Abortion Story 080: Krystal
Krystal* (USA)
March 27, 2004
I lived upstairs from a bar. Ned** and I basically partied together a lot.
In December, I confirmed that I was pregnant. I was probably already a couple of months along.
I rationalized my decision, to abort, by assuming the baby was probably already messed up from all the partying. Frankly, I figured I would miscarry before I got the abortion, but I didn't.
Ned did what he thought was the respectful thing, and told me whatever I decided he would support (I cannot stress enough how that is the worst thing a man can say to a woman in that situation), so all the responsibility was put solely on me.
Before we left that morning I prayed, “If I'm doing the wrong thing please let me know.” The battery, in our very reliable car, died on the way there. The first person we asked for a jump said, “No.” Who does that? I truly believe that was the “big sign” I asked for, but I ignored it.
I was raised in the church, but I was going through a rebellion/trying to “find myself” phase that a lot of people go through.
I was focusing on reversing the problem, and concentrating on the physical side of what I was going through.
I guess I didn't realize how unreversable it was. I knew he wanted an abortion, so that's what I said I wanted, too.
On January 5, 2000 my first child died in an abortion.
The waiting room was packed. I remember feeling how I was so lucky because only one other girl there had a guy (I'm assuming the father) with her. “Oh, how sweet of Ned to come with me.” (Pathetic huh?)
We were there all day. They'd call you back to take a blood test. Then you went back to the waiting room. They'd call you back for the ultra sound (which Ned saw, and I didn't). Then it was back to the waiting room. This back and forth thing went on and on.
The “counseling” I was promised consisted of some lady handing me pill after pill, and telling me about all the complications that could happen (can you say, “covering they're legal a**es”?). She finally asked if I was sure or something and I think I said, “I guess so.”
I was high as a kite during the “procedure”. I remember a big brown box. I remember it sounding like the loudest jackhammer I had ever heard. I remember looking at Ned, and him looking down at the floor. He couldn't even look me in the eye. Then it was over, and we left the clinic… through the back door.
I was so relieved that I was fine, physically, that I didn't let the emotional stuff surface. It first hit me about 3 months later, but I buried it. I guess it was about a year and a half later when I started to lose it.
I kept praying to God to come back into my life (even though I knew he'd never left). I wanted to go back to church, and Ned made fun of me for it. Now, I can tolerate someone disagreeing with me, but noone makes fun my faith. This was a symptom of why we broke up in 2002.
I'm now married to a wonderful christian man. We have a young son. His birth is forcing me to deal with these issues once and for all. The more I enjoy him, the more I realize what I missed.
I feel like my first child was a girl, so I've named her Elizabeth (which I found out later means 'consecrated to God'), but I call her Libby. I plan on planting a white rose bush in my yard this spring in her memory.
One 20 minute procedure changed the course of so many lives. How many grandchildren would she have produced? How many lives would she have touched? I'll never know.
I know other children in my family have been lost to miscarriage and abortion. I have this fantasy of my grandmother up in heaven taking care of all of them until their mommas get home. It may sound silly, but it gives me comfort.
I can't change the past. I know God has forgiven me. Like so many others, I'm having the hardest time forgiving myself.
Thanks to the internet I've connected with others who experience the same regret and torment I have. Some have worked through it, and others are just beginning. My goal now is to work through my own issues, so I can help others.
God has a plan for everyone. Maybe this was his plan for Libby; to affect me so that I can affect others.
I'm not alone. There's a whole army of us. Some of us are more vocal than others, but we're out there, and we're not going anywhere.
* Not her real name.** Name changed.
