She was recently released from prison, on parole, working two jobs. She is 36 years old, living with her mother and teenage daughter—and dating for the first time in years. She calls me, and I can tell something has happened. Her pain reverberates through the phone.
She can barely form the words. “I’m pregnant. I can’t tell my mother,” she sobs. “It will kill her. And my daughter, she can’t know.” Plus, one condition of parole is no “contact” with the opposite sex.
I knew she would ask me to make the arrangements. She knew I would help. I promised I would be there for her, no matter what. Although I feel my stomach twist, I make the phone calls and set up the appointments.
We are to arrive on Thursday morning for the first two trips to the clinic. She is told to bring a urine sample, a $150 money order and a photo ID. They will examine her and confirm her pregnancy. Then they will schedule the “procedure” for Saturday.
I am as close as can be to a table-banging feminist left over from the ’60s. It is her body, I tell myself. She has the right. It is rotten timing. This could ruin her chances for fixing her life. I think all this, but I was raised a strict Roman Catholic and so conflicting thoughts rattle around in my brain, so loud and uncomfortable, like marbles in a tin can.
There is an indefinable cloud around me, an uneasiness, a loss of the carefree attitude of my youth when I, too, thought of abortion as “just a procedure.”
Still, I am going to do this. I counseled her through prison and became her friend and promised I would be there for her when she got out. I am going to hold her hand, put her in my bed overnight while she recuperates, lie to her mother about our having a “girls night out” and even loan her the money to help pay for it. Yet there is an indefinable cloud around me, an uneasiness, a loss of the carefree attitude of my youth when I, too, thought of abortion as “just a procedure” or “just another option.”
What are her options? She can barely pay the utility bill, let alone raise a child. She is emotionally immature and cannot afford the expense or time of counseling. What about adoption? Her daughter is engaged, and my friend says she cannot further alienate her daughter by waddling down the aisle as mother of the bride in a maternity outfit with no husband in sight.
I promised when she got out of prison that if she worked hard and gave up drugs, her life would be better. It is so hard to see room in that plan for an infant. She simply succumbed to a man’s touch after years of hunger and celibacy, and her body became pregnant.
She is here now, lying in my bed in a restless sleep. I am sitting on a chair, numb, thinking about my part in this event, this loss.
After the procedure, on our way home, she is groggy, feeling a little depressed. I say, in a feeble attempt to console her: “Well, you did it. It’s over.”
“No,” she says. “We did it. Thank you.”
But what did we do?
Before the procedure the doctor came in, looked at his clipboard and asked how far along she was. She told him a little over eight weeks. He said, “Oh, it may take a little longer than expected because we want to make sure we get it all.” Like it was dirt on the kitchen floor, I think.
She is here now, lying in my bed in a restless sleep. I am sitting on a chair, numb, thinking about my part in this event, this loss. I wanted to be faithful to a good friend, which in this case required ignoring my gut and convincing myself that my friend’s abortion was nothing more than the vacuuming out an eight-week-old glob of cells. But what do I believe? What does it mean to be faithful? What was this if not murder by another name?
The comparison may sound superficial, even flip, but one of the reasons I am a vegetarian is because I so strongly believe that we can live without destroying life. And when I pray, I make it a point to stare into the face of Jesus, asking him to accompany me in my life’s decisions.
So here I am. So here I am.
God forgive me.
This article appears in November 25 2019.
Politics
Faith
Culture
Vatican
Scripture
Podcasts