I had been in an unbelievable amount of pain that day. Doubled over, rocking back and forth, shaking uncontrollably.
It had been two days since the procedure. Recovery was much worse than the first time.

Finally, I mustered up enough strength to get to the bathroom. I sat and screamed while in excruciating pain. The bleeding would not let up. The pain was relentless. Every pulsating stab was accompanied by streams of tears.

After several minutes I cleaned up, stood up, and felt the need to clean up some more. That’s when I saw them. I think they were fingers. There were three of them. Partly connected. So very tiny.

The doctor said there might be a slight chance part of the fetus would deliver this way.

He was right.

He also said I would feel better once it was all over.

He was wrong.

Twenty-seven years later…he is still wrong.

Yes, I know I am forgiven by a God who has showered more grace and mercy on me than I deserve. I have forgiven myself, too. But feel better? No.

This is one of the many realities of abortion.

 

 


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