Thank you, thank you, thank you Pat for posting this story. You do not know I am sure...but you grew up in a town (Village-of Ridgewood) that was victim of the Thalidomide Tragedy. Our Mayor and his wife were parents a daughter born them with no arms as a result of this drug. She was an adult when I met her and a wonderful person, amazingly adept at dealing with her handicap. But the Lethal Danger this drug presented was Very Real. Just as was Polio which we also grew up with and received the Vaccination for. Vaccine Deniers and Health Deniers in today's world have no clue of the Horror they are encouraging to occur. My parents lived through these horrors as well as The Spanish Flu which killed many multiples of Covid-19.. To bury you head in the sand ( I cleaned that up for FB) is the same ignorance which gave Adolf Hitler the authority to murder millions of human beings. Speaking to critics of this, or doubters of this; if you think depleting the world population is "The Natural Order" of war and disease and freedom to participate in genocide is your right....it's not. You have no right to intentionally remain ignorant of The World, unless it is something you physically or mentally do not have the capacity for. (a cleaned up way so say...get you head out of (the sand)).
Pat's Post
So ridiculously sad….
She had no idea the pill her husband brought home from Europe would cost her career, her privacy, and force her to flee the country for medical care.
In early 1962, Sherri Chessen—known to Phoenix children as Miss Sherri on the locally franchised Romper Room—was thirty, married to high school teacher Bob Finkbine, and mother of four. She earned $110 a week hosting the cheerful weekday program, leading songs, games, and lessons about being a "Do-Bee" instead of a "Don't-Bee." She ended each show peering into her Magic Mirror, calling out viewers' names so every child felt personally seen. Parents trusted her; kids adored her. She'd won a regional Emmy, and public appearances drew crowds of little autograph seekers.
That spring she became pregnant with her fifth child. Severe morning sickness and chest pains set in. Bob, recently back from chaperoning forty students on a ten-week European tour, had consulted a London doctor for exhaustion; the physician prescribed tranquilizers. Bob took a few, felt better, and brought the rest home. When Sherri's nausea became unbearable, she took them. The pills eased her symptoms. She continued filming, managing her home, preparing for another baby.
In July 1962, radio reports from Europe described thalidomide—a sedative marketed as safe for pregnant women—causing thousands of babies to be born with severe deformities: missing or flipper-like limbs, organ damage, twisted spines. Sherri checked her bottle. It contained thalidomide. She'd taken multiple doses during the first trimester, the critical period for limb and organ formation.
Her doctor confirmed the high risk of serious birth defects; no prenatal test existed to predict severity. Sherri and Bob, loving parents to four healthy children, confronted the reality of 1962 America: virtually no support for families with severely disabled kids—no government aid, no widespread accommodations, only crushing responsibility falling mainly on mothers. They decided to seek a therapeutic abortion.
Arizona law allowed abortion only to save the mother's life; fetal abnormality did not qualify. Sherri's physician, sympathetic, quietly arranged the procedure at Good Samaritan Hospital in Phoenix.
Before proceeding, Sherri chose to warn other mothers. European travel was rising among middle-class families; other women might unknowingly take thalidomide. She contacted The Arizona Republic anonymously, hoping to prevent similar tragedies. The newspaper published her story on July 23, 1962, under the headline "Pill May Cost Woman Her Baby"—and named her as Romper Room's Miss Sherri.
The hospital, fearing prosecution amid sudden publicity, canceled the abortion. Her doctor petitioned Superior Court for approval; the judge declined, citing lack of authority. Time was critical; the pregnancy advanced.
Media coverage exploded. Mail flooded in—some supportive, much vicious. Anonymous threats targeted her children, prompting FBI protection. The Vatican denounced her; ministers preached against her "sin." Editorial pages debated her morality as if her pregnancy were public domain. Strangers judged her right to decide, never having faced her situation.
With Arizona options exhausted, Sherri and Bob contacted Sweden, where laws permitted abortion when mental health was endangered. Swedish doctors agreed to evaluate. In August 1962, Sherri flew to Stockholm amid relentless press scrutiny—reporters tracked her clothing, her mood, her airport movements. On August 18, at Karolinska Hospital, physicians performed the abortion. Examination confirmed severe fetal deformities: no legs, one partial arm, anomalies so profound survival was impossible.
Sherri returned to Phoenix medically vindicated but professionally ruined. The television station deemed her "no longer fit" to work with children and fired her.
The judgment exposed a harsh double standard: she was ideal as a nurturing, cheerful television mother—until she exercised autonomous choice in a medical crisis. Then she became unacceptable.
Public opinion, however, shifted in her favor. An August 1962 Gallup poll—the first Gallup ever asked on abortion—found 52% of Americans believed she had done the right thing (men 54%, women 50%), with 32% disagreeing. The case fueled national discussion and helped build momentum for abortion reform. By 1965, 77% supported legal abortion when maternal health was endangered—a sharp change from pre-1962 attitudes. Legal scholars credit her visibility with easing the path to Roe v. Wade in 1973; one lead attorney thanked her personally.
Sympathy did not restore her job immediately. For six months she had no television work. Under pressure from supporters, the station offered a fifteen-minute slot for a new show, Here's Sherri, expecting her to fade. Instead, she secured sponsorship; it grew to thirty minutes, then an hour. In 1964 she became pregnant again. Despite warnings about possible thalidomide effects, she researched, found the science inconclusive, and continued the pregnancy. The baby was born healthy. The station fired her again—this time for being pregnant and giving birth.
She had lost her job for terminating a non-viable pregnancy, then for carrying one to term. The consistent factor was her refusal to surrender reproductive autonomy.
Sherri divorced Bob Finkbine in 1973, remarried twice, had two more children (six total), wrote children's books on bullying and gun violence, and continued in media. She never escaped being "that woman from the abortion case," but never regretted her choice.
In July 2022, at eighty-nine, she told CBS News after Roe's overturn: "I was thrown out of my doctor's office, out of the city, and out of the state. We can't go back to willow sticks and knitting needles." (As of 2025, she remains an advocate at ninety-three.)
Her story is not unique; thousands of American women faced similar impossible pregnancies in silence, risking illegal procedures or carrying non-viable fetuses to term. Sherri spoke publicly to warn others. America punished her transparency—threats to her children, lost livelihood, global scrutiny. The backlash aimed to enforce silence, not protect life.
She refused silence. She affirmed that loving children includes preventing suffering, that medical reality demands hard choices, that women possess the moral capacity to decide.
In 1962 that was revolutionary. It still is
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