"It struck me that all of these fetal children had been alive only a few short days ago. Now they lay dead and abandoned--cut from their mother's wombs, cut from the human race--the corpses of the fetal bodies stacked on a loading dock inside an industrial park, the boxes which held them marked 'for disposal.' The fetal children were castaways, far from mother, far from father, far from home. "
This is precisely what I felt the night it happened. After the novelty of being able to eat wore off (about 5 minutes after the final bite of cottage cheese and pineapple) I was empty, not full, and I somehow got the image of my twisted little child, still warm from living with me, losing that last hallmark of life alone and eviserated on a tray or in a baggy somewhere in the rotting bowels of the abortion business.
And it still kills me. It's 7 years now and I still crumple under the weight of it. A daughter I just had only confirms the personal humanity of my aborted child. A thing I did not previously know: my children look alike. And so my first now has a face, a stolen face that siblings gave back.
Oh, I see you, little one...
My baby, my baby;
I die over your ruin.
The agony of abortion is a pain I will nurse long after my other children are weaned and on their own. Embraced or destroyed, your children are yours for life.
