The Beauty of Life:

It all started moments before she was born. Her mother had been praying, seeking a way out of the pregnancy, the mistake that burdened her then. She considered other options, to give the child up for adoption, after she had delivered it, to try to raise it herself, in spite of the turmoil that would have surely brought her. It had been seven months since she was raped. She had tried desperately to keep it hidden. At first, she wore baggy clothing, to cover the shameful growth growing inside her. Memories would flood back into her awareness from time to time, haunting her, reminding her of the event she’d thought with certainty was over. But it wasn’t over. Far from it. Now, she was burdened with this terrible and unwanted consequence of her simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s what she would tell herself at least. It all started before she was born. At that moment, her mother stood outside of the abortion clinic. Her hiding of this secret was becoming harder by the day. And now, and now she just needed someone to help. She just needed someone to talk to. Someone to assure her that it was not her fault. She’d heard about abortion in the media. She never understood those people who would protest such a normal procedure, a procedure that would help a woman like her. And so as she stepped inside the clinic, her eyes downcast, she was welcomed warmly by the receptionist. She took a seat in the corner of the waiting room after checking in. “The doctor will see you in just a moment,” was whispered through holes in the glass partition that separated them. As she sat, another woman came from the door next to the reception. She held a tissue and blew her nose into it as she gently sobbed. A moment passed and she picked up a magazine. On the cover, war waging across the world. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, reassuring herself by telling herself that it was just a normal procedure, something like getting her tonsils out. And finally when the doctor opened the door and beckoned toward her with his wrist, she stood and moved toward the door. Something inside of her was turning. She was suddenly uneasy. She was led down a long hall and seated in a seat something like a dentist seat. This seat had stirrups, one for each leg. “Are you able to tell me your credentials?” She asked. No answer. “I’m suddenly having second thoughts.” The doctor looked at her impatiently. He waited a moment and didn’t say anything until she resigned. “Can you remove your pants please?” A burst of strength from the determination, the motivation to rid herself of the memory of the traumatic event arose in her. She raised herself up slowly onto the chair and the doctor watched her place her feet hesitantly into the stirrups. When she was seated, he held her legs gently and reassured her that all would be alright. He flicked a switch on a machine, which he rolled in on a little table and suddenly the room was filled with the noise of a powerful and mighty vacuum. And picking up a handful of tools on the same table, he began prodding about her nether region. She grew uncomfortable again. She felt a cold instrument against her skin as he pushed her legs apart. She felt as he entered her with something that felt like a small needle. “Let’s just give it a minute,” he said, suddenly withdrawing the instrument. “Can you explain to me what you are doing?” She asked, her heartbeat beginning to rise. “I’ve injected the fetus with a toxic substance. We’re just going to give it a moment and then we will begin the procedure. Her heartbeat stopped for a second as she considered what he said. At that moment, she started to sweat profusely and her water broke. The doctor looked at her in shock and then ran from the room. She sat there silently. Silently until the first labor pain came upon her. With that pain she yelped. And the doctor re-entered the room, the receptionist following her. “We have to call an ambulance.” She said. “I change my mind,” She stammered, “Is it too late to change my mind?” The doctor silenced her and told her he was a doctor. She became agitated and called out more for a doctor, an ambulance. The doctor looked at the receptionist who approached her with a needle. She struggled in the chair but she was unable to move with the pain. The receptionist grabbed her arm and injected the full content of the needle into her arm. “Just a sedative,” the receptionist said, “to keep you calm.” She only struggled more until a sudden dizzy sensation came over her. She was fully conscious but unable to move or speak. Her terror grew. “I change my mind,” she said over and over to herself. She closed her eyes and when they opened again, she was looking at the doctor holding a baby in the air. Her baby. It was her baby. “I change my mind,” she was trying to say. Nothing came from her lips. “Will you help me place her in the waiting room?” the doctor asked the receptionist. Silently, the woman watched as her baby was placed on a table. They came and removed her legs from the stirrups. Putting her pants on, the both placed themselves under her, one under each armpit and led her into the waiting room. And pushing the door aside, she summoned the little strength in her body to lift her head. The waiting room was empty. They placed her gently into a seat and returned to the office. She sat, defeated, humiliated and confused. “My baby,” she was finally able to say. And after five minutes, she regained her strength. Rising up slowly she approached the receptionist window. The receptionist greeted her with the same pleasant voice, through holes in the glass that separated them. “Were you pleased with the service provided you today?” The woman looked at her confused and questioning her sanity as the doctor rounded the corner of the reception window. He glanced at the woman and smiling, said, “Everything is all done and you are good to go.” She thought over what this meant. And before she could answer, he mimicked, “Were you pleased with the service provided you today? She considered. She had in fact paid for this service. She felt incredibly guilty. And nodding, she turned and left. She thought about the child, the rape, the abortion, which was worse? She thought about her child. There would not be a day for twenty years, in which she did not think of that child.

There was a nurse who worked the late shift at that same abortion clinic. And about one hour after the doctor and the receptionist packed their belongings and left, this nurse inspected the office. She wandered through performing inventory on the medical supplies. She was about to turn off the light in the lab office when she thought she heard something like a squeak or a cry. Putting the light on once again, she entered the room and approached the closet. Opening the door, she looked in and couldn’t see anything. And looking down, she saw something that horrified her. She saw a little baby, naked and lying in a bucket, next to a mop and bottled cleaners. She looked at it for a moment, unsure of what to do. And as she considered her job, what she would lose, she also considered what kind of people could leave a little baby like this to fend for itself, in a closet. In a bucket. She was overcome by guilt and pity and kneeling down, she examined the baby. It was certainly breathing. She picked it up, her finger carefully propping the head of the creature. It was so small. So vulnerable. And she considered again what to do. Standing with the child in her hand, she approached the medical supplies and wrapped it in a little blanket. She got a small cloth and wiped it across the child’s forehead. She could not think of anything to do but reassure it. The hospital would probably not accept this child. It was too young. Too small. And so, she put the child in a little crib she hand fashioned out of a tin and some cushioning. Going around the office, she turned off the lights and then brought the child to her car. She considered again what she would do. One thought came into her mind after another. This child should have died hours ago, she thought. If procedure was normal, the doctor would have injected it with poison. She got her phone, breezing through the internet. One thought consistently returned itself to her awareness. She considered the convent down the street. Surely the religious would not abandon this child. So, starting her car, she backed out of the space and while checking her blind spot, glanced down at this child. It was moving its arms. Its chest raised as it breathed. It seemed to be breathing calmly. It is difficult to discern in a creature so little, so vulnerable to the forces of nature, whether it is in distress, whether it is in pain. She knew it most likely was fighting for its life. And pulling into the driveway of the monastery, she ran up gently to the door with the child in her hand. Knocking on the door, she waited. And with no answer, she knocked harder. Until the door was drawn aside and the face of a priest peered out around the corner of the door. It was late. But she knew they would answer. She said nothing. Simply held the gaze of the priest and placed the tin into his hand. And backing away slowly, she held his gaze, walking backward, her eyes firm in his own, until she reached her car. She fumbled with the door and when it was open, she entered and drove away.

That first night was the hardest. The nuns stayed up with the child for hours, praying over it and providing it with comfort. They were pleasantly surprised as it grew. Day after day, it grew in its features and size, its height and its strength. It was a girl. A beautiful, precious girl. Twenty years passed. She grew up, healthy and loved in the convent. The religious had treated her with respect and love, the greatest degree of love. And while she knew there was always a home for her there, something beckoned in her heart. The priest had told her numerous times of the story of her arrival at the convent. The story evolved slightly as she grew. When she was four, it was told her that loving angels brought her to the convent. On her sixteenth birthday, she would never forget, the priest told her the truth. The truth that he did not know where she came from, that a mysterious woman simply handed her to him at the door. He told her of the pain he could feel in the eyes of that woman at the door. The pain of separation. The pain of loss. But the fact remained. Nobody could tell her where she had come from. And so, in spite of the consistent love she had received there, she decided days after her twentieth birthday to leave the convent for some time. She promised them to return but she needed to search. She did not know for what she was searching. Some beginning. Some end. Some firm foundation. A truth? The priest set her up to stay while she was in the city with some parishioners. She found a job quickly. She found a job at a convenience store. The store was just down the street from the convent. There was one thing that made her uneasy about working at that store. The clinic next door. It was a mysterious and cloudy place. During her lunch hour, the noise would start and not stop. It was like a vacuum, mighty and powerful. She knew not what the noise was but it bothered her. And one day, returning to work after her lunch, a customer entered. The customer looked at the girl. “A pack of Camel cigarettes, please,” she said. And turning her face, she allowed her head to shake a bit. “What a day at work.” The girl looked at her curiously. “Where do you work?” This customer glanced at her and quickly looked away, “I work next door. At the clinic.” The girl looked down. And sensing her discomfort, the customer asked her, “You don’t look like you fit here. Where did you come from, a nice girl like yourself?” The girl stared at her and said, “I have lived in a convent for most of my life.” The customer held her breath carefully. She said, “How old are you? And when did you go to the convent?” The girl looked at her questioningly, hesitantly, “Do I know you?” She asked. “No,” the customer said. “Just, forgive me for my curiosity. I only wondered.” She left the store and the girl went home that evening, wondering about this woman. The following day, the same woman entered the convenience store and asked again for a pack of Camel cigarettes. “You smoke a lot,” said the girl behind the counter. Considering, she asked, “Hey, why were you so curious yesterday about me and the convent?” The woman seemed to dissociate for a moment. A tear welled in her eye and she looked at the girl, as though to assess whether she could be trusted. “Nearly twenty years ago, there was an issue at the clinic next door.” The girl looked at her, “What sort of issue?” “A child was born,” she said. It wasn’t expected the child should live and so I wrapped it up and took it to the convent.” She paused. “A day hasn’t passed that I haven’t thought about that little child.” The girl looked at her carefully and feeling her hands clench, she grimaced. “Are you the child’s mom?” she asked. “No,” the woman said. “I was delivered to the religious twenty years ago by a mysterious woman.” At this the woman started to cry openly. The girl asked, “Are you that mysterious woman?” “Yes, I think I am, dear.” She said. “What sort of clinic is it next door?” “You don’t know?” the woman asked, “It’s an abortion clinic, dear.” “What is abortion?” The girl asked, stunned at the profundity the woman displayed in the fluctuations of her voice. “My dear, I will let you discover this for yourself.” She went home that evening, after the woman had left, surely returning to that clinic. And as she sat in front of the computer in the family’s home, which they would let her use, she opened a search engine and typed the words, ‘what is abortion?’ She thought about this deeper as the page took time to load. She a furious and cold agitation pass through her as a collection of images came onto the screen. She looked away immediately and turned off the monitor. She shuddered and pondered what had been said, what had been told her earlier in the day. She breathed deeply, remembering all at once that the woman had said that she was taken from a clinic that performed this. She considered the meaning of this as she started to sweat. And turning the monitor back on, she began to read, minimizing the pictures. She could not bear to look at them. And as she read, her heart pounded harder and faster. Many thoughts coursed through her mind. Was I meant for one of these abortions? And, Where was my mother? What could she possibly have been thinking? After she considered, she simply collected her hands and started to pray, thanking God for this second chance, had it in fact been one. The following day, when she returned to work she waited the entire day for the woman to come in. She never came. And so, at the end of her shift, she collected her things and walked next door. There was that frustrating and appalling sound, the vacuum sound emanating through the walls. And as she stepped up the stairs, she pushed the door aside. She was welcomed by an older woman who sat behind a glass partition. “Good day?” the woman said, “Are you here for our services?” The girl swallowed heavily and shook her head. She said, “No, I am here to see a woman, a nurse, I think.” The woman behind the glass looked at her carefully, “Are you here for a follow-up?” She thought carefully and then said, “No, the nurse is a friend of mine. I’d just like to see her.” The woman stood behind the desk and moved into the office behind where she was seated. A moment later, she returned with the familiar nurse. When the nurse saw her, she stepped back a little and darted a glance between the receptionist and the girl. Hesitating, the nurse waved her arm, telling the girl to follow her. When they were alone, the nurse, asked her sternly, “What are you doing here?” The girl looked startled and said, “What happened that day? The day that I was brought to the monastery. I want you to help me find my mom.” The nurse glanced around anxiously and said, “I’m not sure you’re ready to hear that, dear. I will help you find your mother but you must give me time. You have to go now.” The girl left and returned the day after. Greeting the receptionist with a smile, she asked again for the nurse. When she came out of the office, she waved her in again. This time when they were alone, the nurse told her that the clinic’s records were expunged every decade and so there would be no sense going about searching this way. She suggested a DNA test. The girl told her she would think about that. The girl refused to leave after the nurse said she wouldn’t tell her about the day she was taken to the monastery. And so the nurse told her. 

It took her some time to recover from this. The nurse comforted her and as the other employees of the clinic were going home for the day, the nurse kept the girl with her in the office and held her. After some time, the girl looked up at her and said, “I suppose a ‘thank you’ is in order.” The nurse caressed the back of her head with her hand as she embraced her and said softly, “No thank you is necessary.” With the help of the nurse, she arranged to have a DNA test to trace her mother. “Are you sure that this is something you want to do?” the nurse would ask only fueling her determination. And so the day the DNA results came, she couldn’t hold her excitement. She opened the envelope and her eyes lit up. She swallowed the saliva in her mouth in one big gulp and as she read across the page, she started to smile. It appeared her mother was in the city. That she was a successful doctor herself. Packing the letter into her bag, the nurse gave her a ride to the address on the paper. She knocked lightly on the door. It was early evening. And when the door opened, the woman behind it, asked sternly, “Who are you?” The girl looked back at the nurse, who was there for support. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother you. Twenty years ago, you had an abortion. Is that right?” The woman behind the door became visibly agitated and looked around. The girl continued, “Do you know what happened with your child from that day?” Suddenly trembling lightly the woman kind of started to whimper, “They killed her,” she said. “No, no they didn’t.” The girl said. The woman looked at her and her anger seemed to rise a little. “What do you mean by that? Who are you? Are you playing some kind of a joke on me?” The girl looked at her and her eyes relaxed when she did, “Mom?” She said. The woman collapsed, her knees giving out beneath her as she sunk against the wall. She wept. “I didn’t want to do it,” she kept repeating. “I didn’t want them to do it. Please forgive me.” “Mom, it’s okay. I’m okay.” The woman wept more. The girl knelt down next to her and held her hand. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.” And so, after the woman collected herself, she invited the girl and the nurse in and they sat at the kitchen table and spoke.

A year had passed. She spent that year researching. Researching the procedure of abortion. The more she read, the more her anger was fueled. It was a new form of anger. This anger she had never experienced before. It seemed to motivate her passion to make change, to speak up and for the desire to be heard. The girl had become a prominent pro-life advocate. And with her mother, they were now going from school to school, from office to office to share their story. Every time it was told, tears were shed. Until, one day the mother went to check the mail. A piece addressed to her daughter was in the mail from the government. And when she opened it when she got home that evening, she noted the Seal of Congress at the top of the letter. They were inviting her and her mother to share their story. They had only a few days to prepare. And flying to the capitol, they were put up in a hotel. The night before they studied their notes and shared with each other memories and ideas. Until they stood on the podium at Capitol Hill. 

“I will never forget the day that I left my child to die. . .” the mother began. Her daughter held her hand tightly. - From my Book Fables of Good Will.