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."
The initial daylight hours of 2019 were spent with doctors, nurses, a Catholic priest, a Baptist preacher, and an attorney for the hospital. They kept telling me time was "of the essence" and there were "no other choices," that it was "not a sin." I didn't believe them. Why wouldn't they call my baby by her name? Why did they keep saying "the pregnancy"? My husband cleared the room when I became hysterical. "They're telling me to murder our child! How can I live with that?" He told me I wouldn't live if I didn't take the methotrexate shots. I felt bullied by the professionals, but my husband would never lie to me or pressure me to do something that was not absolutely necessary.
A nurse I had not seen before came in with a cart. She had to read a few things aloud; all I remember hearing is the word "abortifacient" over and over. I had to sign papers. I wondered why she was so cheerful. My husband held my hands while I cried. The worst part was the second shot. It was an insult, a slap in the face. It was not enough that I allowed a stranger to kill my baby once, but I had to allow her to do it again. I fell apart at the seams in my husband's arms. The nurse asked me if I wanted my flu shot "while she was there" and I raged. My husband encouraged her to leave.
If the word "abortion" had not been so politically charged, so thoroughly imbued with the graphic images of dead babies, then maybe it would have been a little easier to handle. Now I was lumped in with the women who wanted to flush the life in their womb literally down the toilet. I wasn't like them, but I bore the "abortion" brand, didn't I?
There are women like me who are involuntary members of this shameful club. Yes, it's science and semantics, but it's also personal and political. I won't speak for other women, but I will say that I relive the worst moments of my life every time an asinine abortion advocate spouts talking points about "saving women's lives" and in the next breath champions choice in the name of freedom and convenience. We are not the same.
Unfortunately, my story didn't end with the methotrexate; I had to consent a third time, but to emergency surgery. When I saw the surgeon later that day, he told me I was minutes from rupture. "If you were not already here in the hospital, you would have bled internally and passed away before we could have gotten you on the table."
What I had to do was not an abortion the way talking heads blab about on television. Using a word like that is cruel, even if it's medically accurate, which is why we need a new term. When someone says "abortion is healthcare!" we can turn around and say, "No. Abortion is a choice; [insert the word we come up with] is healthcare." Changing the narrative might be the most effective way to turn the tide. We can lean on court decisions and legislation, but that's passive and reality deserves an aggressive approach.
What are your thoughts? Tell me in the comments. Should we start using another word in the pro-life movement? Are there other ways we can address the exploitation of medical emergencies to further the pro-choice agenda? I didn't bare my vulnerability for sympathy — I did it to help inform positions and advance our cause. Let's get to work.
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