Behind the Mask -- Why I'm Walking

This year, I'm going to walk again for the Pregnancy Care Center. This organization helps women to see that, when they find themselves in a situation where they are "with child" and are exploring their "options," that they make a truly informed choice -- hopefully, the choice for life. And, if someone does unfortunately abort their child, they are there yet again to help with post-abortion counseling, so that the mother of the aborted child can hopefully embrace forgiveness in Christ. Walking for this Center the day before Mother's Day is important to me, and I take walking for it personally.

Whenever "Sanctity of Life" Sunday hit whichever church where ever we happened to attend, I will say that I truly despised it. I hated seeing photos of aborted fetuses. I felt uneasy every time the Bible verses would pop up on the screen saying that those who shed innocent blood would suffer, as well. As the years went by, I would look at my wonderful second husband and say, "I really need to go check on the children." He'd pat my leg and say, "Go on."

I'd make it to the bathroom and sob. Tears pouring down my cheeks. On the outside, I was very outspokenly anti-abortion. I actually got gently scolded by someone at one church because she told me that there were people who had abortions, who truly felt sorry for them, and that I needed to find a more gentle approach to my feelings. Inside, I felt like a phony. I'd look at people who had children out of wedlock and envy them, heralding their choice for life. After all, I hid the secret behind a mask, known only to Tim, and the family of my never to be born child -- I had had an abortion. I was that killer, that murderer, that one who deserved death for the death of my child. For years I hid behind the mask. I'd smile on the outside, but would carry that gigantic blood-covered "A" for abortion on the veil of my heart.

Years ago, I finally met my British pen-pal. He was gorgeous to me, inside and out. Here, standing before me was the one I'd pour my heart out to about home, school and all that was right and wrong in the world, and the one who still liked me, while knowing all there was to know about me. I never shared anything with anyone like I had him, and I never did so again, until I met my Tim. Dave declared that he loved me. I was running from God at the time, angry that my beloved Gram was ill and in the nursing home. I had already crossed the threshold of sex before marriage, my rebellion spurred along by the lie of all lies: "Oh, it's the EIGHTIES (NINETIES, a NEW millennium), God HAS to understand that TIMES have CHANGED!" Needless to say, if I would have been reading my Bible, I would have read and understood that God does NOT change. Sin is still sin, no matter which decade you live in.

Anyway, Dave declared to me that he wanted to marry me. I made plans to go to Merseyside, England, as it would have been difficult for him to get a job here in the United States in his profession. I made the journey; I was scared, excited, hopeful, planning to live my days, growing old with my dearest and best friend in the world. The first weeks were stupendously exciting as we painted our flat, which sat above a newspaper shoppe. We lived, laughed, loved; I was truly happy. Down the street from us on the way to the corner market, was a bridal shoppe. In the window was a beautiful light pink wedding dress; it was so light pink it was almost white. And I imagined wearing that dress. I was still enough of a traditionalist to know that there was no way I could wear white, but I was looking forward to wearing that dress. I was making plans to work at a videographer's/voice-over establishment, and they were excited to get an American to provide voices for a unique sound. Life was good.

Around Thanksgiving time (I still served a Thanksgiving meal on a Saturday, even though they do not celebrate Thanksgiving over there), I wasn't feeling well. I had to go to the bathroom constantly. We went to a wonderful town where there were Christmas lights galore; his sister, who was at the end of her pregnancy, noticed how much I was going to the bathroom and exclaimed, "Lovey, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were preggers, too!" Dave and I talked about it, as I couldn't even be near lard-fried chips -- the smell would send me to the bathroom; and then we took the test. Positive. .

Dave gave me the biggest hug I'd ever received and yelled, "We're having a BABY! You're making me a DADDY!" We went to his doctor's, and he excitedly said how happy he was for the both of us. He gave me a pamphlet showing me how the baby develops in the womb, told me he'd see us the next month. We went to the fish and chippy and while waiting for our food, Dave would press his face against my belly, and yell, "Daddy loves you, Baby!" and then excitedly tell all in the fish and chippy, "I'm going to be a Daddy!" We'd get hearty congratulations from smiling strangers. His sister hugged us when we told her the wonderful news, exclaiming how the cousins (her child and ours) would be best of friends, as they were going to be so close in age. Then, we told his Mum and Dad.

At first, they seemed to accept our happy news. Dave's excitement was contagious. Then Pam (his Mum), asked to talk to him alone. He was gone from the flat for hours. When I rushed up to greet him, there was a tenseness that I had never seen from him before. He told me in no nonsense terms that we needed to "forgo" the plans of having this baby. That we didn't have enough money. What would our friends think? Mum would disown him. That we could have other children together. That children age you quickly.

The reasoning's were ridiculous to me. They angered me. They frightened me. I screamed at him. I cried at him. I called him names I cannot repeat here. I swore to him that if he wasn't willing to fight for his child, that I still would. I ran out of the flat, past the bridal shop, over the bridge, and hid in a bog-type area near his sister's home, which wasn't far from where we lived. It was cold, very cold that night. They looked for me. By this time, he must have called his sister, because she was out looking for me, along with her husband. I waited until Dave had to go to work, and then I went home to the flat.

Our relationship started to change considerably. I was being unreasonable. I then called my mother, tiptoeing around the subject. I had no money, as I used it all to go over to England, and then spent money that I did have over there on household items. I asked, "If I needed to uh, come home for any reason, do you know if I could borrow the money from you?"

"Oh, so you've got yourself in a pickle that you can't get out of? Are you splitting up already? I knew you would....." It went on. I knew that the people who always got my sister out of scrapes were not about to help me. I just wanted to get home so that I could have the baby, and then hopefully Dave change his mind, would want to see the baby and then all would be well once more. I knew he was frightened, and I wanted to fight for us as much as I wanted to fight for that baby. I had no friends over there except his friends. There was no family over there except his family. And there was no way home that I could see. Other friends in the US were told that I was pregnant, but they didn't know this new problem. How could I say anything was wrong? I gave up every thing I had to go be with this guy. It seemed crazy, didn't it? I must have read too many stupid romance novels.

Dave set up an appointment with his doctor; this time it was to get an okay for an abortion. At that time in England, to get an abortion, you had to get the permission the doctor. He had to state that the female was in her right mind at the time, or something like that, because he had to sign a paper okaying it. He was SUPPOSED to see me. I refused to go into the doctor's office. Dave went in, and in ten minutes came back out, with a signed paper. He called and set up the appointment at the clinic. His mother gave him the money to pay for it. I begged and pleaded. I asked for us to PLEASE give this child a shot at life. I begged them to please consider adoption for this baby. I was refuted on every option. The night before the procedure, I had plans to go into hiding of some sort. He didn't have on his uniform and said he wanted to drive me somewhere; he wanted us to go somewhere overnight. I packed my items, thinking that he was changing his mind. We ended up at his parents house. He was a bobby -- a policeman. There was no use calling the police about this. His father suffered from insomnia; he'd be able to know if I'd try to sneak out of the house. But where would I sneak away to? I had no where to go. No money, no options. I didn't sleep. I only cried, begging God to somehow rescue me from this. Rescuing didn't come. December 19th, 1990 will be a date that will live on in infamy for me.

Dave came. He piled me into the car and we drove not far from Penny Lane and Strawberry Fields. I used to love songs regarding those places, but from that moment on, I would hate those songs for what it reminded me of. Dave stood over me while I signed the papers. I had one more chance. I was in the room with a roomful of other girls getting the same thing done. There was a lot of crying along with my own. One girl who was beside me, however, exclaimed how excited and free she was going to be after this was done. I wanted to choke her.

Right before the nurse the nurse injected me with the fluid to put me to sleep for the procedure, I said, "Please, I don't want to get this done!"

"Then what are you here, for?" she said with disdain in her voice.

I awoke and felt like a piece of me was lost forever. I sobbed, vomited, and hated myself with a hatred beyond any comprehension. The formerly excited girl was sobbing, herself. The mournful cries in that roomful of girls will be unforgettable to me for the rest of my life. I have been told that in the United States, girls are not usually put to sleep while getting the procedure done, that they can hear what goes on. That would be utterly devastating.

From that point on, I was constantly taking baths. I spent hours in the bathtub, the water getting long cold. I tried to wash what I did away, and could not. I felt numb. Dave came to the bathroom one time and said, "You can say it, you hate me. Don't you?" I looked up at him and said, "I feel absolutely nothing. I don't know how or what to feel. I don't hate you, I don't feel anything at all for anything or anyone. I hate me. I hate me. I hate me." That only angered him. We told everyone else the other lie -- we lost the baby. I made him tell people that.

I was asked to go to church with Pam on Christmas Eve. I didn't want to go and pretend I was holy. I was a murderess. I didn't want the abortion at all, but I didn't fight hard enough, either. Dave, the rest of the family, some friends and I went to the pub. I've never been a drinker, but I sucked down two glasses of wine and stared at someone. She asked me if I was alright, and I started crying, saying, "NO! NO! I am NOT alright! I don't have my BABY!" Her sister and the other gal took me straight to the bathroom; I was an embarrassment to Dave that night.

Then we went to a New Year's Eve party the next week. I didn't drink a single thing. He drank until he was sloshed. He then got the "wonderful" idea of switching clothes with a female. He looked odious to me, and I told him that he was embarrassing me. He looked straight at me and said, "I don't even KNOW you, anymore." It was like the death nell tolling on us at that moment.

I took up walking alone at night, walking aimlessly. I couldn't live with myself. I saw a bridge. I looked to the left and the right and saw no one. I lost my baby. I was losing my best friend. I lost my God; after all, how could He love me after what I did to the gift He gave me? I climbed up on the railing and determined that I was going to rid the world of the worst piece of garbage. No one would miss me, anyway, I thought. I was unlovable and unloved. I looked down, trying to muster up the courage to jump. Then I saw it. A piece of garbage floated by. Something in my head screamed, "You are NOT GARBAGE!!!" I stood up on that ledge, crying. I started to get down when someone drove up, and an individual yelled, "OY! You there! Are you alright?" I said weakly, "Yes, I'll be alright."

"Do you need a ride somewhere, Luv? If you need anything, I'll help."

"No... no, thank you."

I turned around to look towards the car, and it was gone. I often wonder if that was an angel coming to my aid.

Four weeks after the abortion, I was on a plane ride home. Dave's Mum had paid for the ticket, he telling me only two days previously that he made a mistake, that he didn't love me, anymore. I'm told that most times, the relationship between a man and a woman hardly ever lives through an abortion.

It took many years of self-hatred, self-punishment with an abusive es-husband (and saying "I except my punishment, O Lord" when referring to my relationship with him), and then the road to healing when my Tim married me and started encouraging help for me. I've had trouble with every single pregnancy since that abortion. With every trouble that occurs to me related to my children now, I think back, "You're reaping what you sowed." It takes years, a ton of reading about the forgiveness of God, and sometimes it takes seeking help from a therapist to get over the feelings of guilt and shame. I needed to talk to someone from the Pregnancy Care Center after getting my tubes tied, as I felt such horrible guilt that "there I was, telling God what I was doing with my reproductive organs again!" I went through the Post Abortion Recovery program, and I'm thankful I did. They encouraged me to name the child, and I really don't think I was ready to name it at that time. I always assumed it was a boy. Recently, I've wondered if it was really a girl. Again my heart broke. I don't know why, maybe because of my relationship with my beautiful daughter, and I know what I took away from my children.

If I were to name the child today, I would have loved to have known Catherine. She would have been 19 in July of this year. I will miss her all of the days of my life. When I think of how many children I have, I think of five. Always. There's an empty place at the dinner table. There's a diamond in the middle of my children's ring -- saved for her. My children all know about the sibling that they will meet in Heaven. I am walking for the Catherines who need to be heard. I'm walking for those like myself who loved and wanted their babies but felt they were trapped and scared. If I can help just ONE person who is considering abortion to turn around and do the right thing -- have that baby, please -- then the death of my dear baby, and the years of suffering will NOT be in vain.

And for those who have aborted their child, PLEASE, know that there is help. There is forgiveness and love from the Savior. He is there to heal your broken heart and He is NOT out to destroy you for what you have done. He is near the brokenhearted and He wants you to live a full life in Him. Jesus died on the cross to save us from ALL of our sins -- including abortion. There is no one sin greater than another in God's eyes. You don't need to live in the shadows, anymore. Please walk in the light of His forgiveness and grace. And know that your sister in Christ is praying for you and loves you. It's time to take off the mask and walk in freedom.