I was 22 years old when I found myself pregnant in mid-January 1999. Raised in a very sheltered environment, I wasn’t allowed to make decisions on my own, even until I left home at 21. I had broken up with my boyfriend around Thanksgiving 1998 and got involved with another guy, who I believed genuinely wanted to be with me. So, when I discovered I was pregnant two months later, I assumed the baby belonged to the most recent guy I was with.
When I told him about the pregnancy, I expected him to be happy and for us to start a future together as a family. But instead, he asked me to come over to his house to discuss things. When I arrived, he tried to persuade me to have an abortion. I told him no, that I didn’t want that. He used manipulation and blackmail, threatening to disappear if I kept the baby but promising to stay with me and start a family when the time was right if I aborted. He took me to the library to look at pictures of fetal development, but he showed me a picture of an egg sac, claiming that’s all it was—not a baby. He called the abortion clinic and talked to the staff, but they needed to speak with me, so he put me on the phone. He wouldn’t allow me to talk to the family I had been living with, fearing they would change my mind. We were both raised in conservative homes where abortion was considered wrong. I knew I didn’t want to go through with it, but I felt I had no choice. We couldn’t go to the clinic until the following day, so I began going through the motions, saying and doing what he wanted because that’s how I was raised—to do as I was told.
At the clinic, I told the staff I was eight weeks pregnant. They said I was twelve weeks. I insisted that wasn’t possible since I had only been with my boyfriend for eight weeks. They insisted I was twelve weeks, and I just let it slide. I didn’t stop to think that maybe this wasn’t his baby. In a counseling room, I was asked a series of questions, answering them all as he had rehearsed with me. The one question that stood out was, “Will you regret this decision in 20 years?” I thought, how would I know? But I answered, “No, I don’t think so. This baby is better off in Heaven.” I received a blank stare, like I had lost my mind. I’m not sure to this day why I said that, given that I had been convinced it was just an egg, not a baby.
I remember every detail of the abortion; it was very painful. The nurse held my hand tightly—now I think she was probably trying to hold me down. Afterwards, I was taken to a recovery room, given crackers and juice, and told to rest. I’m not sure how long I sat there until they discharged me and walked me out to an empty waiting room. He hadn’t even stayed to wait; he was sitting in the car. When I got in, he asked if I had gone through with it. I said yes. He told me he was scared and thought I had died in there.
When he left me that night, he said he would call me, but he didn’t. I tried calling him, but he ignored my calls. I eventually gave up and realized he had lied to me and simply didn’t want a baby. Months later, he finally called. We ended up getting back together and married at the end of 2000.
I went through months of emotional trauma, feeling like I was losing my mind. I couldn’t talk to anyone but him, and he always brushed it off, telling me to forget it. It was torture in my mind, and at that time, I didn’t understand why.
Six months into our marriage, I was pregnant with our firstborn. One day, while hanging wallpaper in my kitchen, an audible voice pierced the silence: “MAMA! I FORGIVE YOU!” I dropped the wallpaper and started sobbing. That began my journey to healing my abortion wound.
When I was pregnant with my second son, I started looking at timelines and fetal development. I realized that the baby I aborted was not my husband’s but could only have been my first boyfriend’s child. This opened a whole new level of grief and what-ifs and a flood of emotions.
In 2015, I was finally able to tell the real father of my baby, Galya Hope, what I had done. He was devastated and had many questions, but he was also compassionate towards my grief and forgiving. I didn’t feel I deserved his grace, or God’s grace or forgiveness.
Fast forward to 2023, I felt a strong calling to return to the abortion clinic where I was taken 24 years prior. I traveled 12 hours back to my home state to visit the clinic. I had found news articles about the doctor of that clinic. His family had discovered thousands of fetuses in his garage after he passed away, and I wondered if Galya was among them. I went to the clinic, sat in my car, and remembered and thought. When I pulled out to leave, I noticed The Chapel of Divine Mercy next door and pulled in front of it. Between it and the now-closed clinic was a white cross with a red heart that read, “In memory of aborted children.” That night, I read an article mentioning Serena Dyksen, who had gone to the same clinic and spoken at a memorial service for the babies. I reached out to her through Facebook, and she responded right away. We had a long conversation and then talked on the phone the following day as I traveled back to Kansas. Serena connected me with her ministry, She Found His Grace, and in January 2024, 25 years after the loss of my baby girl, I began abortion healing classes. Halfway through, I realized I was gaining so much peace and forgiveness. I was able to forgive my now ex-husband for his part and myself for not standing up for myself and using my voice.
God is so, so good! He doesn’t miss a thing that we go through. He is always present, always loving, and always there to pick us up when we fall. I thank Him for the men and women He is using to help all of us abortion-wounded mamas heal from this trauma we’ve been through.
Emily
Mama to Galya Hope, January 20, 1999
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