Empty Arms

Many, many times in the past, I have found, that when female discussion groups get serious, one of the women in the circle will open up and share an experience about a lost child. Today, my sisterfriend and I agreed to share our letters to each other when faced with the subject of abortion. It was not an easy decision, but we want to help. If just one woman realizes that she is not alone, that it is OKAY to talk about it, to grieve, and to forgive the young girl she once was, if just one girl gains the courage to seek the help we could not find, if just ONE soul is born who otherwise might not have been ... we have lifted our own pain a little.

Abortion. A decision which, for the most part, will alter a woman's life, and a woman's soul. A decision which will weigh heavily for as long as she lives. Abortion. Not easily spoken of, but never forgotten, those little souls who have touched us so briefly, yet, so deeply, and for one reason or another, could not stay with us at the time, but whose memory will never fade. I have often wondered what would have happened, if that lonely and terrified girl I once was, had had the courage to face the world alone.... and I wrote:

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Will I ever forgive myself? Will I ever forget, and stop wishing I had had a choice? I doubt it. I came to terms with it, but my arms will forever ache for the child they could not hold ..... The process of being scared enough to take the 'easy' way out took several weeks for me. Everybody seemed to think it was the normal, the 'right and responsible' thing to do. What with being so young, in the middle of getting an education, alone (the father was so shell-shocked it was a wonder he could breathe during these weeks. All he could think of was it was the wrong time, we were too young, what would his parents say.. and maybe even scared he'd 'HAVE' to marry me, who knows? We had our own problems at the time). All I could think is I wanted our baby. Don't get me wrong, I was equally terrified and worried beyond reason, but that did not change my feelings.

Fate decided to throw in a few more stumbling blocks. Due to a medical accident at the dentist (something about a burst mercury filling) I got violently ill from mercury poisoning. I was better in a few days, and never even connected later problems with this poisoning. But soon it would show that it had very well made an impact on my body. After the first tests I was told to prepare for the 50/50 chance of having a child that would be deaf, blind, and mute. But even that was not enough to break my spirit. With more stubborn determination than real strength I refused to give up. Yet. I was admitted to the hospital, with what they suspected to be a tube pregnancy, because it was too early to really know, and I had not yet told them about the mercury. What did THEY know, anyway? And so I stoically waited things out until they could see the heartbeat on the ultrasound. Did I hope for a miracle? I don't know. Could I have known what hearing that sound and experiencing that unforgettable moment would do to me? The world would never be the same, the sound of the racing drum, so light, but yet so strong... I don't know, but in a way, a miracle is what I got. When I came back to the hospital room, the other 7 women in my room threw an impromptu party, giving all the tidbits they could find. All of them where in their 40s, having tried everything in the book to have a child, and not succeeded. They were in the hospital for one last chance, to have tubes cleaned, more tests, artificial whatchamacallit, you name it. To them, I was blessed. One little Korean woman brought me fresh lychees, the first I ever had (can I ever eat them again without remembering?), others brought whatever they could get their hands on... They were ecstatic that 'one of them' had succeeded. They could not care less how young I was, they did not know I conceived unplanned. They recognized the gift, and were happy for me, toasting with chamomille tea, dancing between the beds. They laughed and cried, because they had already been told what would finally break me: I was carrying twins.

Gobbling down peaches, chocolate, cheese, pickles, and anything else they passed my way, their enthusiasm was so contagious that I was happy for the first time, and began to hope. A short time, a short dream. The final results of all the tests came in the next morning, and they were devastating. The doctors more or less decided I had a 'medical indication'. A friendly term for termination of ... what? Unworthy life? But the picture they painted left me shaking and defeated. I gave in. Despite the fact that I first felt I could have handled one, two were too much to face. And still, the morning of the surgery, I fought for all I was worth.

Shortly before the surgery, already pumped full of tranquilizers, they put a baby in my room (well, these things happen on a gyn, after all, that's what most patients go there for). His happy gurgling kept me awake long after I should have been happily knocked out. And then, all of a sudden, the odds did not matter anymore. I was no longer afraid of the future. Drugged to the teeth, I rolled my unresponding body out of the bed and crawled out of the room, with just one thought in my muddled head, to get away. I did not get further than halfway down the hallway. The nurse who found me on the floor was very sweet, tried to calm me, and convinced I was merely terrified. I was, but not as she thought, of the procedure. I was terrified for the life of my child. For I suddenly knew how the 50/50 odds would turn out. One was meant to be alright, the other one would die. And I also knew beyond the shadow of a doubt it was my daughter who would live. But I was no longer capable of speech, and carried back to the bed. Still, my body kept on fighting even in the operating room. They thought they had put me under, but I was trying so hard, I refused to pass out. For years to come I would hear them talking again, and every time I closed my eyes, I would feel the knife again. My body might have been mute, but my spirit was wide awake the entire time. I cried for days afterwards, did not want to see anybody, could not feel anything besides the hollow emptiness inside me. Within only two, three days of becoming pregnant I had known I was. I had felt I was not alone, felt the. That spark was gone, and with it, a part of me. For the next 8 months, I would burst into tears every time I saw a diaper commercial, or anything even remotely connected with babies. My relationship with the father broke apart over my moodiness, as he just could not understand why I would not let it go (as it was over and done with, as far as he was concerned. He did his crying waiting for me to wake up), and I hated him for not suffering the loss with me. My spirit was broken.

At the time the birth would have occurred, I started hearing a baby cry. When my daughter would have been a toddler, I began seeing her. Mere glimpses at first, out of the corner of an eye, but with the years to come, gradually more and more, until her presence would fill my life. For years, I saw her grow, saw her become the long-haired little beauty I had always dreamed of, and wished for so fiercely. But yet, her presence filled me with sorrow, until, when she reached the age of 7, I let her go. I could no longer face her sad eyes. Sad for making me want to hold her so badly, and for having to stay, to make it bearable for me. As I came to understand that I was not truly living, and wasted the Mother's gift, I learned to forgive myself. I became accepting of the past, of what I had done. Accepting of the loss, and the pain. And as I let her go to be born again, I slowly began to heal myself.

And my sister Meridian answered my cry:

I've kept very quiet up until now, because this is an incredibly sensitive topic for me. To this day, 26 years later, I still become choked up, struggle with breathing, carry an intense guilt and regret. I know there is the great big hole in my soul that can never be filled. You see, our friend was right on the money when she said that some women never recover from the guilt of deciding to terminate a pregnancy. Some women go through a complete personality change and will carry those scars for the rest of their lives. I am one of those women. It was a major trauma in my life, and a major turning point. I was 16 and very much in love, complete heartfelt, unconditional, passionate love. I would have done anything for him, and still would. As you've probably gathered by now, the father of my child-to-be was my husband (then boyfriend). Yes, we were young, carefree, going to live forever, nothing will harm us, arrogant, and sometimes careless (obviously).

I began to feel very, very sick. All I did was sleep and throw up; day and night; night and day. I woke up one morning with cramps so bad, I thought I was going to die, so I went back to bed, and just stayed there. A few days later I burst into tears, for little or no apparent reason, and my mother confronted me. She asked me if I was pregnant, and I said I didn't know. She confirmed that there was the possibility, and when I said yes, she flipped. It wasn't pretty, believe me. When you've got 200+ pounds of uncontrollable anger, screaming, ranting and raving, coming across the room at you, it's pretty intimidating. That was the easy part. Then came the dodging of flying objects, and the endless ranting, escalating to screaming, day and night, on and on, endlessly.

When the doctor sent me for tests, I was a wreck. My blood pressure was way above normal, and I was borderline depressive. Gone was the sunny smile, and happy outlook on life. But it got worse. The blood collection nurse was very welcoming until she read what the test was for. I could see the abrupt change in her manners. When she tied off my arm and inserted the needle, she jabbed it into me like it was a knitting tool. I cried out loud, and she scolded me. For years afterwards just the thought of giving blood made me almost faint with anxiety. The specialist I was transferred to yelled at me, called me stupid, lectured me, and through up his hands in disgust. He then ordered me on to the table for an examination, and he was horribly rough (this was my first internal examination, all I knew was he was hurting me a lot). Now knowing the difference in technique, I'd like to go back and smack him.

Abortions weren't legal in Canada at the time; but in extenuating circumstances they would do them. After the case was presented to the Hospital Board and voted on by a panel of 12 people, I hoped I would be rejected, because I didn't really want one. I was pressured to the point of almost being forced, into having one. My mother turned on me, day and night she worked me over, but I refused and held strong. One by one, she turned everybody in the world who was important to me against me, until eventually, I had no one, but my boyfriend. He always supported me and loved me. However, the best he could offer, since my parents refused to provide consent for a marriage, was a live-in with his brother and his wife, who did nothing but fight; and I was then terrified of his brother - later I found out he was only a pussy cat! I wasn't informed of my options, I didn't know of any social support systems, and I felt alone and abandoned! I finally broke down in a moment of weakness and agreed, albeit reluctantly, but nevertheless, I did agree!

To this day, I wish I could have been stronger, and somehow resisted her and everyone else who turned on me. But, regretfully, I wasn't and I cannot change that, so I must live with it. The day of the surgery came, and I was violently ill all night. Mother was still screaming and ranting and raving. I just wanted to die. At the hospital, the nursing staff was cold, rough, abrupt, and horrible. I was heaving on the stretcher after the administration of the Anastasia, when a nurse came along, and looking down her haughty nose informed me that if I didn't want to be in this situation, then I shouldn't have had sex. Finally a doctor came and loosened the straps, because he was afraid I would choke to death.

After the surgery they put me into a recovery ward. I heard a voice, and it was a doctor talking to the woman in the bed next to mine. The drapes were open and I watched. He informed her that she had a healthy baby girl. He must have felt my eyes on him, because he looked over at me and stared for a moment, and I felt numb and in pain at the same time. I didn't realize I was sobbing. He walked away.

On my follow up visit with him he asked if there were any problems, and I told him I had breast milk. Shrugging, he said that shouldn't have happened, but offered no instructions as to care, etc. He wrote out a prescription for the pill. No counseling suggested; nothing. I suffered acute emotional trauma over this for at least two years. I tried suicide once, was almost successful, but somebody found me in time. The second time I faced that option, I believe the Goddess intervened and informed me that "I had no right to throw away the gift of my life". She made it pretty clear that she was not angry with me for the abortion, but for trying to end my own life. There was a garbled message years later, about some kind of karma, which made things a little easier for me, but there's still this great big hole.

It was a very long time before I was able to laugh again. To sing, to be happy, to be joyous and thankful. I turned inward, introverted, quiet, sensitive, forlorn, depressed. But I survived. I promised myself if I was ever faced with that situation again, or as a parent, I would never force a child to have an abortion. I would offer choices, options, but would always support their ultimate decision. I promised myself I would never turn on my children, would never try to control them, nor make their lives a misery, and make damned sure they had counseling before and after, if they were ever to take the option of terminating a pregnancy.

I didn't mean to ramble quite so much, but I thought you needed to know there is someone who knows what you feel, and what you continue to feel. That's me! I still get emotional around the time of the year the abortion was performed, and around the time of the year my son would have been born. The heartache I feel when I see a newborn baby, and how my empty arms ache. Every time I see his cousin who was born that same year, I'm reminded that my arms remained empty for another 7 years before I had my first daughter. Nonetheless, my arms still ache for him, my unborn son.

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We send to you, dear friends, much love, much empathy, and a shoulder to cry on should you ever need one (we never got that then and it damn well hurt! More than most people will ever know). It's very easy to sit in judgement of someone, but until the judges experience what we have, they'll never really know the feelings of pain, the agony of loss, and the endless pattern of guilt. If you too, are one whose arms feel empty, allow yourself to forgive. Let go of the anger, of the frustration, and the 'what-if's' . The past cannot be changed, but in learning the lesson and reaching out to others, we can make the experience valuable. It is time to give the scared girl a hug. The hug she needed so badly all those years ago. Tell her you understand. Tell her it's okay to feel the way she does, and okay what she had to do. Tell her you stand by her. But most of all? Tell her you love her.

With Love and Light, May Peace Be With You

Sorcy & Meridian

© Sorceress SummerWind, 1998-2006