After the final presidential debate, someone shared a Huffington Post article on Facebook. It was written by a gynecologist, the title was something along the lines of “Abortions Are Never Performed in the Ninth Month.”
I scanned the sanitized, sugar-coated, textbook description of abortion written, no doubt, in an effort to make those who support barbaric partial-birth abortion feel better about supporting it. Written, I’m guessing, by someone who has never performed one. The author, sadly, could not resist ridiculing Donald Trump in the process, lowering the professional credibility of the article considerably.
The author succeeded, however, in making the Facebook sharer feel better about supporting a candidate who supports a cruel procedure. Her accompanying comment said just that.
I have helped women, and even some men, pick up the pieces in the aftermath of abortion. I did so for twelve years. And though I am not a gynecologist, I’m sure I know as much about abortion as any gynecologist who sits safely removed from the unpleasantness of it all.
I’ve listened to stories of regret, guilt, deception and coercion. Stories of women who were forced into it by their moms, brothers, boyfriends. Women who eagerly listened to the deceiver before the procedure and then heard him hiss, “Sucker!” as he slithered away after the procedure.
But not until he planted the tormenting question: “What if you can’t have children now?”
I listened to men cry because their child was aborted without their consent, sometimes without their knowledge until years later. Men who had no say in the matter, who weren’t given the opportunity to step up to the plate. I listened to a married man whose child was destroyed by its mother. By his wife. His now ex-wife because he just couldn’t reconcile it.
Any parent of an aborted child – male or female – who wanted to volunteer at the pregnancy center while I was director, was required to participate in a post-abortion recovery group prior to counseling anyone. Just to make sure any underlying pain and regret wouldn’t make a surprise appearance in the counseling room, so it wouldn’t interfere with their client-centered counsel.
I’ll never forget the 9th-month-abortion experience one of those volunteers shared.
Testing revealed that her soon-to-be-delivered son was anencephalic.
While she was still reeling from the news, she found herself in a conference room with 21 doctors all telling her she needed to abort. Giving birth would be too traumatic they said. It would be too hard on her to watch her son die in her arms they said. If the baby did live beyond a few hours, his handicaps would be too hard for her to abide they said.
They decided abortion would be easiest on her.
It would certainly be easier on them.
So there she lay alone in a room, on a cold table, hooked up to a saline solution. She lay there for hours while her son thrashed violently inside her. His delicate skin and his lungs burning.
Finally, mercifully, he died. And she was never the same.
She wouldn’t hurt a fly.
I hate flies. Hate them. I hate that they walk in dog poop outside and then come inside and walk on my counters. If I can shoo them out of my house, I will. But if I can’t, I have no problem whacking them.
There was a fly on the sliding screen door in my family room. I closed the heavy inner window-paned door, trapping it between the two. Then I went outside to open the screen door and set the fly free. But once I got out there I realized the screen door was locked. Opening the heavy door to unlock the screen might release the fly into my house. So I left it trapped.
The fly buzzed frantically in its confinement.
Just hurry up and die, I thought, feeling kind of sick.
I thought of the volunteer on that table.
There I was sick over a frantic fly – a germy, gross fly.
She had to lay there alone while her precious wanted baby thrashed in pain.
No doubt she hoped he would just hurry up and die, too.
“How was laying on a table feeling him thrash in pain for hours easier than giving birth to him and cradling him gently in my arms while he died?,” she sobbed. And sobbed.
“WHY DIDN’T THEY GIVE ME TIME TO MAKE MY OWN DECISION?”
“Why didn’t they tell me I would feel him dying?”
“Why didn’t they tell me I’d be alone…”
The problem with saline abortions was that some children survived them. They were born with chemical burns to their skin, esophagus, lungs. And once born, of course, they could not legally be killed.
So saline abortions were replaced with partial-birth abortion.
Because scissors in the base of a delivered skull ensure a dead baby.
A delivered skull.
We have a wet foot/dry foot policy for Cuban immigrants.
The least we can do is have a wet head/dry head policy for babies.
If your head makes it safely through the birth canal, you get expedited citizenship and all the protections that go with it.
I sigh at the “life and health of the mother” rhetoric.
In a true medical emergency, doctors save all who can be saved.
And they lose the ones they can’t.
Skull-piercing scissors are not tools intended to save life.
Mothers who want their babies cry, “Save him!”