It all began in 1981, I was dating an incredible girl, and we planned to eventually marry. We had been together over a year, and we were crazy in love. Then one September day she approached me with tears in her eyes and told me she was pregnant. You could have knocked me over with a feather.
After the shock wore off, I suggested we get married and start our family. I was stunned when she refused. I tried to tell her she would love our baby so much, and most of all, that abortion is murder. She cried at me to stop, saying that she had made up her mind, it was her body, and this was the “easy” solution to her problem.
She also told me I was making a difficult decision harder by “preaching” to her. In retrospect, I didn’t preach nearly enough. If I had tried harder, she may not have gone through with it. I will always regret not fighting harder to save the life of our son.
When the day came to do the procedure, I was depressed, scared, and worried about my girlfriend. Upon entering the non-descript waiting room, I felt a dozen pairs of female eyes suspiciously evaluate me. The atmosphere was dark, dreadful, and depressing. The feeling of shame was palpable. Muted whispers and muffled sobs were heard in a far corner.
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