I had an abortion when Roe v. Wade had just been made a law, and I was encouraged by the feminism movement that I could do it legally. I believed the lies they spread—that I would not suffer by having one and that the baby wasn't really a baby yet, just a blob of cells. I also was in an unstable relationship with the baby's father, and I was not sure that he would be there to help me raise our child. Plus, I was only 17 at the time and believed I would not be able to leave home if I had a baby. I had just graduated high school and wanted to get away because of my poor relationship with my dad. The doctor who performed the abortion did not want to do it. It was August 1972 when it happened, so Roe v. Wade was not actually in effect yet.  He was not kind to me. During the procedure he perforated my uterus, causing me to need surgery to repair the perforation. That wound nearly took away my ability to have more children. 

After the abortion, I had to stay in the hospital for a week to heal from the surgery, but I felt like I deserved it for killing my baby. I went into a deep depression, fueled by my parents’ lack of kindness toward me, especially my father, who wouldn't speak to me. I was so distressed that I considered killing myself in my family's bathtub by slitting my wrists. I couldn't bring myself to do it, so I moved out of the house and in with some friends. I got a job and tried to put it behind me, but I couldn't. It was a torment in my mind, heart, and soul every day. Finally, I went to California when I turned 18 to be with the baby's father.

A year later, we married, and God blessed us with two sons before I had my tubes tied, because I had difficulty carrying them to term. They are grown now and, with their wives, have given us four beautiful granddaughters. I am so grateful that I was able to bear my sons. They have been the joy of my life.