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Jenna
Indiana,
United States
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I was 17, practically 18, when my parents allowed my boyfriend to live with us. We loved playing house and went to parties every weekend. It was no surprise that we were having sex. One crazy night I was drunk as usual, but so drunk I blacked out. The next day I didn’t remember a thing, but I was sore all over my body. I knew that I had sex. There were marks all over my body. I asked my boyfriend what happened. He didn’t say much. I stupidly knew he had sex with me while I was passed out, but I decided to stay with him. I didn’t have sex with him since that night, although he continued to live with me in my bedroom.
About two months later, my mom caught me puking in the bathroom. She screamed from outside the door, “You better not be pregnant, dammit!” Looking back now, it’s a wonder why she was even shocked. She and my father allowed a boy who was a few years older, who had been kicked out of his own house and had been to jail a couple times, to share a bed with their daughter. So, was it really any wonder? Really. Go figure. She banged on the door furiously with her fist, still yelling, some things I could barely make out through her awful, Italian New Yorker temper. Hugging the toilet, opening my booger sapped eyes to the yellow acid in the water, I knew that what I feared was now a reality. I was pregnant. I masked the overwhelming terror with pot, and it caused me to lose touch with reality for the time being.
Once the pregnancy test confirmed that I was pregnant, my mother cried. She was so irate. So furious, her words were hard to make out. Some things my mother said:
“I can’t believe you let this happen!”
“What about your future?”
“Your life is going to be over, you know that right?”
“Think about the stretch marks! Your body will never look the same!”
“We have to just take care of this!”
“No one will ever know.”
My boyfriend started to deny how I got pregnant in the first place. We couldn’t sneak sex in at least two months. He knew when it happened, and I know he knew that I knew. He put the pressure on as well:
“I’m not ready.”
“How do I know it’s even mine?”
“Get rid of it.”
Society told me:
“You have your whole life ahead of you, we can fix this, mistakes happen.”
My mother made an appointment, and we got in the car that day. We both anxiously puffed on our cigarettes. She said she was taking me to get checked to see how far along I was. Although I was terrified, something in me was actually excited to see how far along I was. I thought my mother was accepting and willing to support and help me through this. When we arrived at the clinic, we waited in the lobby. We both started flipping through magazines. Oddly enough, there were none available on parenting. I caught the glances of the other girls waiting. Some were young, very young, and some were older. Most of them were waiting alone. I felt comforted that my mother was by my side. I felt lucky. I was called in. I had my checkup. The doctor said I was about 8 weeks pregnant. She then said these words, which I will never forget. “You’ll feel as good as new in no time.” Service with a smile, and she sent me back to the lobby. It wasn’t until that moment that my stoned mind was able to wrap my head around why I was really there. I thought I would be given options and encouragement. No, I was given only one option. I was ignorant to what an abortion was. I basically was told in health class that it was removing a blob of cells that could later turn into a human being, but much later. It didn’t at all resemble a baby, but was just a big menstrual blood clot that was being removed.
I walked back to the lobby; everything felt numb; everything seemed like it was in slow motion. I sat down next to my mom, who finally seemed cool, calm, and collected. I fantasized about high tailing it out of the double doors into the bright light where my silhouette was seen with an outstretched victory posture. That would make for a happy ending. Sorry, this story doesn’t have a happy ending. God have mercy, I wish it did. It has a tragic ending, a vile ending, a common ending, a murderous ending.
I heard my name called after only a few short minutes of sitting, which felt like milliseconds. The bubbly, curly, red-headed nurse called me again. This is where my mom dug her elbow into my arm, and coldly said, “Go.” My ears and armpits began to itch and tingle as I stood up and walked toward the cheery lady with the polka dot scrub top, clipboard in hand. Her smile comforted me, her smile was nice. She put her hand on the small of back and raised her clipboard to the direction we were headed. I didn’t feel so scared anymore. She made me feel warm and normal again. I was at ease. She brought me into a room where a gown lay on the table. It was a cheery room, with inspirational quotes hanging on the wall, just a normal looking hospital room. She told me to undress from the waist down, and she would be back in a couple minutes. From that small, comforting, warm room she walked me down the hall to a larger room where another nurse and doctor waited. As I held the back of my gown together I noticed how blank the walls were and how cold the room and floor was. The doctor and nurse had less personality then that first nurse. I lay down as they directed. I never had so much of a pap smear done before, so the metal devices to hold your legs up frightened me. During this time the nurse noticed my legs shaking and started asking me comforting questions as the doctor invaded my womb. She asked me about my hobbies and interests, where I went to school, what I wanted to be when I grew up, blah blah blah. It was simple small talk to make this a “procedure” instead of a murder of a baby by hired hands. I heard vacuum background noise, but I didn’t know what it was. And, like that, it was over. It was fast; it didn’t really hurt; it was just a little uncomfortable. I then was helped up by both the doctor and the nurse and was walked back to the warm, fuzzy room by the red-headed nurse with such a pretty smile.
Once I was dressed the nurse brought me to another room, where many women were, some I recognized from the lobby. All the women were sitting in large individual dentist-like chairs that were remote adjustable. No one made eye-contact with me. Some were curled up in the fetal position and some were with their chairs way back with their forearms covering their eyes. The sweet nurse helped me sit down. I didn’t feel any pain and didn’t know why the nurse fussed over me. She showed me how to adjust my seat and gave me a heat pad, that she gently and quietly explained, “would help.” I sat down feeling fine. I began scanning the room when the painful cramping set in. I grabbed the heat pad and put it on my stomach. I heard other women let out quiet moans and groans. It felt like the worst period I have ever had. It was awful, but it didn’t last too long.
That’s the only price to pay to legally end another life?
Once the pain was over, I got up, like nothing had happened. My mother told me not to tell my dad or anyone, but my little sister had already told my father. My dad looked heartbroken every time he looked at me long enough anyway. A couple years later, when I confessed to my mom that I wanted so much to leave that place, her chilling response was, “I’ve had two abortions. God has forgiven me. He’ll forgive you too. Pay it no mind; move on.” Needless to say, our relationship has suffered and has never been the same since.
I want women to understand the lies told to you when you are dealing with an unplanned pregnancy. It’s not a blob; it’s a baby. I understood this a few short years later when I married and was pregnant with my first son (actually second child), but first born. I had my check up and the doctor told me I was 8 weeks during the exciting first ultrasound. I saw what 8 weeks looked like. It was a baby. Without a doubt it was a wiggly little baby. My heart broke in that room all over again.
Please understand the horror of getting an abortion. It’s not a procedure to fix an illness; it’s to end a life. It’s not all going to go away, you will think about it for the rest of your life. It will haunt you. It’s not a perfect solution or fix. What you will be left with is FAR worse than any fear of motherhood. It’s not a way out.
Yes, God has forgiven me, I know this because I have repented. I had to come to terms with knowing I didn’t make myself non-pregnant, I made myself a mother of a dead baby. I killed my children’s sibling. I killed my parent’s first grandchild. My mother was a co-conspirator. I pray God has mercy on us. I will do everything I can to expose this evil; I stayed silent for too long. I was being such a coward. No more! I am ready to shout from the roof tops how evil this practice is. We are performing child sacrifice every day, 3,500 times a day. God help us! We cannot show apathy for this practice because it is so accepted by the world we live in. It is detestable to God.
I have not only been blessed by finally understanding the truth, but by God’s infinite MERCY He has given me a second, third, fourth and fifth chance! I have three amazing young boys who give me so much joy, and I am pregnant with my forth (actually fifth). I thank God for loving me through my atrocities! It truly is BEAUTY from my ASHES.
I can’t wait to cross into eternity for God to introduce me to my first angel.
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