Poisoned Pen

By Frank Vincentz (Own work) [GFDL or CC-BY-SA-3.0], via Wikimedia Commons

I’d love to give some context for the last letter

See, I had a miscarriage when I was 19.

It wasn’t an abortion. But it could have been.  If not for the last minute intervention (on the way to the car… on the day of my appointment) of my father, not only would the baby been killed, but I would have died horribly, too.  At the time I had toxic shock, and didn’t know it yet.  After the miscarriage the college clinic kept me in the back room with pumped full of intravenous drugs usually reserved for people quarantined in airports from third world countries.  That saved my life. By the time I  made it to the health clinic, there was no time to rush me to the hospital.

I have written about it here before, but the internets have no memory.

You can not imagine what kind of pressure I was under to get that abortion.  I was told absolutely everything– from the bogus overpopulation scare, to  how irresponsible and incapable of parenthood I was, to the idea that the human person growing inside of me was a parasite– or a cancer that would kill me in the long run. The father of the child was the abortion’s biggest push. I won’t go into why– that’s not my story to tell.

It drove a rift through my family to the point I won’t even mention who it was who was the second largest supporter of all this– but they were a close blood relative.  Just before the miscarriage happened, I was relieved.  I was moving out of the house to live with my grandmother until the baby was born.  I was three months along.  The whole episode nearly tore my family apart.

But after the miscarriage was over– I lied. I told them nothing happened, that my period “just started”.  I think my brother knew something was up because of the smell, but didn’t say anything.

This lie was only possible because my health clinic was complicit in keeping me out of the hospital.   The doctor knew what happened, and told me that if I had had the abortion everybody was talking about, the infection would have gotten into my bloodstream and I would have died, hospital or no hospital.

Let me tell you why I never told my family about what really happened. It’s because I did not want to give the pro-abort faction the satisfaction of saying “I told you so.”  Because if I heard that  — even once — I wasn’t sure I could control my rage.  I was afraid I’d hurt them.

Why? Because they wanted ME to kill someone. My parent’s grandchild, not to put too fine a point on it.  It was no skin off their nose– that potential squalling infant was only a statistic, a number, a piece of tissue to THEM. But it really was a person, and that person would be dead at MY say-so.  HOW DARE YOU.  It was bad enough that it happened due to a freak accident.  Miscarriages ruin marriages in this day and age. How can anybody say that an abortion is no big deal?! Oh, and that little fact that I could have died, too. But that part wasn’t what weighed me down for years afterward. In fact, by a year later I’d nearly forgotten that aspect.

Some people like to argue that an abortion is the same thing as a miscarriage. But it is NOT. That’s like arguing that somebody falling down the stairs and dying, is the same thing as somebody taking out a knife and stabbing someone to death, willfully and deliberately killing somebody who is no threat to anyone.  It is trivial for doctors to tell the difference, and has been for a very long time– back to the Middle Ages, at least.

That’s why when you study history you don’t find those infamous women having miscarriages who were thrown into prison. If it was done, it was an excuse for someone to jail some woman they were displeased with anyhow. Do the research. It’s like suing a suicide’s wife for something the husband wrote. Mean spirited, evil and just plain wrong– a breach of justice.

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