Fifty Years Later

            Fifty years ago—the Tuesday before Thanksgiving—I took my first plane trip, flying from Grand Rapids, Michigan to New York City. A blizzard in Cleveland, Ohio almost forestalled Mom and me from reaching our destination, but finally the weather cleared enough for our connecting flight to take off. 

            It was a mad dash in a taxi from the airport to Planned Parenthood.  We were hours late for my appointment, and it was almost time for the clinic to close for the day, but they took me in anyway.

            Yes, you’ve guessed right: I was there for an abortion.  I’ll spare you the grisly details.  Suffice it to say that afterward we picked up a few prescriptions for me and spent the night in a rather awful motel room.  The next day we flew back home, and on Thursday our family celebrated Thanksgiving.

            Fifty years later, I’ve decided that my baby was a girl named Charlotte.  Fifty years later, I still regret aborting her and wonder what she would have been like.  Fifty years later, my grief and shame have softened, making it possible to mark this anniversary publicly.

            Here is what I want you to know:  abortion may seem like the only solution when you face an unwanted pregnancy.  It may make logical sense, if you don’t think about the life within you as a real baby.  It may solve some short-term problems, but it leaves you with lifelong damage. 

            I was left with a damaged cervix that almost resulted in miscarriage of my second living child.  I was left with emotional trauma, depression, and shame that still bog me down at times.

            I am aware that some women claim that their abortions were liberating, but I sense that there are many more who suffer silently for a lifetime.  Here is what I want to say: abortion hurts women.  Even fifty years later.