A Letter of A "Pro-Choice" Mother

en years ago yesterday, I carried you beneath my heart.

Ten years ago today, I stopped the beating of your heart.

I, your mother, the one who gave you life, also gave you death.

It's been a decade and still my blood runs cold and I catch my breath whenever I hear the word "abortion." There's an emptiness inside of me that can never be filled, a chill that has never quite been warmed, a grief that will never end. To me you will forever remain an unfinished song, a flower that never bloomed, a sunrise clouded by rain.

Even during your last fragile moments of life, I wondered, "Is my baby a boy or a girl?" The question ran through my mind again and again as I tried to block out the sickening sounds of you being suctioned from my womb and from my life. I seemed to have a burning need to know whether I would have had a son or a daughter, yet somehow I couldn't bear to ask such an indelicate question of the doctor who stood smiling above me. Instead, I simply nodded in defeat and sadness as this man in white patted my trembling hand and said, "Now -- aren't you glad it's all over?"

As I lay there drowning in my own blood, tears and sweat, I could hear the nurses chattering about the co-workers, new cars and clothes.

To these people, the extermination of your life was simply a job -- "making a living by destroying the living." To those gathered in the sunny room in Philadelphia 10 years ago, it was just another day. To me, it was the darkest day I had ever known.

"The Abortion" - the most heart-wrenching, terrible experience I had suffered through in my 18 years; certainly the most painful experience suffered by you in your three short months. It has taken me all these years to get over it.

Now -- as my eyes fill with tears, I realize that this is something I will never "get over." That fateful April day has replayed itself over and over in my mind like a horror movie one forces oneself to watch, then can never forget....

Even in my distraught state of mind, I knew that there were choices. I was simply too scared to consider the alternative. Still a child myself, I "wasn't ready" to be a mother.

What I didn't realize then was that I already was a mother. You became my child at the moment of conception; my love for you began when your life began, and although your life ended, that love has never died.

Your silent screams have awakened me from sleep many times over the years, and I have lain in the dark and mourned the loss of the baby I killed. There have even been times when I've contemplated ending my own life as I ended yours.

It's been 10 years and still I haven't forgiven myself. Have you forgiven me? Has God forgiven me for destroying a being created by Him?

I've had many nightmares through the years. Scenes of a tiny fetus in a trash bag haunt my subconscious. I've awakened in a cold sweat, again feeling the excruciating pain of that long-ago day. I recall the intense physical pain of the abortion -- but those 10 minutes of hurt were nothing compared to the 10 years of pain I've lived with since.

For years my heart has ached to write you this letter, but whenever I attempted to put my feelings into words, I found the blank pages covered with tears rather than with ink. For some reason, though, tonight was different....

Perhaps this letter was meant to be written in order to help other young girls "in trouble," as I was 10 years ago, to realize that there are alternatives to abortion... If this letter prevents even one abortion, it will have served a purpose. But, Baby, my purpose in sending this letter to you is to let you know that I love you -- whoever you are. And I'm sorry.

Love, Mommy.

I lived in Germany during the Nazi Holocaust. I considered myself a Christian. I attended church since I was a small boy. We heard stories of what was happening to the Jews, but like most people in this country today, we tried to distance ourselves from the reality of what was really taking place. What could anyone do to stop it?

A railroad track ran behind our small church, and each Sunday morning we would hear the whistle from a distance. Then one Sunday we heard cries coming from the train as it passed by. We grimly realized that the train was carrying Jews. They were like cattle in those cars!

They were on their way to the death campus!

Week after week, that train whistle would blow. We would dread to hear the sound of those wheels because we knew that the Jews would begin to cry out to us as they passed our church. It was so terribly disturbing! We could do nothing to help those poor, miserable people; yet their screams tormented us.

We knew exactly what time that whistle would blow, and we decided the only way to keep from being so disturbed by the cries was to start singing our hymns.

By the time that train came rumbling past the church yard, we were singing at the top of our voices. If some of the screams reached our ears, we'd just sing a little louder until we could hear them no more.

Years have passed, and no one talks about it much anymore. But I still hear that train whistle in my sleep. I can still hear them crying out for help. God forgive me. God forgive all of us who call ourselves Christians, yet did nothing to intervene.

Now, so many years later, I see it happening all over again in America. God forgive us as Americans, for we have blocked out the screams of millions of our own children. The Holocaust is here. The response is the same as it was in my country --silence!

- From a Pennsylvania Pro-Life Federation solicitation letter