drbonebrake writes "
OPINION: In the discussion concerning the ethics of abortion, one aspect which is often overlooked is the perspective of the life within the womb of the mother. This newly conceived life does not get a voice in the debate or to share their view of the choices others will make as to their future. Jennifer Badding pondered the idea and thought the voice of the child should be heard.
In the Spring of 2011, Badding decided to write about abortion as part of an assignment to write a narrative essay for her high school English class. Badding relates, “I thought this would be a unique way to inform people about abortion.” She stated, “I added facts in there such as what age some children are aborted (6 months is the limit), the saline solution is used to kill some (the burning sensation she felt), and at that time of her life, she would probably had some feeling--scientifically speaking.”
The essay, entitled, “I Love My Mother,” begins, “I live in a dark, warm sanctuary.” In an explanation as to the perspective of the story, Badding related, “I think the story is important because it does not point fingers at anyone. Rather, I see it as just a story, a different perspective that will hopefully change the lives of women out there.” She continued, “I tried to come up with every reason I could why someone would abort, and then tried to explain that the reason is not the best choice.”
Badding's essay has gained some limited exposure outside of her classroom; shared mostly with members of her church and at a pro-life walk. Badding is now in her fourth year of college as an Anthropology major, but is also taking the per-requisites for veterinary school. Her essay remains posted to the bulletin board of her home town church, a small story to ponder as parishioners walk by.
I Love My Mother
I try not to kick my mother. I love her dearly. I do not want to cause her any discomfort or pain. As of late, I try not to move at all. More and more she says the cold word. I do not know what I should protect myself from, but instinct tells me to stay cautious. The word abortion sends chills up and down my spine; my heart begins to ache; and I cannot think clearly. I do not understand the feeling I experience when my mother says this word. I know she loves me; a mother protects her child from the pain and evils in the world. She will protect me when I am born.
I live in a dark, warm sanctuary. More light penetrates the surrounding walls, as I grow bigger. The light that reaches my home turns the darkness pink. Every day I grow bigger, and my home starts to shrink. I pull my legs closer to my chest trying to stay as small as possible. I do not want to cause any pain for my mother. She talks of giving me up, and she speaks of an alien word: abortion. She talks more and more of the alien word when I accidentally kick her. The word frightens me.
In three months I will see the world for the first time. I cannot wait to feel the wind in my face, to breathe, and to see my mother. I cannot imagine what she will look like. I hope I look like her and act like her. I adore her. Every day I grow anxious to see her face, to hear her voice, and to lie in her arms. No amount of suffering can overpower the love of a mother and a child. I know, even through death, my mother and I will stay close together. I know I can love my mother more than anyone else alive. I will never break my mothers’ heart like my father did.
For days my mother sobbed. She never left the house. Her pain seeped into my home and altered my mood as well. I remember my mother nervously told my father the great news. I did not understand why she let the nerves overrun her body. I knew my father loved me as much as I loved him. To my surprise, I assumed wrong. Dead silence followed the good news my mother brought. For several, excruciating, long minutes, neither one spoke. Through the walls of my home, I could hear the muffled voice of my father speaking. Disappointment and anger filled his voice. With much effort he told my mother good bye and left forever.
My mother stood still for several moments, never moving an inch. I could feel her body turning cold. I tried to comfort her as much as possible. I moved a little to show her I still loved her; that I still existed and I could love her more than that man did. Unfortunately, I kicked her. She whispered the word again. She put her hand to her belly and started to rub it. I could feel the movements on the bottom of my feet. I wiggled my toes trying to make amends. Her body gradually started to warm up after several long minutes. Disappointed and scared, she continued on with her life. She put her hand to her belly every time the evil man entered her thoughts. Every time I would either wiggle my toes or my fingers, trying to comfort her. I grow more impatient to be born. I cannot wait to comfort my mother the proper way. I would love my mother more than anyone else in the world, even more than her mother.
Several weeks after the man left, my mother visited my grandma. My mother craved advice. She needed help and someone to steer her in the correct direction. When my mother attended school, she earned all A’s. Her classmates adored her and tried to copy her every move. A nineteen-year-old girl, however, cannot take care of herself alone. When she confronted my grandma, she shook. The nerves took over her body. I stroked the inside of my home trying to comfort her. Finally, enough strength entered her body. She whispered information about me. Her voice crackled and tears started to run down her face. Scared, she waited for a response. Grandma yelled numerous words; many I did not understand. I do not view my mother as mutty; she took a shower a few hours before. I do not see her as a bore; she entertains me every day. My mother left the house sobbing. At that moment, I realized that no one loved my mother like I did. I think my mother realized that too because she never saw her family again. She visited only one person: a doctor.
I do not know much about doctors. I know they are supposed to make people better and help them with their lives. For the past few months my mother has been seeing a doctor. When he speaks, my heart stops dead in its tracks. His muffled voice sounds cold and heartless. My body shakes with fear. I have tried to warn my mother about this doctor. He does not act like the helping type. Unfortunately, every time I kick her. Then she mentions how she cannot wait for the next visit. The first time my mother visited him, he told her about the alien word. I have no reason to hate this man, but my instinct tells me to do so. The last visit he mentioned something about a shot and how he needs to give it to my mother soon or else she cannot follow through with the procedure. Today, one week before my sixth month, we visit him again.
She walks into the room and lies down on a table. The doctor asks if she wants to go through with the process. She whispers yes. My blood turns cold as ice. Terror holds me in his grasp. The man gives my mother the shot; for the first few minutes nothing happens. I begin to relax. Then I feel uncomfortably warm. I try to move around to escape the heat; nothing helps. The warmth turns into pain. It feels like I am burning. I cannot take the pain; it hurts terribly. Please, make it stop. I love my mother; I never meant to hurt her. Please, I am burning. Do not kill me. I want to see my mother’s face. Please, I will do anything. I do not understand why my mother would let this man hurt me. She loves me; I know it. Please, make the pain stop.
I now know what abortion means. It means to kill. After the pain stopped, I felt cold. I entered a quiet place where a man waited for me. I asked him why my mother killed me. He simply answered that my mother could not take care of me and thought it would be better if I died. I would have rather lived and been given to another family than to burn. At least then, I could have experienced life. Now, I will never attend my prom, never watch a movie, never have friends, never wear a white dress with pink flowers, never run for president, never walk on the moon, and never see the stars. I cannot experience the joy life brings. The man who greeted me had tears in his eyes when he looked at me. I asked why he looked sad; he whispered that when I grew, I would discover the cure for cancer. Now, I will never save lives. I should be thankful, however.
On the way to my new home, I saw many children younger than I. One boy experienced the same burning sensation I felt. I will never forget how one little girl looked. She carried her head in one hand and her insides in the other. She had no legs, only stumps. I could not recognize any features. It seemed like someone took a sander and sanded her face off. I am grateful I did not experience the pain that girl went through. I love my mother for that.
Even though she killed me, I love her dearly. She thought it would be better for her if she did not need to take care of a baby. She thought I would be better off dead than alive. I wish I had another family than to never to see my mother’s face. If another family took me in, I could still see my mother. Now I will never see my mother’s face or hear her voice. I still love my mother, even though she does not love me. I will always love her, and I wait for the day when I can finally look upon her face and see her smile.
“I Love My Mother,” © 2011, Jennifer Badding. All rights reserved. Reprinted by Guardianangelstore.com with permission. Requests to reprint the essay included in the above article may be sent to the copyright owner via Guardianangelstore.com. Requests may be sent via email to info.guardianangelstore.com."