The Day I Murdered My Child

In April 2001, I gave birth to my son. In March 2003, I gave birth to my daughter. On April 8, 2004, I lied on my back, on a cold hard operating table, and allowed a team of doctors I had never met; kill the child that God allowed to be conceived in me, 10 weeks prior.

I’ve never written of this account; I’m not one to really speak verbally about it either; typically, never venturing far beyond, “I’ve had an abortion”, but it was while reading Dan Phillips’ (of Pyromaniacs) post last night (which can be found here), that the horrible memories of that tragic day, surfaced to the forefront of my thoughts.


There are many ways this story could be written. My desire is to tell it in such a way as to point to Christ; in that, if there’s anyone reading this that has had an abortion (s); anyone that is contemplating one; anyone that’s close to someone who has had one, or is contemplating one; that this post will be used of God to steer individuals to our Lord; in whatever manner the Spirit so chooses.

There’s a long version, and a short one; I will be sharing the short one.

Once Upon A Time

Mine and my husband’s marriage was relatively “ordinary” by the world’s standards, for about the first year. We never experienced that notoriously topsy-turvy “first year” that new couples hear so frequently about. Many reasons could be given for that, but I promised to offer the short version of this account.

It wasn’t until our son was born in April 2001 that severe problems began to surface. Pornography (through the internet and television media) was introduced into our home, and it had an almost immediate impact on our relationship. Sexual immorality became normality in our home. No details here; let’s just say that thinking back on what took place in our own home, causes my stomach to turn.

In an effort to rid our lives of this wicked and debilitating intruder, we attempted the best we knew how, to repair the damage that had been caused by the sexual immorality. Neither of us was submitted to the Lord though, and without the conviction and guidance of God’s Spirit, we were left with having to resort to the world’s cures and remedies.

In March 2003, I gave birth to my daughter; for a brief period, our family regained some of it’s original “integrity”, and the immorality that had been flooding our home, was not playing such a dominant role in our lives; however, it was still present, and the damage it was doing to the marriage, as well as our personal lives, though subtle, was deteriorating our family nonetheless.

On Thanksgiving Day 2003, my father died a sudden, stupid and tragic death (just weeks before his 44th birthday). My father was my “rock”. I didn’t have the Lord in my life, and my husband certainly wasn’t. This tragedy struck the death blow.

Weeks later I left my husband. On New Years Day, my husband drove my children and me 1200 miles to my mother’s home in Texas, and dropped us off.

I couldn’t file for a divorce immediately, because Texas law states that a couple must be separated for at least 6 months, before the process can proceed.

So, I got a full-time job, and attempted to rebuild my life.

My husband was not interested in providing any regular, financial support, and even after my begging him to at least call and talk to his son on the phone; nothing.

As the first couple of months passed though, I began to feel as though my marriage was salvageable. Nick and I shared a couple of profound telephone conversations, indicating that neither of us wanted the divorce.

Pregnant

I had met a man though (yes, quite aware of the extremely short gap of time, but you must understand the frantic, irrational mindset I lived under during those years). He was a good man. Good to me. Good to my children. I will always reflect back on those months with him with heartbreaking, bittersweet smiles...oftentimes, still mixed with tears.

Two weeks later after meeting this man, I discovered I was pregnant.

Absolute panic invaded my mind. It was made very clear to me that I no longer had any control over my life.

The short version of the events that followed my discovery of the life growing within me, could be stated as follows: I cried, and cried, and cried; I told the man I was with that I was pregnant with his child; he was shocked, and then thrilled; he was in love with me and my children, and we intended to marry; we began looking for a house; I shared the news with my husband; we cried and then cried some more; as far as we were concerned at the time, this news killed any dream either of us had of repairing the marriage (according to our fallen and lost logic at the time); things with the other man began to get stressful; Nick came down for a visit to celebrate our children’s birthdays; I was nine weeks pregnant.


The Decision Point

I’ll stop there, since that’s the turning point. Nick told me that he wanted desperately to reconcile. But what were we to do with this child? Somehow, in some sick way, I became convinced that Nick would never love this child, because of the circumstances surrounding his/her conception. In the years that followed, I came to blame Nick for the abortion, and grew to despise him for it.

I don’t even remember what went through my mind concerning adoption.

Let’s face it; I was selfish. I wasn’t thinking about this child; otherwise, I would have the capacity to recall what I concluded on adoption; an option that would have at least allowed this child to live.

All I could think of was getting myself and the children back home, and attempting to put the pieces of my broken family together.

It was a Monday that I called Planned Parenthood. With my stomach turning, I nervously told them I wanted an abortion, and asked about the details of such a “procedure”. After they told me the cost ($350), they scheduled an appointment for me.

Before they would actually conduct the abortion, they insisted on “counseling”. Before I could meet with the counselor, however, I needed to have an ultrasound done, to determine the exact term of my pregnancy; this would determine the type of method used to abort the “fetus”.

After the ultrasound, I met with a woman who looked fresh out of college, and I spoke with her concerning the circumstances surrounding this pregnancy.

She confirmed that even though the situation was thorny and complex, that because the “fetus” was right at 10 weeks, I could have a simple procedure done that would allow for a quicker recovery; allowing me to return home to Minnesota more quickly. She also expressed annoyance over the fact that in the state of Texas, they had to grant me 24 hours to “think it over” before they were legally permitted to perform the abortion.

The Day of…

24 hours later, I was sitting in the waiting room of Planned Parenthood again. Nobody knew where I was, or what was going on; with the only exception of my husband; and he was 1200 miles away. I told my employer that I was at “the doctor’s office”. I told the other man and my mother the same.

I remained in that cold waiting room for almost 2 hours. I watched numerous women enter and leave; always wondering if they had just done what I was about to do.

I didn’t even feel like a person anymore; as though I were an empty body simply going through the motions of life. I couldn’t cry; I could barely smile; and then they called my name.

I was ushered into a changing room, and told to provide a urine sample. They had to be sure that I hadn’t attempted to drink myself into a stupor or “shoot up” anything beforehand; apparently many women do this, so that they can get themselves through the abortion without “feeling” so much. I was sober though; perfectly sober; and yet, never had I felt so numb.

I was brought into the operating room, and told to lie down on the table. A few minutes later, an older woman came in wearing an oddly existent, out of place, and rather large smile. She introduced herself as “the hand-holder”. She explained that she was a volunteer who came in to hold the hands of those women who came in alone.

Three doctors followed; one woman, two men. They explained everything they were doing, so that I wouldn’t be caught off guard by any of it. At one point, one of the male doctors’s explained that a drug he was using would induce contractions, and that it may be painful. My response to him was, “That’s okay. I’ve given birth to two children already, and both labors were endured naturally.” He chuckled as he went on to express his confidence in my ability to handle the pain of this simple procedure then.

He didn’t understand. I wanted it to hurt.

It was when the “machine” was turned on that the tears began streaming from my eyes. I didn’t want to even see the machine; my eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling tiles.

In the distance, I heard my “hand-holder” whisper some words of comfort and encouragement in my ear. At one point, I recall her saying with a smile, “you’re almost done!”

I guess there was more blood than anticipated, and so the process took a bit longer than “normal”.

After they were finished patching me up, I was escorted into a very strange room. It resembled a cafeteria you would expect to find in an elementary school; only, instead of long tables, the wall was lined with large leather recliners; each separated by a white curtain; a curtain that you’d find in a hospital room with two beds, for example.

Each recliner was lined with sheets to soak up the excess blood of the patient.

I recall being nearly frantic when told to sit and wait until my “time was up”. A nurse was tending to me while I reclined on the chair, and I anxiously asked her what I should tell everyone who knew of my pregnancy; about the fact that I was no longer pregnant. She confidently explained that I didn’t need to tell anyone anything; that it was none of their business, and that I didn’t do anything that I should feel wrong about. Nobody was allowed to judge me, and so I should just let everyone come to the logical conclusion of my pregnancy’s abrupt end, in their own way.

I came up with a story anyways; miscarriage; and that’s what I told everyone.

Because I lost so much blood, the nurses were concerned about my driving home; they said it would be dangerous. They instructed me to drive straight home, immediately (although they preferred that someone pick me up), and to remain in bed for the next couple of days. I nodded my head, and said that I would do all of that.

I drove to work, and sat at my desk for the rest of the day. I was bleeding excessively. At one point, there’s no doubt that I should have made a trip to the ER, because of the amount of blood I was losing; I couldn’t bring myself to care enough though. I firmly believe it was God’s grace and His mercy that allowed me to survive.

The Aftermath

The following week, my husband drove down and took the children and I back home to Minnesota.

I was an emotional zombie.

A mere three weeks later, the children and I returned to Texas. I did eventually return to Minnesota again a few months after living with the other man; but we also did eventually get that divorce.

After two years of divorce, we’ve since been remarried to each other (May 2007), but that’s a different story, for a different time.

God, in His grace and mercy, used this abortion in a powerful way to lead me to His Son.

When His Spirit opened my eyes to the utter wickedness and evil in my heart; the very things that enabled me to murder my own child in such a senseless, selfish and brutal way; I clearly saw my need for a Savior; as well as the utterly ridiculous realization that I had confidently called on God and called Him my own many times before realizing who I was, outside of Christ. God allowed this abortion to serve as His tool in revealing who I really was, to myself.

By the time I surrendered my life to Christ, I hated myself. I understand that’s a very strong statement, but it’s not too exaggerated. I hated what I had done. I hated the fact that I was capable of such evil. I couldn’t escape myself; and God, in His mercy, relentlessly convicted me, until I fell at His feet in repentance. I didn’t want to have anything to do with my life anymore; I gave it all to Him.

He has been overwhelmingly gracious, since my conversion, to heal the deep wounds and infections caused by them; but He’s allowed the scars to remain visible and sensitive; resulting in a pretty authentic empathy.

And may it be used for His glory.

My God, my God…Whose amazing grace saved a wretch like me!

Grace and Peace,
Kristine