A personal reflection on the complexities of abortion and the need for clearer terminology.
I hate this time of year. New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day, all the way to January 3 — this swath of four days is my personal hell. While I everyone is celebrating a fresh start and making energetic (and over-ambitious) plans for the next 12 months, I am consumed by grief because I know I should have three children, not two.
America really should have another word for „abortion“ to distinguish between a medical emergency and a choice. Not only would this bring a tremendous clarity to the national debate, but it would also go a long way to help pro-life women burdened by the guilt, shame, and trauma of a life-saving procedure. Let the liberals keep „abortion“ to describe their child sacrifice; we can come up with something else, like involuntary termination. It’s a work in progress.
When I heard a physician use my name and that word in the same sentence, part of my brain and all of my heart broke. Denial is part of grief, but it goes farther than „this can’t be happening to me.“ A physician told me if I did not have an abortion I would die. „Mrs. McCully“, he said, „if you continue this pregnancy, you and your baby will die. You will never see your husband or son again.“
Suddenly the logical part of my brain stopped working. I was sitting on a thin hospital mattress wearing a paper gown and got up to leave. What was I going to do, walk a couple of miles home in Fredericksburg, Va., on New Year’s Eve? You bet. This hospital was clearly a sick joke and the medical staff nothing more than farcical clowns. They called my husband and asked him to come to the emergency room; he did, and I was admitted. „Let’s just wait for the head of obstetrics to come in“, he said. „I’m not consenting to anything“, I said, „but I’ll wait.
