_________________________(I wonder how many parts this story will take. My time now is short but I will add what I can.)
Please forgive me for my outburst of indignation in this post. I feel at liberty to express it, since I have first-hand experience in this controversial area.
(For part 1 of this story, please click here.)
Somehow, I ended up in the "room" where the "procedure" was to be done to remove the "tissue." Amazing how changing the names of things doesn't change the reality of what's going on. "Removing tissue" = killing an innocent life. Yeah, "removing tissue" sounds nicer. A nurse (or someone...as this part is a blur) asked me if I wouldn't mind letting someone go ahead of me. "Sure," after all I was being compliant. It seemed hours I waited there...alone with my thoughts, hospital gown clad, on a cold table...and, maybe even the thought of getting up and walking out. Though, I have said many times that I could have gotten up and walked away, I am not sure that thought actually went through my mind at that moment. I just felt alone...in a secret world that only my boyfriend knew about...and a few of his friends (apparently he wasn't afraid of embarrassing me). I couldn't tell any of mine.
Finally, the moment came. Three people were in the room. The "doctor" was a petite woman with short, blonde hair and I can't help thinking she was a lesbian by all appearances...sorry, if that comment offends, but if I'm being wholly candid in recalling my experience, that is part of it. Everyone was kind and pleasant as if this were no big deal. I don't know who the 2nd woman was and I am not sure we even spoke but a 3rd woman stood near my head and her job clearly was to distract me. So, there we chatted about dancing while a life was being sucked into a vacuum. It was painful and loud and stupid. I did this for a guy? ....who did not love me forever, or ever feel remorse (as far as I know...and I have had recent correspondence with him), or even recognize that it was a "baby." A defense mechanism? Denial? Maybe. I told him once several weeks later that I had a problem with killing our baby. His response? "To me, it wasn't a baby." I don't think I have ever wanted to flatten someone like I did him at that moment. All the pain, sacrifice, purity, peace, innocence I had given up and he wouldn't even recognize the truth! Sick. Yet, it is a picture of our culture. Denying the obvious so we can worship at the altar of sex with no consequences. News flash! There are consequences...even if Planned Parenthood and a plethora of other people with their hands in the pockets of the abortion industry tell you different. A life is lost, a dark & shameful secret is kept, and depression is common. To date, there have been 50 million abortions in America since 1973 and approximately 43% of all women will have at least one abortion in their childbearing years, and 43% of those will have at least one more abortion. Truly the womb is the most dangerous place in America. So, we can agree that 2 in 5 women have experienced an abortion. If it wasn't so shameful, then why isn't everyone just coming out with it? Why are you so shocked to be hearing this story from me? You will pass by a dozen women today who have gone through the same thing...and sit next to them in your church pews. They are afraid, in denial, or ashamed to talk about it because our culture has told us that abortion has no side effects. So, they deduct that something must be wrong with them if they have emotional trauma over a "common procedure" that occurs thousands of times a day around the world.
We are women. We are life-givers. We are created to be mothers...nurturers, lovers, cuddlers, encouragers, inspiring to our children. It is absolutely against our feminine nature to tear a baby from our bodies.
Soon after the "procedure," I was alone...and "alone" is where I remained for several months. Thank God it wasn't for several years like most women. God has been gracious to me. I waited in that room for a while. Someone gave me a maxi pad (I wasn't sure where I was supposed to put it since all I had on was a gown...sorry to be so graphic here) and told me where the recovery room was. No, no one walked me to the recovery room. No one cared. Once my baby was gone and they had their money, they didn't give me a second thought. I was crampy, light-headed and dizzy. I stumbled my way to the recovery room where at least half a dozen or so cots were lined up. As many as they could fit in that cramped room and I curled up on one of them. All I wanted was to be out of there, but I didn't feel well enough to be up and walking yet. I did make my way to a bath room at some point, but as soon as I could I was dressed and waiting for my boyfriend to take me away from there.
The way I left the clinic was not the way I came in. A secret back-door entrance where they handed me a brown paper bag...I can only imagine it contained birth control pills or something. I never looked in the bag. I threw it in the trash.
My boyfriend came in and said, "You look good." As if surprised at my appearance.
How did I feel?
I must have been really attractive to my boyfriend because he called girls on his phone in his truck and told me to be quiet, he preferred his cat over me, and when my 2-week check-up appointment came, he wanted to go snow skiing. "Please!" I begged, sobbing hysterically, desperate for him not to leave me, "I can't do this alone. I need you!" I pleaded and clung to him. He did take me, ...grudgingly and bitterly.
To be continued...
Click here for part 3.