The feminist in me shrinks away from talking about the pain of that loss. Even though my heart believes I sent it back so it could return at a better time, there’s fountain of pain and a kind of aloneness I had never experienced that seems to gush interminably.
I dream about the baby, the one with no name. In the dreams, I am overwhelmed with trying to find someone to help me care for it, of hearing it call the babysitter “mama” because its mother can never be there. When this happens, I feel like I made the right choice for myself and the children that will come. But I still grieve.
She also speaks of the physical nightmare that was the abortion itself.
Is it just me, or is there a sort of "misery loves company" aspect to the prochoice movement? This is far from the first heartsick cry from a woman totally wrecked by an abortion, awash in a sea of anguish and regret -- but still insisting it was "the right choice" and one she wants other women to have the chance to experience firsthand.
What other human act can so totally blow up in so many people's faces, cause them so much heartbreak and grief, and still be promoted as palliative?
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