An abortion story, 50 years later

Don’t look away.  I want to talk to you about abortion.

I had an abortion in 1974, less than a year after the decision in Roe. v. Wade. I’ve been reluctant to share this information because there will be people who, even now, will be critical of me for having made that decision so many years ago.  Obviously, we can’t go back in time.  Even if we could, I wouldn’t know then, what I know now.

ABORTION IN REAL LIFE: ONE WOMAN’S STORY

Abortion is a complex issue. It is a very intimate and often emotionally charged subject. There are those who have not nor will not be personally affected by it. But there are those who have strong opinions at both ends of the spectrum,  from a total ban to no restrictions whatsoever. In addition, there are undoubtedly thousands of women who have, for any multitude of reasons, had an abortion in their lives, and may feel that they need to take position to defend their past conduct.

The point that I want to make is that to characterize it as simply a woman exercising her right to choose is a cop out. The question of abortion isn’t black and white. It’s a hard conversation to have but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have it.

What troubles me most is that voters in November might make a decision for whom to vote based on that single issue and, more importantly, on an erroneous perception of Republican Party’s position in particular.  Make no mistake, the GOP platform does not advocate a Federal ban on abortion nor does President Trump, despite the blatant lies by Biden and Walz at the Democratic National Convention.*

Personally, I agree with the Supreme Court and President Trump that leaving the regulation of abortion to the individual states is the right thing to do, in part because there is such a divergence of opinion among Americans.  

I really don’t get VP Harris attitude that we needn’t address late term abortions up to and including the ninth month because “it hardly ever happens.”  If it’s wrong, even once is too often.  

We know there are a multitude of opinions on the subject. Not all Americans agree; not all Republicans agree. It would be foolish to think that we must agree or even should agree 100% on all issues.

I can only speak for myself.  This is my story:

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I don’t want to write about this. I don’t even want to think about it.

But the Lord has placed it on my heart to share and He isn’t going to quit bugging me until I do.  So here it is:

My husband and I met in college in 1973. We lived in a co-ed dorm on campus.  We started going together that winter quarter.  My room was on the first floor; his was on the second. I was in love with him, felt totally committed to him, and saw no reason I should not give myself to him entirely. Yes, I’m talking about sex.

Birth control pills were easily accessible from the health clinic on campus.  I took them until summer break at which time I went home to spend half of the summer taking a couple of general ed courses at the community college, and the other half staying with family in the Midwest working parttime at a general store.  John went home to be with his family where he, too, found a part-time summer job.  I missed him terribly but we exchanged letters and an occasional phone call.

Around Labor Day I returned home to southern California from my summer in Kansas to start my junior year.  Before classes started John and I spent a weekend camping together.   We took his three younger brothers with us.  A week later I “reported for duty” as a resident advisor at a new dorm on campus.  

As soon as school started, I made an appointment to renew my prescription for birth control pills in that I had stopped using them during the summer.  Their precautionary urine analysis came back positive.  I was 20 and a junior.  John was 19 and a sophomore. I’m sure John looked to me asking what we should do.  I saw only one realistic option. I couldn’t fathom telling my parents, let alone have a baby.  I loved John and intended to spend the rest of my life with him.  That wasn’t the problem.  And having an abortion?  No shame in that, I thought. They were readily available, easily arranged and not only that, they were free.  And, after all, it wasn’t really a baby, right? They called it an embryo, a cluster of cells that “could become a baby.”  At fewer than six weeks, it was just the beginning of a “potential” baby. The size of a sweet pea.

We scheduled an appointment on a Monday in October, Columbus Day.

The next hurdle was transportation since neither of us had a car, and short of committing this story to paper, to this day I have never told anyone about it other than medical professionals. Amazingly my mom and dad agreed to let me borrow my mom’s car for a week, ostensibly to drive to San Diego to visit John’s friend, Eddie, for the weekend, which we, in fact, did.

The procedure was performed at a private clinic about 15 miles from campus. It was frightening and it was painful.  The staff wasn’t really friendly but they were pleasant in a sort of somber, clinical way.  I vaguely recall there was a monitor, a screen of some sort, in the room.  Part of me wanted to ask if they could tell if the baby was a boy or a girl, but I didn’t.  I don’t know if I assumed the answer would be no or I was afraid it might be yes.

John waited at a coffee shop next door and was there waiting for me as soon as I was ready to leave.  We talked about it some after the fact.  I was really down but I can’t say for how long.  I specifically remember having taken a walk up the hill to a quiet area on campus. We sat there together and silently shared the aftermath of the experience.  We were agreed that we would have a baby but this just wasn’t the right time. Right now just wouldn’t have worked. That was in 1974. Our son was born 15 years later.

Looking back now, can I tell you that given the chance I would have done differently?  No, I can’t.  Does that mean it was the right thing to do?  No, it was wrong.  It was wrong and I knew it.  I believe I have been forgiven but it is something I have had to live with for almost 50 years.

What I would urge young people to do is NOT put themselves in that position.  Intercourse before marriage was wrong even though in my heart I had given myself to my future husband.  And I stayed with him through thick and thin. But that’s a story for another day.

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 Now, at 70, I won’t be confronted with that decision again,  but if I were, would I destroy a child?  No, I wouldn’t.  On the other hand, if today there were a similarly situated 20-year-old woman, would I require her to give birth to the child if she was given the option, as I was , to end the pregnancy at six weeks?  No, I wouldn’t.  I think that’s a decision she would have to make.

When all is said and done it is a moral question and a decision, that once made, a woman has to live with for the rest of her life.  But there is a huge difference between 6 weeks and 9 months gestation.  I simply don’t see it as an all or nothing proposition. I think that ending a pregnancy at 6 weeks entirely different from killing a healthy 9-month-old child as it is being birthed. I believe that at that point our society, by and through our government, has a responsibility to that child to preserve its life.

Individuals’ opinions fall everywhere in between. This is why a discussion must take place in an effort to find common ground.

A democracy is designed to encourage debate and, when appropriate, compromise.  We seem to have lost sight of that fact.