers have come under scrutiny for misleading or misinforming women seeking abortion care. But at that point, “They asked me the perfect questions,” T said of the birth-choice counselor. “Am I okay? Are my children okay? What did I need?’
“Mind you, I had left everything,” she said. “They provided me with everything there: a baby bag, diapers, formula, clothes for me. They even gave me some clothes for my daughter and a toy,” said T.
“Then my advisor comes back and says, ‘I found you a place.’
The venue was Blue Haven Ranch, based in Argyle, about 45 minutes from Dallas.
Blue Haven provides housing, help with household bills, job training, and financial and other counseling up to a year or more postpartum for pregnant women with children. Among Americans seeking abortion care, 60 percent are already mothers, and half have two or more children. Most are in their late 20s and poor.
Ms Schlakman, 34, a former dental hygienist, evangelical Christian and mother of two, founded Blue Haven in 2020.
She grew up believing that women seek abortion care for the sake of convenience. “Now I understand why they would choose him,” she said.
Ms. Schlakman requires women to attend group information sessions with a strong religious component at a community church on Monday evenings. Blue Haven does not seek money from the government or anyone else who might question its religious approach. It accepts donations from abortion rights supporters as well as opponents, Ms. Schlakman said, reading a note from one who sent $50: “I don’t share your beliefs about abortion and Christianity, but I hope you will use your power to promote similar initiatives elsewhere.”
Blue Haven supports five families and has a waiting list of 12. The cost is about $2,500 per family per month for housing and utilities, plus gas and unexpected household expenses. A Boston financier who read about Blue Haven and offered to help recently negotiated a used car deal for a mother with bad credit.
Currently no ranch; families live in rented accommodation. Ms. Schlackman and her husband, Brian, have plans to buy a piece of land outside Denton, Texas, and build a complex with tiny homes, a meeting house and group kitchen, plus open spaces and livestock for “farm therapy.”
Standing in the wheat field where she envisions the houses would stand, Ms. Schlakman estimated she would need to raise $13 million for the land, construction and three years of operating funds. After Roe was overturned, Blue Haven received $25,000 in donations in two days.
Its focus on the Bible and emphasis on Christian family ideals make some Blue Haven mothers uncomfortable. But for T., the group offered a lifeline in a time of diminishing opportunities. On a recent Monday night, she attended a group session while her children played on the church’s pristine playground, overseen by volunteer grandparents. Other volunteers prepared a communal dinner.
Blue Haven threw a baby shower for T. and his supporters bought everything from the registry created by Ms. Schlakman. (T. chose a zoo animal theme for her son’s crib, in shades of blue and green.) When Cason was born, Mrs. Schlackman was there, tending to T. in the spa-like birthing center, where she had given birth to her own sons.
Blue Haven’s assistance will end about a year after Cason’s first birthday.
“The pressure is really high,” T said Thursday, four days after giving birth to Cason. “I have a year to rebuild my life while my body heals and four children to take care of at the same time. It’s scary. I try not to think about what will happen when I leave the program. I know I can be a great mom, can I just provide for my kids, keep the kids healthy and safe and have a roof over our heads and food?’
She said she hopes to find another job as an accountant and eventually move into her own home.
She said she had a message for the Texas Legislature.
“You do not know what is best for any family, you did not protect me or my children. I protect my children. Only a mother knows what is best for…
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