This is not fantasy; indeed, it a large departure from not only my usual genre, but also my normal style of writing; but this style was necessary for this story. I feel very strongly about the subject in this short story. So, without further ado,
I am the survivor of an abortion. No, my mother did not try to abort me. So why do I say this? Here is why:
My mother moved in with her boyfriend at 16. High school was only half finished for her, and after that was college and the degree her parents wanted her to have. When she became pregnant, there was very little discussion about it: the baby had to go. She couldn’t be tied down with an infant or a toddler during the very years in which she had to get an education.
They went to an abortion clinic two weeks later, and that was that. She was now free. School went by; she got passing grades. A year and a half later, she became unexpectedly pregnant again. And, again, the baby was aborted. Not long afterwards, she broke up with her boyfriend, was accepted by a college, and for four years she worked at getting her degree.
After her graduation she moved in with a guy from college; a year later they were engaged, planning to be married a year after that. Then my mother again got pregnant. This time, there was not the excuse of education to dismiss this baby; but they had not paid off their house, and they were still paying off college debts. They could not afford to support anyone else yet.
For the third time, my mother went to an abortion clinic, and left it without a baby.
Time went on. The house was mostly paid off and they had made a good dent in their student loan debts because of well paying jobs, and both were ready to have a child at last.
The pregnancy was planned this time. Not long after the baby was conceived, my mother went to the hospital to have it checked out and the doctor noticed that the fetus had a problem: Down Syndrome. He suggested that it would be best to abort it.
My mother knew the routine. She went to the abortion clinic. They could not possibly afford to take care of a child who was not normal.
Some months later, she was again pregnant. When the baby was checked by the doctor it was pronounced “normal”, and so my mother went home and, four months after that, I was born.
I was healthy, at just under 9 pounds. Although I was the only child, they still looked on me as something of a nuisance. When I was two years old, my mother put me in daycare. At six, I was transferred to the elementary school across town.
At eight, I learned that my mother was going to have a baby. Things weren’t well between my parents; I heard them arguing every night.
Finally, things quieted down. No baby came. A year passed, and my father left us.
In high school, I found out that my mother had had five abortions, four of them before I was born.
All my life, babies had been brought to my attention like this: ‘a lot of work’, ‘an inconvenience’ ‘trying to the patience’ ‘they stink their diapers a lot’ ‘they’re always hungry’ ‘they scream and cry all the time’. Why, then, did my parents even have one baby? And how did that baby just happen to be me? Why wasn’t I one of those they aborted? I suppose it is because I was just a convenience, like a new chair or going to the hair salon. There was nothing special about me; if I had been one of the first four, then I would have been aborted.
It sets me to wondering if my parents really loved me. I heard my mother say more than once that she would be glad when I was finally at college so that she could do things she wanted. She said she couldn’t see how her mother put up with three. One was definitely more than a handful.
This is why I consider myself a survivor of an abortion. And, sometimes, I wonder what those five babies would have looked like.
But, after all, why would anyone want a baby in the first place?
Just another mouth to feed; just another person to crowd the world; just another rebellious teen-to-be; just another inconvenience.
And, now I’m seventeen. My boyfriend and I are planning on moving in together. I haven’t finished high school. College is on my list of things to do.
Babies look cute from a distance, but I’ve been taught well: why even have one that you aren’t going to love. That you are going to have when it’s convenient, if it doesn't have a problem. I’m not even going to bother with one. I’ll just live my life how I please and never be tied down by a child who will only make my life miserable, as I have apparently made my own mother’s life.
And even as they did not like to retain God in their knowledge, God gave them over…to do those things which are not convenient…being…without understanding, covenant-breakers, without natural affection, implacable, unmerciful.
Copyright September 2010
Please leave constructive criticism :)
This story won third place in the 13-17 age group of Mrs. Morecraft's Writing Contest. Happiness!
Here's the link to Mrs. Morecraft's blog: http://becky-gracenotes.blogspot.com/
And here's the link to the winners. Over 320 entries were sent in. Not sure how many were in my age group, but the runners-up are listed on the website.