"You are what you canâ€™t let go of" – Brian Scudamore
I felt somewhat uncomfortable sharing that information during the interview. My daughter doesnâ€™t know it. I have never told her. Itâ€™s not something that has come up in conversation. Itâ€™s not something you can just drop in with an â€œOh, and by the wayâ€¦â€
I stated during the interview I was uncomfortable sharing but I felt it was rather important to put my story in context.
I am not ashamed of that by any means and I donâ€™t personally feel exposed for me but I do feel odd for her. I never know how to manage that situation. She doesnâ€™t want to know her story but I want to share it and doing so can help others as well as myself. Guh.
Whatâ€™s a girl to do? How can I protect her and her feelings and still process my own? Itâ€™s a never ending battle. Walking a fine line.
But yeah, I did it. I said (and others will hear) that I considered aborting my daughter. Not like seriously considered, more like looked into it as an option. I ruled it out.
I have always been strongly pro choice. So yeah, it was an option for me. Two male friends (niether one her father) I know offered to pay for it. One of them took me to the counseling session. This was before my parents knew I was pregnant. This was before my entire world went bananas and the evil monster called â€œAdoptionAgencyâ€ entered my life.
I ruled it out. I couldnâ€™t do it. I remember very clearly thinking this was my child. The product of a deep love between her father and I. I did not want to abort this child. What I wanted was hope. A way to feed, cloth and house my child. Aborting her would not give me that.
I remember clearly, vividly, that what terrified me about being pregnant is my inability to feed, clothe and house my child. It was never about me. It was always about her and not having a way to feed her, clothe her. Not having a place to live. (Imagine if someone had actually given me that hope?)
I remember the PP lady gave me a pamphlet. It was navy blue. On the cover was a photo of a fetus in a placenta. Pinkish, peach. It was sucking its thumb. Inside the pamphlet it said that on such and such a date the fetus sucks its thumb.
This sent me over the edge. This fact made the child in my womb HUMAN. My daughter. My child. Me. Part of me. Part of her father. I believe I seriously latched on to her when I realized she could be sucking her thumb at that very moment. A defining moment. Deep in the dark recess of my growing womb, she would be nibbling away on her teeny tiny thumb.
Nope. Couldnâ€™t do it. Wouldnâ€™t do it. No religious reason why not. No fear of guilt or wrongdoing. No thoughts of murder or all that other gunk the anti-abortionists spout.
I just did not want to.
At that point, yes, I had a choice. And I chose my daughters life.
I wanted her. I wanted her to live and I wanted to see her suck that little thumb.
However, many years after her birth and my surrendering of her I realized I did indeed still have an abortion. By giving her up for adoption, by allowing them to change her name, hide her heritage, her life, her medical history, ME, I did abort her. I allowed others to abort her. I allowed others to abort me. I aborted the child she was supposed to be â€“ at least by the laws of nature. I let others play God with my life and that of my child.
Funny how life is, huh?