Abortion is horribly and terribly sad

By Dave Andrusko

The unceasing, relentless campaign waged by the New York Times against pro-lifers in general, pro-life President Trump in particular, shows no signs of waning. In fact it is picking up speed as the President continues to appoint judge and justices who understand the proper role of the judiciary.

That’s why when something that is not unambiguously pro-abortion sneaks its way into the pages of the most powerful newspaper in the world, it is worth mentioning. This particular example goes back several years but it is so almost unimaginably sad and such a profound indictments of abortion, it is timeless in its message and impact.

The author of “A Lost Child, but Not Mine” begins by explaining that the occasion was the third anniversary of her abortion. She had found out that her ex-boyfriend was having a baby with another woman. “It was none of my business,” she writes, “except I somehow convinced myself that his new baby was a replica of ours, and as such I felt a sense of ownership, of responsibility for the child’s well-being.”

That statement is not as bizarre as it seems on first reading. Even three years later, there is no evidence she had “gotten over”—in any sense—an abortion she really didn’t want on many levels. Indeed, her use of the word “ambivalence” does not do justice to her reluctance. But she had, as she writes, “ambitions.”

She wanted a baby “on my terms: happily married with enough money to live well. After college, after graduate school, after I had started a career. There was no fantasy in raising a child alone.” What about adoption? “In deciding against adoption, I blamed alcohol: the chance that I had already harmed the baby with my drinking.”

She convinced herself that she had left the abortion “emotionally unscathed.” But “soon I started drinking again, was arrested for drunken driving and was fired from three jobs for coming in slurring my words or for showing up late or not at all, while my boyfriend eventually disappeared into heroin. I waited for the countless rehabs to work their institutional magic on him, but they didn’t. Our relationship ended on good but sorrowful terms.”

Near the end of the piece we learn that she eventually called him, when his daughter was a year old. Why?

“I harbored a secret motive to find out if he dwelled on the loss as much as I did, so I asked him if he would meet me.” The mother of his child had vamoosed and he was struggling to raise the child they had given the same name that he and she had given to the child she had aborted: Jade.

He was in desperate straits—a drug addict living at home who periodically attempts suicide– and “I felt an urge to run to his parents’ home and cradle his baby in my arms, as if she were the responsibility I had shirked.” She ruefully enumerates all the advancements she had accrued but confesses, bitterly, “Meanwhile, he got Jade, yet he couldn’t take care of her. An overdosing jailbird father stared back at me, buttering crackers with a silver coffee spoon.”

In the three years since their meeting she fantasies about helping the little girl, “but reality has finally sunk in: the abortion is mine alone, just like Jade is his.”

I don’t have any profound way to end this, except to say that abortion is horrible and terribly sad. At the risk of stating the obvious, her abortion had left anything but “unscathed.”