Anatomy of an Abortion: Revised

I wrote this a couple of years ago.  During that time, I was really struggling with all this and couldn’t make it personal.  Since then, I’ve come to realize God’s grace and mercy and felt His forgiveness in my life.  I also know now that the weight of the decision that rested squarely on my shoulders that day does not need to remain only on me; there were other people in my life at that time who contributed to the decision and I have, whether they know it or not, forgiven each and every one of them.

And so today, as 500,000 people march on Washington DC in protest of legalized abortion, I lend my small voice, my small story, to those who would read.

She I walked, slowly, up the stairs. Reaching for the glass door, she I was unsure what to expect. Instantly she I thought of the series of events that lead to this moment; shame and fear flooded over her me.  One small part of her me wanted to run, run from the door, from him, from them, from the whole situation. But she I didn’t. The part of her me that wanted to run was overpowered by her my pride. She I couldn’t do what she I wanted to now no matter what. It would mean she I wasn’t strong. It would mean admitting that she I wasn’t capable of making her my own decisions only reinforcing that THIS decision was right because it was theirs, that they were right. Going on her my own allowed her me to maintain some level of control in an otherwise out of control situation. It made them think that she I agreed with them, and it made her me feel like she I was making the decision. She I continued to wrestle with the decision as she I walked through the door and into the cold empty lobby.

She I thought she I would see a medical office, with office staff and other familiar sights. She I thought she I would see a waiting room, complete with magazines and tables. Instead, it was more like a corporate office lobby. It seemed cold, professional. The thoughts of running crept in again, but once again pride over took them.

As she I waited for her my “interview”, she I again thought of the circumstances that brought her me to this point. Why, she I wondered, had she I violated her                                                                       my own moral code? Why had she I defied her my parents, her my mother? Why had she I wanted to wander from the safety and security of childhood? And why can’t she I go back? Why does it have to be this way? She I wanted to turn back the hands of time and change the decisions that were made, to make better ones…different ones. She I looked down at her my slightly swollen belly, and quickly diverted her my own attention. She I couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow her myself to go there. She I couldn’t think about it.

A moment later, they called her my name.  Alone,  She I followed through the wooden door. A few hours later, she I emerged, tearfully, painfully, empty.


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