What Difference Does it Make?

I've been following the Gosnell coverage on Twitter and around the Catholic Blogosphere tepidly.  I am trying to exercise some caution for my tender soul as any foray too deep into the details has a strong likelihood of disaster.  I skim over the day's coverage, say a quick prayer, and then try to move on.  I follow the story with the hope that I'll start to see some kind of turn around in the abortion "debate."  How could somebody read the Grand Jury report and not completely change their thinking if they claim to be prochoice?  But that may be the reason nobody who is prochoice is reading it - for fear of what may happen.  Kind of makes the safe, legal, and rare argument null and void when you see what looks to be a very viable baby, a human being, with a hole in their neck just big enough for scissors to fit through in order to snip their tiny spinal cord.

I don't usually enter into the debate battleground because I'm not strong enough to defend my position without using the biggest weapon in my arsenal - the fact that I had an abortion.  Until I'm ready to engage with everything I've got, I think it's better for me to battle in ways that preserve my sanity - as fleeting as it may seem at times.

Today I came across a tweet by Live Action, that I followed to The American Thinker and an article entitled, Gosnell's 'House of Horrors'? What difference does it make? by Lauren Kathryn McCall.  [emphasis mine.]

The words uttered by a certain secretary of state emeritus keep coming to mind as I read the accounts of Kermit Gosnell's services in Philadelphia.   

Filthy equipment, underage and unqualified staff, bodies of children in orange juice containers, animals running loose.  One would think that is the greater scandal here.

I have an anaphylactic response to the premise of the outrage here.  What difference does it make?

The clinic I went to 30 years ago was immaculate.  The furniture was comfortable.  It was staffed by registered nurses and board-certified physicians.  There were warm smiles, cold utensils, and a professionally produced follow-up instruction sheet to accompany you out the door.  My baby was early first trimester, tiny in size. 

And I am sure that my experience is exactly the same as those of the clients of Gosnell's clinic.  The effect of destroying our own children and the consequent damage to our souls and society does not discriminate when it comes to hygiene, credential, or zip code. 

Or size of the baby.

One step out the door, and I am quite sure I would not have noticed -- or cared -- if the place was filthy or ill-staffed. 

The memory of paying a stranger to murder my own child, pretending to return to a normal life, and then subsisting  in a society of unfathomable contradiction and hypocrisy toward the unborn trumps any outrage about filth or licensure for me.   What difference does it make?

Almost thirty years ago to the day, I am exhausted from the pretense, denial, and fakery that is the post-abortive life.  Good God, if it were any different, I would question if I am still human!  Stories abound about the addiction, suicidal tendencies, and promiscuity that follow abortion.  Perhaps, though, the greater population of women are like me.  We returned to our careers, raised our families, and have tried daily to hide the consequences of misery and disorder that abortion has wrought in our lives.  Each day its shameful reality compounds to a degree that we struggle to comprehend.

As for the effects on society and our future generations, I can only shudder.  So I retreat to the aforementioned pretense and denial.  I wait for the headlines and feigned outrage to disappear.  They always do.  Reconciliation with my God, counseling, and spiritual support only mitigate the horror and pain I live with each day. 

So the fact that the place was filthy and the staff was unlicensed doesn't make a bit of difference to me.  Not a damn bit of difference at all.

"Ditto" doesn't express my endorsement of Ms. McCall's sentiments very effectively, but it was my first response.  Gosnell and the atrocities he has committed stir up rage within me and sadness and a certain knowledge that only those who have had an abortion truly understand. That knowledge is what leads me from the outrage to the realization that abortion is always an atrocity. A postabortive woman stands on the edge a great precipice of spurning Gosnell and condemning he and his minions to the very depths of hell for what they have done and condemning ourselves at the same time.  We all fall together.  What Gosnell has done - scandalous, atrocious and just plain evil - is really, not one damn bit different than the abortion I had.  The abortion I paid for.  The abortion I lay on the table for. The abortion I drove home from, the memory of which I stuffed into the dark corners of my mind and heart for decades.  My abortion was just as gruesome.  The instruments may have been cleaner (were they?)  The floors may have been scrubbed till the wax shone (were they?) It doesn't matter - my daughter was killed and deposited into a glass jar (piece by tiny piece most likely).  I don't know what happened to my daughter after I left the room.  Where did that jar go? I'll never know.  I have to find solace in the fact that her soul went to Heaven that moment and she never knew what the tearing of her tiny body felt like or how cold the jar was.

But, the truth remains, I don't know.  I'll never know what happened to Grace's body after I left.  Where do all the bodies go from all the safe and legal abortion clinics?  I'm sure that is something that no prochoicer ever wants the answer to.  Maybe if we investigated where all the bodies go - 12 weeks or 32 - people would start to see that's its all the same. Pristine procedure rooms and sterile instruments are just as bloodied by abortion.  It doesn't much matter if they started out clean or not.  Gosnell's evil is horrifying but it's no anomaly.  For every one Gosnell that is caught, I have no doubt dozens more are hurriedly cleaning up their own house of horrors before the feds show up, maybe a bit more hastily at the current moment. 

Abortion is abortion is abortion.  17 year old girl, 30 year old married mom of 3, rape victim, welfare recipient, or Main Line resident who believes the lie that their maybe trisomy 13 baby will ruin their life.  Abortion is abortion is abortion.  It kills a life and ruins those left to live their now "unencumbered" life.

So maybe my outrage over Gosnell is misplaced because my outrage is really about there being none to speak of when I walked in and out of the abortion clinic.  I drove home and continued on with my life.  I'm outraged over the severed baby feet in Gosnell's clinic and the snipped spines and I'm just as outraged over Grace's short life ending in a glass jar.  That's the reality of abortion - no matter where the babies end up, no matter if they are whole or in parts, the reality is they are dead. So, you are right Ms. McCall, there's not a damn bit of difference at all. 

Domine Iesu Christe, Fili Dei, miserere mei, peccatricis.

Your mercies in disguise?

Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You're near
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise?

What if my greatest disappointments,
Or the aching of this life,
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy.
What if trials of this life,
The rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are your mercies in disguise?

Come, Holy Spirit.

Heavenly Father, I know I am close to despair. 

I feel so tempted to give up, to withdraw from life and religion and let the world simply carry me along.

Everything seems so meaningless and nothing appeals to my better instincts.

Help me to remember that Jesus gave meaning to everything in the world.

Let me bank on that fact and get over this time of despair,
to really believe in the depths of my being that there is a reason for living.

Show me the reason for my life and tell me what I must do.

Bring home to me that I am never alone, but that You are with me even in the depths of despair. 

Remind me that no matter what I may endure now,
an unending joy awaits me in the future if I but cling tightly to You and your Son Jesus in the unity of the Spirit. 

Amen.

I'm good! How are you?

Nothing I do makes me feel forgiven.  Feelings run my entire existence often, so why can’t I feel forgiveness?  Would I know it if I felt it?  Would it make a difference if I felt it?  What would it even look like on me?  I think I’m afraid to try it on.  At this point, I’m not even sure if feeling forgiveness is the problem.  I’m not sure what the problem is.  Is there even a problem or am I just a problem?

I know that I am forgiven.  If I didn’t know it, I mean really know it down to the core of my very being; I fear I’d be dead already.  It’s my belief in the mercy of God that keeps me alive, literally.  I take comfort in the people that take care to remind me of that mercy over and over and over again.  I run to my Church for the tangible reminders of that mercy. The reminders that God is real, that Jesus is real, that all of this is not in vain.  Suicide is probably the only sin I consider bigger than abortion.  I already killed once, if I kill again, I’m out for sure and I won’t be around to redeem myself.  I don’t know where I’d be and that’s a scary enough thought to keep me alive. 

I’ve been reading a lot lately about sin and lies we believe about sin and how to God, all sins are the same and all equally forgiven because of the Son.  I’m frustrated because no matter how much work I do – I just don’t feel like a good person. I’m not happy.  It’s not even about the abortion any more, it’s all of me, and it’s my whole wretched life that at times feels as though it’s rushing past and others it seems as though time has stood still.  You would think knowing one is forgiven for a sin as horrible as abortion would be cause for joy, but there is no joy here or at least I don’t feel any. 

My hang up with sin is my own doing.  I go along for a while doing things I think a good Catholic woman should do and would do.  Aren’t I just awesomely Catholic? I volunteer at school and church whenever I can.  I pray and pray and pray for priests and nuns and the Pope and whoever else is keeping this boat afloat.  I send my kids to Catholic school.  I try to defend my Church to those who knock her.  I make sure we’re at Mass each week. I go to adoration. I try to learn as much as I can about my faith. 

But, you know what? None of this matters a whole hell of a lot when deep down I still feel like that 17 year old girl, used and abused, taunted, tormented, downtrodden, self-esteem depleted, objectified, and only good for one thing – girl.  Oh who happens to get pregnant and then gets an abortion.  Then, does she turn her life around and strike out anew?  Nope, she gets worse and sleeps around more and allows herself to be used and thrown away like garbage.  But, just like the woman today, she fakes it.  She gets good grades, keeps a pretty house, smiles when she’s supposed to, but it’s a ruse.  I’m starting to wonder if that part ever wasn’t a ruse, if it ever won’t be.

It always, always, goes back to that.  Those feelings surrounding that girl then color my life in the present.  I can’t enjoy my life when I used to sleep around.  I can’t laugh with my children when I killed my first one. I can’t enjoy love making with my hubby with all that I did before with God knows who.  I am not lovable. I am not intelligent. I am not destined for greatness, or even goodness. I’m not kidding anyone. I am nothing.

And there I stay, down in the muck of it, depleted of all energy or want to claw my way out of it – again. 

A character in one of my favorite films is asked at one point what she fears, to which she responds,  “A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them and all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire.”  I fear that’s where I am now, in a cage of my own making.  I’m not locked in, I choose to stay and I fear I’ll never have the want or courage to leave.  

But, I start to think about that girl of my past and what was it that turned things around.  What happened that made me desire to graduate from college, get a job, my own apartment, my own car, be on my own?  A little while before I met my husband, I finally got rid of an extremely abusive jerk and shut the door on that nonsense.  What was it that kept me from ever going the drinking and drug route? There had to be some flicker of ambition or self-reliance that spoke up and said enough is enough.

I could use that flicker now.  It’s not like I can’t picture what life could be like, but it’s as if the fear of the clouds gathering again keep me from even trying happiness out for a while.  Why bother, it won’t last.  Why laugh, when they’ll soon be reason to cry.  I lack the ambition or want to go back and forth choosing instead the muck and the mire because it’s comfortable and predictable and nothing is required of me if I stay in it.

I stay a caged bird, but one who doesn’t sing, who doesn't talk, who says barely a word because I'm supposed to be okay. 

Will the Light Return

Turning over every rock
Shedding light on every crack
Peeling back the seeped through dressing
So He can heal and put it back

Just when I think there’s nothing else
When there’s no recess unexplored
The other he comes searching
Because he knows there’s so, so much more

What will be left of me when this examination is through
Or won’t it ever end
The pain of steely instruments
That forever tear apart and never mend

Just when I’ve touched some joy
Another imagined crisis to get through
Imagined or real, I never can tell
Does it even matter if life feels more like hell

All of these blessings that cover me
These little souls who claim need of me
Will I ever feel worthy enough
To become what He planned for me

How I ache for Your love, and his, and theirs
How I long for wholeness and frivolous cares
Will my light ever return to remain undimmed
Or is my reality to remain stuck in this sin

Please Lord I beg you or pray you
Or However it’s done
Let me feel you beside me
On every step 'till You will it be done