There are many aspects to be considered in the very short life of my child. When faced with the news of her condition, the doctors informed us that in order to have an abortion, we would have to fly to Kansas. Their explanation was that abortion wasn’t legal in NY at 36 weeks, but I later found out that abortion is in fact legal in all 50 states at any time before birth. However, there are only a handful of doctors willing to perform abortions that late in pregnancy. In addition, from a legal standpoint, there is supposed to be a valid reason for aborting a baby at 36 weeks, and fetal anomaly isn’t one of them. The catch phrase for abortion this late in pregnancy is “health of the mother” and includes mental health. The only problem is that my health, mental or physical, wasn’t in jeopardy. Moreover, I would venture to say that my mental health was essentially threatened after the abortion. Talk about irony!

One of the things that needed to be done once we retuned home was the burial. Our baby was cremated and her ashes were given to us. Much of what is done at the clinic is to make it appear that what is happening is normal. This is accomplished,in part, by taking pictures of the babies and making arrangements for burial. The problem is that what is happening is not normal at all. This made it ever more difficult to bury my child and grieve.

Even though I was engrossed in the lies, I still knew in my heart that what we did was wrong. I was embarrassed to have my family come to the cemetery to bury my baby. I felt like a hypocrite because after all, this was a choice that was made- our choice. How could others sympathize if this is what we seemingly wanted to do. It was all very bizarre. Even the simplest thing was shrouded in secrecy and lies. We had to have a friend who is a funeral director make arrangements with someone he knew at the cemetery because we weren’t sure we could bury our baby there. Apparently, the only way to bury her there was to have her buried with relatives. I tried to take comfort in that, but in my heart I resented the fact that she couldn’t have her own grave and headstone. Then, while making the arrangements, our friend made us the customary cards found at funeral homes. I was mortified by that. I know he was doing it out of love, but I didn’t think we deserved that because WE HAD KILLED OUR OWN BABY! It always led back to that fact in my mind and heart.

All of this culminated on the actual day of the burial. A trusted priest came to pray with us, as well as our family, including the young children in our family. I couldn’t deal with the emotions and feelings of guilt and shame. I became numb, much like the way I felt when we were told our precious baby was so sick. I didn’t cry or show any emotion. I just stood there watching. My husband, on the other hand, broke down. I couldn’t even help him. Our friend, the priest, consoled him and let my husband cry on his shoulder. I was absolutely without feeling. Looking back, I am horrified. I know that it was probably a defense mechanism. I just could not face what we did just yet, but at the same time, I was recognizing how unbelievable the situation was.

After leaving the cemetery, I invited all our family back to our house for coffee and bagels, another attempt at normalcy. They came, but I will never know what they thought. It is perverse if you ask me. But at the time this is what I needed to cope.I desperately needed to feel “normal”. I would soon find out that no matter how I tried to “feel”, nothing changed. My baby was dead because of me.

Burying my daughter was a shameful experience. It is so hard to grieve for your child when you consciously chose to end her life. I felt dishonest. I perceived myself as a phony, a fake. There was a tape playing in my head that kept reminding me that I didn’t deserve the sympathy I was getting. So many family members and friends sent us flowers and Mass cards. While I appreciated each and every kind gesture, I felt unworthy of such sentiments. I kept thinking, “Are these people crazy, I killedmy baby!” When I wasn’t chastising myself, I would try to allow all the good wishes and sentiments of others to legitimize what I had done. I could fool myself for a while, but not forever. I lived with that guilt and shame for a long while. Eventually I reached out to Jesus and He showered me with His mercy and forgiveness. I became open to the truth and the Lord carried me for awhile and now He walks beside me on this journey of healing. I know I will be fully healed but not without a permanent scar. I am so grateful to God for allowing me to finally see the gravity of what I did. He wasn’t ashamed of me- He loved me and offered His forgiveness, and He assured me of my daughter’s forgiveness and love. YD