When she was eight and a half weeks pregnant, at age 36 (two days after her birthday), Abby Klausner Blum got a leukemia diagnosis and the news that she needed an abortion in order to pursue treatment. Her daughters were three and five at the time. Less than a year after her diagnosis, she joined the 2024 Harris campaign to share her story about a medically-necessary abortion. She spoke to crowds of thousands across the U.S. about the importance of reproductive rights.
Abby and her daughter on the campaign trail for Vice President Kamala Harris. Photo courtesy of Abby Klausner Blum.
When I was first diagnosed with leukemia, I was pregnant and very much wanted to keep the baby. I went to my OB-GYN for routine blood work and an ultrasound. Then I got a phone call at 4:45 P.M. from my doctor. She said, ‘Your white blood cell count is so high, I think you have leukemia. I want you to come in tomorrow.’ The next morning I went in, and she put her arm around me and said, ‘This isn’t a pregnancy for you.’ I was like, ‘What? How are you diagnosing me with leukemia and telling me I have to terminate a pregnancy?’
Abby during her hospitalization in November 2023. Photo courtesy of Abby Klausner Blum.
Early on, it felt like everyone was saying: You have to focus on yourself, you have to do what’s best for you. And it’s obviously not that easy. Having to terminate a pregnancy that was so wanted, having to not have the family we thought we would have, to not be able to have more children: that has been by far the hardest part. I can deal with cancer, with treatment. But it’s so hard to separate the cancer from the termination. I don’t know how to talk about just cancer. For me, they’re so intertwined.
Being able to safely terminate my pregnancy and speak publicly about reproductive rights has been empowering and therapeutic. If this story can help anyone, that means everything.
A friend’s cousin was involved in protecting reproductive rights in Michigan and asked if I would share my story. The Kamala Harris campaign reached out in May. I said yes to anything and everything. If there’s some way I can use this for good, I will do it. I hate when people say everything happens for a reason. Shitty things happen to good people for no reason. It’s just how you deal with it. So I held on to the feeling that it would be empowering to do something.
They flew me to New Hampshire to speak at a rally with the [then] Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff. It was the first time I publicly shared my story. I was terrified and shaking. I was never a public speaker. I was shy, terrified to raise my hand. But with this, I felt confident. This is my story. No one can tell me it didn’t happen.
Abby with her husband and daughters giving moral support before sharing her story on a Zoom meeting. Photo courtesy of Abby Klausner Blum.
I have two daughters, and I have always believed in women’s rights and reproductive freedom. I never thought I would be sharing an abortion story. But it felt therapeutic to use it for something positive. I will always speak up and share my story. I don’t know how anyone can look me in the face and tell me my life doesn’t matter.
Abby sharing her story at a Reproductive Freedom rally for the Harris Waltz campaign in Minnesota in October 2024. Photo courtesy of Abby Klausner Blum.
In Minnesota, I spoke at a rally; I met Gwen Walz [wife of Minnesota Governor and VP candidate Tim Walz] and a few senators. And it was this really amazing juxtaposition, feeling like: I'm going through this really, really awful thing, and also I'm doing something so big with it, and I'm reaching so many people.
Then exactly a year after my diagnosis, I was flown to Texas, and I brought my six-year-old daughter with me to meet Kamala Harris. We were in a small room with other women who had gone through traumatic experiences, like their daughter or sister, [or another] family member dying from not being able to access the care. It felt really, really emotional and powerful and surreal, to go from a cancer diagnosis and termination to have the [then] Vice President speaking directly to us and sharing. It felt so authentic and warm and very surreal.
Abby and her daughter Ava at a Harris rally in Dallas, TX in October 2024. Photo courtesy of Abby Klausner Blum.
At the same time, I started fundraising for blood cancer research through a comedy event. I had never written my story out before. I posted a fundraising page hoping maybe I could raise $1,000. Within a day I had raised $25,000. By the event, I had raised $40,000. I remember sitting in my car, flooded with messages from high school friends, college friends, people in town. No one knew. It was a way of sharing that felt like it was for the greater good. Later, when I reached the first phase of molecular remission, they shouted it out at the event. It was overwhelming, this community around me. Knowing that twenty-five years ago my cancer would have had a three- to five-year life expectancy. Combined with the reproductive rights work, the ability to feel like it was making a difference, has been so beyond helpful.
Abby holding her first mail order of oral chemo. Photo courtesy of Abby Klausner Blum.
But now I’m in this phase of: Now what do I do? I’m in remission. I feel okay. I want to be with my kids. I don’t want to just go back to any job. Everything feels different in a beautiful way. I want to spend time with people I love.
Every time I share it, it’s hard. I spoke at a Planned Parenthood event over the summer, and it was the first time that my husband was with me and seeing me speak. I could not keep it together.
Abby speaking for the first time in New Hampshire for the Harris Campaign with the Second Gentleman in July 2024. Photo courtesy of Abby Klausner Blum.
My kids know I have leukemia. I was hospitalized unexpectedly and had to tell them ‘My blood is sick and I’m hooked up to these machines to get better.’ A therapist helped me with language. Cancer holds so much meaning for us [as adults], but you set the narrative for your kids. They don’t know what that word means. I was open about my diagnosis. They used to ask, ‘Please can you grow another baby in your belly?’ It felt like a dagger every time. I told them: ‘Because of the medicine mommy’s on, I can’t right now.’ I don’t know when or how we’ll talk about the termination. I sometimes feel like I’m lying by not telling them that part.
Socially, the first six months I pulled away from everything. I had so much anxiety about not wanting to be ‘the cancer girl,’ but how do I talk about anything else when this has consumed my whole life? I don’t want it ignored. I had someone, who loves to check in, a very nice way, say to me recently, ‘Oh man, it’s like you don’t even have cancer.’ That’s one of the worst things you can say. It’s invalidating. It’s a chronic illness I will have for the rest of my life. I need the acknowledgement that this is hard. When someone mouths ‘are you okay’ at a pregnancy announcement, it makes me want to cry, but it makes me feel seen. It’s unfair, and I know it’s probably jealousy, but being around women with their third children is still so painful. It pushes me away socially. That part is still very tricky for me.
You learn who shows up and who doesn’t. I lost a friendship over this. If you can’t be there for me through a cancer diagnosis and terminating a wanted pregnancy, then I don’t need you in my life. And then there are friends who pick you up and drive you to school pickup, so you don’t have to be alone. No one always says the right thing, but just making it known that you care means everything.
The social anxiety and disclosure is still very real. Sometimes I want people to know, and sometimes I don’t want to say it out loud. It’s exhausting to be vulnerable all the time. There are still moments that hit hard. It never ends. It’s always a part of you.
I hate when people say everything happens for a reason. Shitty things happen to good people for no reason. It’s just how you deal with it. So I held on to the feeling that it would be empowering to do something.
The decision to terminate was agonizing. Everyone can say, ‘just terminate so you can start chemo and save your life.’ Logically, yes. But it felt all or nothing. If I start treatment, we’ll never have kids again. Now it’s IVF, surrogacy, guilt over whether I’m giving up if I don’t try. It’s continuously mourning who you were before all of this, and sometimes celebrating the new version of me. I feel proud of where I’ve come. But I will never hear a pregnancy announcement or see a baby and not feel that hurt.
Abby with her daughter, sister, and brother on the campaign trail for Vice President Kamala Harris. Photo courtesy of Abby Klausner Blum.
*This interview has been edited, condensed, and slightly reordered for flow and clarity.
