The date of my abortion is a date I remember just like I remember the birthdates of my two living children. The difference is, instead of celebrating another year of life, I find myself grieving the loss of another year without my baby.
I was 35 when I found myself pregnant. “I can’t have another child,” I told myself and began to formulate the list of excuses why. They all seemed well thought out and valid at the time. A year and a half out of nursing school, my life seemed to be on the upswing. I was enjoying life. I wouldn’t consider any other option than abortion. The few people I talked to encouraged me to abort. They said it would be the best thing I could do.
For the next four weeks, until my abortion was scheduled, I tried to ignore the fact that I was pregnant in spite of the nausea and my changing body. I went about my job as an office OB nurse, counseling pregnant women who were as far along as I was; they were excited about their pregnancies. I kept my secret to myself and waited; the numbing of my emotions had begun.
The abortion was scheduled to take place at a private OB/GYN office. I signed a consent form that listed the physical risks involved and handed over my credit card. I sat in the waiting room next to visibly pregnant women who were there for their routine checkups. I was taken to a back room and met by a friendly abortionist. He did a quick ultrasound, keeping the monitor turned away from me. I was then taken to another room for the procedure. I tried to remove myself from my body, something I had learned to do at other vulnerable times in my life. If I told myself it didn’t hurt, I could conquer the pain. The abortionist was joking with me, something about keeping my legs apart, so I didn’t smash his head because he hadn’t worn his helmet that day. I kept quiet. A nurse sat nearby watching a cylinder as one would watch a brewing pot of coffee. I could see blood moving through the tubing that was attached. The nurse nodded at the abortionist when she saw what she was waiting for—my baby. I was congratulated for being a good patient.
Immediately after the abortion, I felt relief that it was over. I was free again to go on living the life I had been enjoying. That December, when my baby would have been due, I felt such melancholy. I was subconsciously grieving the death of my unborn child during the time he would have been born.
Eleven months after the abortion, I accepted Jesus into my heart. I knew He had forgiven my sins, but I couldn’t accept His forgiveness for committing the unforgivable sin of ending my child’s life. I continued to keep my secret for a couple more years, keeping it even from my new husband and my new found Christian friends at Heartbeats where I had begun volunteering.
I found help and accepted God’s forgiveness through a post-abortion healing program at Heartbeats. God worked His grace into my life. He truly is a God that redeems. Though I will always miss the little boy that should be turning nine next month, I know someday I will hold him in Heaven.
--Jannie, OH