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Testimonies
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Mercy to Myself and Others
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Marlene
California,
United States
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I used to view my abortion as a private, personal matter and then I reflected on this biblical quote: “Go home to thy friends, and tell them how great things the Lord had done for thee, and hath had compassion on thee.” Mark 5:19. When we reflect on what God has done in our life and share our testimony, not only is our own faith strengthened, but we allow others to witness God’s work as well. It’s fitting that I’m finally able to complete this testimony during the year of mercy.
I was raised in a culturally Catholic family—meaning we were baptized, had first communion, and attended mass occasionally, especially on Easter and Christmas. The day after my sweet 16th birthday party my mom announced that she was divorcing my dad. It came as a shock—if there had been signs then I had been oblivious to them. It was an extremely difficult time and pretty soon I found myself in a new relationship, desperate to be anywhere but home. My boyfriend was four years older than me, and we were together for about a year before I found myself pregnant. My boyfriend, citing fear over the potential conviction of statutory rape among other reasons, did not take the news of the pregnancy well. He urged me to seek immediate relief of the problem unless I had plans of being a single parent.
By that time my parents had already finalized their divorce. My sister and I chose to live with my dad. Everything happened quickly. My mom moved to a city about an hour drive away and shortly afterwards she informed us that she and her boyfriend had eloped. My dad tried his best to make home feel like home, but everything had changed. He, too, began dating shortly afterwards. We were a broken family and our lives felt very separate. I often felt lost, and it was easy to view my boyfriend as the one constant in my life. He knew my deepest struggles, hurts, and insecurities and it wasn’t difficult for him to use those same reasons to argue in favor of abortion: “Look, you can’t even handle your own parents’ divorce. How can you handle a baby?” “No one ever stays together anymore, just look at your parents.” “Is this the kind of life you want for a child? We don’t even know if we’ll last. Nobody knows the future.” Every day he begged me to get an abortion rather than ruin three lives.
I was under no illusion that this would be easy. My life felt like shambles, and there were days when I felt like I was barely holding it together, but I wanted the baby. Sure, I felt miserable and sick to my stomach every day, but I also began speaking to the baby, and I felt connected to what I had hoped was a little girl. The biggest obstacle was my boyfriend, but I felt I could avoid him if needed, seeing how I was in high school and he was in college. Our paths wouldn’t have to cross since we moved in different circles. In hindsight, I should have cut off contact with him. He was in no way supportive, yet when he called or came to visit, I ached with the hope that he had experienced a change of heart. But those were just fantasies. Every day his position was clear: he did not want a baby. The pregnancy became a huge source of contention between us.
Every day I wept. How is it that what should be one of the most exciting times of a woman’s life could simultaneously be the worst time of a man’s? I wept for this baby, for my boyfriend, and for myself. I wept for the brokenness at home and the truth of my boyfriend’s words—I didn’t have anything to offer. Nothing seemed to make sense and it grieved me so. I tried to offer him an out. I insisted I could raise the baby by myself and at one point, in desperation, I even offered to tell others that we broke up because I was unfaithful and didn’t know who fathered the child. I figured this way he wouldn’t have to worry about statutory rape, he could save face from impregnating a minor, and he would be relieved of any obligations towards us. He refused. “Having a baby is selfish.” “Giving a baby up for adoption is selfish.” After all, he argued, we would have no idea what kind of life that baby would be subjected to in the hands of strangers.
Every day I felt on edge and my heart raced from stress. I was filled with anger and resentment towards him. I knew he experienced extreme poverty growing up—with an absent father and a neglectful mother. He wanted better for his future children. He also wanted better for himself. He had just turned 21 and wanted to experience the full range of freedom that came with the age. In hindsight, I now see that his actions were mostly driven by fear, but it would be a long time before I could forgive either of us for what was to come.
I went to Planned Parenthood to confirm my pregnancy and they handed me a pamphlet on abortion and said, “Abortions are only performed on Mondays.” I didn’t even ask for an abortion, and I wasn’t instructed on how to maintain a healthy pregnancy; I felt so ashamed. I suddenly understood how easy it was to become a statistic—pregnant teenager, unsupportive partner. And even though I argued that I could manage single parenthood, the truth was that the thought terrified me.
The weeks following that initial appointment were stressful because our arguments escalated. We couldn’t see eye to eye. Eventually I started to bleed. I thought it was from the stress and when I asked Planned Parenthood about it, they explained that it may or may not be normal bleeding, but if I were indeed going to miscarry, it would be more dangerous to actually wait for it to happen. The worker asked me if my parents were aware of my pregnancy, and I informed her they were not. She explained that I could end up in a dangerous situation—miscarry to the point that it required hospitalization, possibly leading to other complications and that everyone, including my parents, would then know about the pregnancy, or I could have a simple procedure in their clinic, which was much safer than miscarriage, without my parents ever finding out. Of course, Planned Parenthood will not tell you that abortion kills babies. As a teenager I failed to see them for what they were.
I felt resigned, empty, scared, and alone. Of the handful of people I confided in regarding the pregnancy, there was not one person who told me abortion was wrong and not one person encouraged me to choose life. That year on October 29th, two of my friends accompanied me to the clinic and my boyfriend met us there. Before they called my name in the waiting room, one of my friends stuffed a rosary into my hand. I wasn’t religious, and I didn’t know how to pray the rosary, but I clung to it like a lifeline. As I sat in the tiny room in the clinic, I wept. Rosary clutched in one hand and a Planned Parenthood worker’s hand in my other, I felt alone and humiliated. At some point, the worker began counting down,“Ten more seconds…” and my one thought was that my boyfriend was right. I deserved nothing because I was nothing.
Before I left the clinic that day, Planned Parenthood insisted that I leave with contraceptives. I told them that I didn’t need anything, but they insisted on the birth control shot. At that point, I didn’t care and consented just to get out of there. Afterwards I bled every day for nine months. They said I happened to be among the rare 5% that experienced that particular type of side effect. Deep down, I knew what those nine months represented. I left the clinic knowing that not one, but two people died that day; I would never be the same.
There was tremendous suffering that followed, a suffering that I didn’t understand and would never wish on anyone. I stayed with my boyfriend for another two years. In my mind, I viewed him as the father of my child, someone I had to remain with out of respect and obligation for the memory of our child. We should’ve gone our separate ways; the damage was irreparable. I mourned every day, and he couldn’t understand it. In his attempts to help me heal he tried to pretend that the abortion never happened. And when someone pretends nothing ever happened, that a baby never existed, that an abortion never occurred, and that if an abortion did occur it didn’t matter anyway because it became the past as soon as it was performed, it really breaks you. Not just once—but over and over again.
As a teenager, I struggled with putting this painful experience into words. The days were an endless battle. Why did I grieve if there was nothing to grieve—after all, they said the pregnancy was still in the early stages, just tissue, didn’t they? Why did I feel so empty? Didn’t the abortion save three lives, like my boyfriend said? Why couldn’t I look at him—or myself, for that matter—in the same way? And why did I feel like I could never set foot in a church again, even though I wasn’t religious to begin with? I was young, lost, and desperate to feel rooted but for many years there was nothing but chronic emptiness. I’m trying so hard to describe this entire experience because I feel like no matter what I say, there are simply no words to describe the scourge of abortion.
Fast forward to my undergrad in college and my first time speaking about abortion. I was enrolled in a women’s studies course and we were assigned to expand on any topic that had been explored during the semester. I was going to present on divorce but at the last minute I stunned the class—and myself—by presenting on the personal topic of my abortion. I presented on the post-abortive experience. I described my intense, daily suffering especially during the first few years. This was the first time I ever spoke on the issue, and I cried throughout the whole presentation. I talked about the struggles I had experienced with my ex and described my symptoms: guilt, anxiety, numbness, depression, flashbacks, suicidal thoughts, hypervigilance, panic attacks, uncontrollable crying, etc. Until then, I had no idea that post-abortive stress syndrome even existed; I was simply presenting from the angle that abortion has impact and that women are unprepared to deal with the aftermath.
The response from the class was astounding. In lieu of the constructive critiques we were required to submit to each presenter, I received written testimonies of my classmates’ painful experiences with their own abortions! These voluntary testimonies came from more than half of the class—including the professor—and she was among one of the women who cried during my presentation. I realized that day that the post-abortive mother was more common than I thought.
It was painful yet liberating to speak about abortion for the first time. I didn’t know it at the time, but God saved me. Repeatedly. Up until that point in my life, there was every reason why I should have been dead. I definitely wanted to be and there were many days when I woke up thinking, ‘This is the day I’ll end my life.’ I kept my room clean so as not to burden my dad with having to sort through my things. I constantly rewrote my goodbye letter because I could never find the right words to explain and express my grief and misery. When that failed, I placed myself in risky situations in hopes of speeding up the process—hoping someone else would put me out of my misery. Every day was a struggle to make it to the next day.
During that time, the one thing that kept me going was thinking about the baby—and asking myself, ‘Was all this suffering for nothing? This baby was sacrificed, and for what-- so that I would just die shortly afterwards, too? If I could speak to her, hold her, how would she have wanted me to live?’ I couldn’t do it. When I think back on all those things I did, the situations I placed myself in, I feel tremendous grief. How could I have trampled on the very life that was given to me by the God of the universe? How could I, for so many years, use the very body that God gave me to inflict suffering on the gift of my soul? How is it that I can see all of this very clearly now, and was so blind to it back then? And I knew—it was the grief. Grief is blinding; crippling. And for the repentant, post-abortive mother, it’s agonizing. All the feelings associated with grief are present without the understanding that it’s completely appropriate to the situation. It’s unrequited grief—one-sided; unmet. I still struggle to explain it. Here was a baby, who from the moment of conception, left an indelible mark on my soul—and on the other side was mainstream culture telling me there was no such thing…
I experienced my re-version to the church several years after my abortion. There was a quiet joy from experiencing God’s mercy in the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Later, I also decided to attend a Project Rachel’s retreat. It was then that I began to realize that I was not alone, that the circumstances surrounding abortion came in all shapes and sizes—whether it was coercion from one’s parents, significant other or spouse, both men and women suffer the effects. For the first time in my life I did not feel alone. I was surrounded by people who mirrored the same kind of grief that I was all too familiar with: grief from the loss of a baby, grief from the loss of motherhood, grief from feeling deserted by a loved one, grief from society’s deception that there was no reason to grieve. The grief was real; the pain was real. The baby was real.
At the retreat I really came to see that God’s mercy holds no bounds. When the hemorrhaging woman approached Jesus and touched his garment she was immediately healed. He didn’t have to seek who touched him—she was already healed and he could have left it alone but he sought her. He looked her in the eye so she would know she had dignity. He didn’t stop at mercy; he needed her to know her worth. God has a special plan for every life He creates. I don’t dare share other people’s stories, but I will say that the oldest participant at my retreat was seventy. Seventy! She carried her grief for decades. Here was a place with people from so many different backgrounds, yet we weren’t so different. There was also a middle-aged man present. As the only male at the retreat, he expressed intense remorse over pressuring his girlfriend to get an abortion some twenty years earlier. He had since then married a different woman, yet his guilt and grief continued to consume him. Everyone had a turn to share his or her testimony and when it came to his turn, he humbly requested that we use him as a human punching bag to help spare our grief. We witnessed his remorse and many of us were able to extend the very mercy that we so desperately sought for ourselves. He represented the fathers of our babies. Who knew if they ever repented, whether they also carried grief and sorrow? It was a possibility some of us hadn’t considered; I know I certainly hadn’t. God allowed a simple, genuine statement to humble us. We were moved by this man’s repentance and sincerity. There it was—the fragility of the human condition in all its glory, the need for God never so evident and clear.
I volunteered at a crisis pregnancy center for some time afterwards, hoping to help other women who felt scared and alone. Instead, I found that it reopened too many wounds; I wasn’t ready. It motivated me to go back to graduate school and get my master’s degree in social work so I could become better skilled at helping others. God was so good. I got married during grad school and He blessed me with an absolutely amazing husband. He gave us a beautiful honeymoon baby and it’s as if He was saying, “I love you so much that today I will make you a wife AND a mother.” God allowed me to have tangible proof—three tests, at that—so soon, just 12 days after the wedding! But isn’t that God, a God of tangible signs, of ultimate goodness, of ultimate mercy. This was His gift to me! To me! I would be allowed to feel the baby’s presence from Day 1, throughout the whole pregnancy—manifested in intense morning sickness, but a morning sickness that I reveled in! He allowed me to feel the life within me so intensely because He wanted me to feel His love intensely. I truly believe it!
I thought that this perfect package meant that my journey of healing had reached completion but I was wrong. Giving birth to our daughter was extremely traumatic. During labor, the nurse and doctor had to frequently check how far I had dilated. Somewhere along those twenty or so hours of frequent checks, something triggered and took me back to the time of my abortion. I became extremely stressed and distraught. I wept for many hours and God bless my husband because he knew exactly what to say: "I'm so sorry your abortion happened. It must be really hard for you because when the nurse touches you it reminds you of a lot of things. Back then when the doctor reached inside of you, it was to destroy life. It might feel the same right now, but it's different. Right now this doctor is reaching inside of you to bring forth life... our baby. Try and remember that. I love you. I promise to help you." If you only knew the power of those words, words that every mother needs to hear, words that some may even take for granted: No one will hurt you. I will protect you. I will not leave you. I love you. Those were the words that I longed to hear years ago.
The whole experience taught me that the scars of abortion run deeper than anyone can ever know. This was so hard. All these years I was so sure I knew all my triggers. I experienced the same ones over and over and eventually I could predict them. Then there I was, ten years later, giving birth to our daughter only to discover I was yet again on foreign ground. We don’t know how deep this runs. When I finally held our daughter, I felt joy and grief at the same time. It was a time of hope because I knew that God was taking my grief and transforming it. Healing, after all, is a journey, not a finish line. It took me a while to learn that. Anniversary dates—the due date of the baby and the date of the abortion—are still struggles to this day. I still mourn and now it’s been fifteen years. I’ll see a child the age of what my child would be now and I ache with loss. I wake up everyday to my beautiful family and I can sense that someone is missing. But every sorrow I feel, I offer to God because whatever I can’t carry, I know He’ll carry for me.
It was only in recent years that I began to view my whole experience in a new light. I see that God has taken this painful experience and has turned it into a message of hope. This is what my post-abortive journey has really been: a message of hope and redemption and ongoing conversion. Each year I’m able to reflect on my life with a renewed perspective. And while each year has its moments of pain and grief, there are also new layers of healing in ways I never imagined possible. Thanks be to God that His ways are not our own. His way will always be better than anything we could have ever hoped for. Trust in Him.
In a moment of frustration my ex once said, “You know what? No one forced you to get an abortion. In the end, you made that decision.” At the time I was angered by those words. Did anyone force me? Well, certainly no one held a gun to my head. Did I feel coerced? Yes. Did I feel alone? Yes. Did I feel like there were no other options? Yes. But here’s the thing I’ve come to realize about his statement—it’s true. And I don’t mean it in a way to cast blame, but to emphasize that no matter how dire the situation feels, there is always a choice. It may feel like you have nothing left and there are no other options, but there is always a choice. As women, we are in a unique position to make a choice that can either create or destroy. We are created in the image of God and our God is a creator. You have a choice.
As this year of mercy draws to a close, I’ve realized something. I have spent years mourning, dwelling on loss—loss of the baby, loss of the years I wasted trashing my life. I spent years agonizing over the traits I felt I lacked—strength, dignity and beauty, confidence in my own motherhood. I have spent more time mourning over what I didn’t have, than on rejoicing and appreciating what I did have: God’s mercy. “For I know my transgressions; my sin is always before me.” Psalm 51:3. The pain and grief of abortion follows me everywhere but to remind me of God’s mercy. God’s mercy is bigger than any sin, bigger and stronger than any feeling, no matter how strong the grief. God’s mercy, something that none of us deserve, yet is so freely given the moment we ask for it—this is what the journey is all about.
But here’s the difficult thing—that same mercy that God extends to us so easily is the same one He calls us to extend to others. I often think about the doctor who performed my abortion—did he repent? Does he still perform abortions? I think about the worker who held my hand during the abortion. She looked into my eyes and held my hand as my baby was aborted. Does she grieve over that moment? I think about the worker who told me that abortion was safer than miscarriage. I think about my ex and all the excuses he used. I think about my own role. How does one recover from any of it? It’s only by the grace of God. Each role is so devastating in its own right and we’ll never know the full impact of our actions and how it affects others… what we do know is that God calls us to forgive others and to forgive ourselves.
The repentant, post-abortive mother lives a life of penance and sorrow. My prayer for those mothers—myself included, of course—is that they allow themselves to experience (and re-experience!) God’s mercy and remain unafraid to speak the truth. The repentant, outspoken, post-abortive mother wears her sins on her sleeves for everyone to see. The journey requires humility, vulnerability, and the willingness to play a role in God’s bigger plan. There will be people who won’t want her to exist and will try to prevent her from speaking the truth. Please don’t let them. You have a choice; spread His word. I am the post-abortive woman, and I am silent no more.
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