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*Editor’s Note: Elephant Journal articles represent the personal views of the authors, and can not possibly reflect Elephant Journal as a whole. Disagree with an Op-Ed or opinion? We’re happy to share your experience here.
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*Editor’s Note: the story below is fiction.
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“Stop abortion; it’s murder.”
“Abortion is a sin.”
“If women simply kept their legs shut, there would be no need for abortions.”
“Abortion should not be used as a form of contraception.”
“Pro-life. Pro-life. Pro-life.”
And the raging abortion war continues. I’m not going to bore you with facts, because facts are available to everyone, but they are continually ignored by the closed-minded. The self-righteous. The dictators. The discriminators.
It doesn’t matter that the United States has over 400,000 kids in the foster care system. It doesn’t matter that there are millions living below the poverty line. It doesn’t matter that some kids are born to addicts, into abuse and dysfunction. It doesn’t matter that some kids never, ever feel loved or wanted. It doesn’t matter that the gun deaths among U.S. kids rose 50 percent in just two years. It doesn’t matter that these kids growing up in poverty, toxicity, neglect, and abuse repeat the cycles and patterns, harming future kids.
It doesn’t matter if the pregnant woman is healthy. Whether she has the physical, mental, or emotional capacity to care for a child. It doesn’t matter whether she’s in a safe relationship. It doesn’t matter if she has the financial means to raise a child, meeting all their needs. It doesn’t matter whether she has support. Whether the child will be raised in a safe environment. How the woman became pregnant.
No. None of this matters because the radical pro-lifers don’t actually give a flying f*ck about life. They only care about winning and taking away the autonomy of choice. So steeped in their own beliefs, they don’t have the emotional or cognitive ability to see the shades of grey. They don’t see that they get to make whatever choices for themselves, but they have no right, absolutely none, in projecting their beliefs and choices onto others.
But, like I said, facts are irrelevant in the part of society hellbent on controlling what women do with their bodies. So perhaps instead, I’ll share a story. The story itself is fictional, but it’s meant to demonstrate what could happen.
She was a happy kid. She loved school. She was sweet and kind. She saw the world through wide and curiously wondrous eyes. She was innocent, at that in-between stage of still playing with her dolls, when she was alone but also pushing for some independence.
She liked painted nails and pretty hair, but equally, she enjoyed some rough and tumble with her brother. She was eager to learn and eager to explore the world around her. She was 10, going on 11. A little girl with her life ahead of her.
A little girl who didn’t know the horror that lie ahead of her.
She didn’t live too far from her school but seldom walked home alone, as her parents usually picked her up, or her brother would come meet her. But today was one of those days she was walking home. As she walked home, she daydreamed about things 10-year-old girls daydream about. She was only a couple of minutes away from home when the man approached her.
She knew about stranger danger, but this man was really friendly and he had a dog. She loved dogs. She had also seen this man before at the local shops and he always said hello, so he wasn’t really a stranger. And she was pretty sure he had a kid or was friends with people she knew, because she had seen him at her brother’s baseball games.
His dog’s name was Bob and she thought that was funny because she had an uncle named Bob. They were right near the park and the man told her Bob loved the park. She thought it would be okay to play with Bob when the man asked her. She would be able to tell her family all about Bob when she got home. They were standing near some trees and the man said he saw a ball over near the bathrooms, that if she could go and get it, she could play fetch with Bob.
She went to retrieve the ball and then she was in the bathroom. His hands were all over her. His breath hot and sticky on her neck. She was scared. He was pulling at her clothes. He was hurting her. She felt like she might vomit. He was not friendly and kind anymore. He looked angry. He was so much stronger than her. She was crying, but she couldn’t speak. He didn’t care. He pushed her down on the hard concrete and she hit the side of her head on the wall. She wet her pants. The pants he was ripping off. She closed her eyes so she didn’t have to see his face, but even with her eyes closed she saw him, and he looked like a monster. She felt immense pain, like she was being torn apart. He made groaning sounds. She sobbed.
He stood up abruptly. Pulled up his pants. She lay on the floor, like a broken little doll. Numb. Frozen in fear. He told her he would kill her family if she said anything. He told her to get up and clean herself up. To go home and remember their little secret. He said he knew where she lived. And then he was gone.
Weeks passed and she told nobody. Not a soul. Her parents asked why she was so quiet. Her brother wondered why she didn’t want to tumble and play with him. She retreated into herself. She always felt scared, but she kept the secret. One morning she started vomiting, so she stayed home from school. The next morning she vomited again. She went to the doctor. They said she had a virus and to rest. Every day that week she vomited. Her little belly looked bloated and all she wanted to do was sleep. She went to the doctor again. They did some tests. She was pregnant.
At not even 11 years of age, she was pregnant. Her period had only started a few months prior and it was not even regular. But she was pregnant. This little girl who daydreamed and believed in magic would never be the same.
The sordid story came out and the little girl felt so much shame. She was a baby having a baby. Her parents were pro-life. She was going to carry and give birth to this baby and they were going to raise it. They pulled her out of school and shrouded her in secrecy. She felt more shame. No consideration for her little body that was about to be put through far more than it was equipped for at that age. No consideration for her mental health and the horrendous trauma she was experiencing and would continue to experience. No consideration for anything other than their beliefs.
Interesting how pro-life is only for the unborn and not the living.
So the little girl carried the baby. The guilt. The shame. The pain. The horror of reliving that afternoon. Over. And. Over Again. She carried the burdens that someone her age should never carry. She carried it all. She grew bigger. More swollen. She was a shell of the energetic and happy little girl she once was.
And then one night, the pain ripped through her little body. Water gushed from between her legs. She screamed in agony. Her parents told her it would be okay. They told her she would soon have a baby brother or sister. She was so confused. Her innocence had been stolen. First by her rapist, and then by her parents. By the time she got to the hospital, both she and the baby were distressed. She was terrified. She could see the doctors and nurses running everywhere.
In the early hours of the morning, the little girl slipped away. Her little body exhausted and tormented. She had nothing left. A little body that was never designed to carry a child at such a tender age. A fragile wisp of a girl. A little angel that had hopes and dreams. A little girl that believed in magic. Gone. Forever gone. And her baby, the child that would be raised by her parents and become her sibling also slipped away. Died during delivery.
Two babies gone. Senseless.
There are always shades of grey. Always. And in the bloody mindedness of idealistic beliefs, a little girl died. She didn’t need to die. And not a whisper about the beliefs that caused her death. Not a whisper that her parents had inadvertently killed her because of their closed-minded ideology of saving a fetus. Putting their own child through so much, risking her life to bring a rapist’s child into the world.
When does the life of the living become a priority? Make it make sense.
Oh, you mean only the life of the unborn is protected, honoured, and cherished, not the life of the “incubator”?
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