I’ll try to keep a long story short.
I was eighteen
years old and engaged to the love of my life. I had big plans to breeze through
college, complete and publish my first novel, and continue on a glorious and
simple road to my throne as a successful author.
I was in
love, I was young, I was a dreamer, and I held the world in my hands.
One day, I
walked into my doctor’s office to get on birth control as an extra precaution. My love had sworn up and down that he
was sterile, but I figured that it was better to be safe than sorry.I can’t much recall the walk from my doctor’s office to my car; I just remember feeling like the journey was so impossibly long. I tried to keep my breathing steady, worrying that I would never make it to my vehicle in time before everyone watched me crumble. Before everyone shook their heads and clicked their tongues at me – the stupid, naïve girl who got herself pregnant.
Pregnant.
I sat against the hood of my car and I cried and cried. I let the panic rock me - because I deserved it. I remember touching my stomach and blinking away tears to get a better look, as if the thing that was inside of me might suddenly be visible now that I knew it was in there. As I drove to break the news to my not-so-sterile darling, I racked my brain for a solution. I had no clue what to do. I was only very certain that I was not ready for a child, I could not afford a child, and I had too many dreams and goals that would not wait for a child.
We discussed
our options and abortion was mentioned.
It seemed
that in that moment my heart, my brain, and every other part of me separated
itself from my conscious thoughts. Every piece of who I was stepped back and
held its breath.
Because I knew me.
Because I knew me.
Classroom
debates, heated arguments, and careful conversations about my firm stand
against the entire concept of abortion drifted through my mind.
But I knew what I wanted for myself.
One simple procedure. That’s all it would take. One simple procedure to resolve the problem and set me back on track to my dreams. I could continue life as a young, care-free, ambitious dreamer. I could keep my money for myself. I could live for myself and nobody else. I didn’t have to give my life away to a child. I didn’t have to sacrifice my body. I didn’t have to spend my hard-earned money on teeny, tiny baby shoes. Or pink ruffled dresses. Or mini baseball caps.
As I imagined all the things that I didn’t have to do, I began to wonder at all the things I would get to do. In an instant, I went from panicking, to wondering what my sweet baby would grow up to be. Would I have a girl or a boy? Would he be a gentlemen? Would she love ballet?
So many
believe that in those very early stages, it doesn’t really exactly technically
count as a literal, technical, real-ish life. That’s odd to me – especially now – because I
knew right then that there was an entirely separate life inside of me, just
waiting to be lived. There was a future. A personality, strengths, weaknesses,
likes, and dislikes. There was the first steps, the first day of school, the first sporting
event. The first win and the first loss. A first kiss. A first love. A first
heartbreak. There were dreams and goals and accomplishments just waiting to
take place.
But one simple
procedure. . .
That’s all
it would take to keep an entire life from being lived. One simple procedure
would take away the love, the trials, and the impact of one person. I knew
immediately that I did not have the right or the authority to make the decision
to prevent an entire future. Even more so, I knew that I could never keep my very own child from experiencing the
joys and thrills that this world and this life had to offer.
Mere seconds
had passed since abortion had been mentioned, but I resurfaced from my thoughts
as if I had already spent a lifetime with my sweet little baby. In just seconds, that life had already changed mine. . .
Months
later, Melody was born.
Life continued.
It wasn’t
easy – still isn’t! As I stepped into the world of a solo-parent, it became
even more difficult. Parenting is stressful and messy and wonderful and
unbelievably gratifying. Becoming a parent makes you grow up fast. It gives you
no choice but to learn and progress and build a life for you and your little
partner in crime. It makes you thank God every single day for giving you a
clear mind when you needed it most, those few years ago when you were crying
over an unexpected pregnancy.
As I watch
my little girl grow into a fireball of a toddler who loves tacos and cries over
broken crayons, I’m filled with more love than I ever was, I’m still so young,
and I’ve still got big dreams. As she wraps her tiny arms around me and I
squeeze her tight, I hold the world in my arms.
It will
never, ever matter when that fetus can be labeled as a life. What matters is that
it WILL be a life. That tiny being has the potential to grow into a beautiful
young woman and live out an entire lifetime, affecting every individual she
meets, whether her impact is large or small. Her existence could fill the air
with ideas and dreams and passion. One person could change our world if we only
let life continue, if we don’t put a halt to 60, 80, or even 100 years of
greatness.
I am and
forever will be eternally grateful for my daughter’s existence. She stomped
into my life and continues to teach me responsibility, hard
work, patience, and so much more. It
baffles me to no end that while thousands of couples wait desperately for an
adoption agency to grant them that same gift, our government is providing a way
for countless potential lives to be ended, instead of given.For as long as I live, I will always choose to let life continue. I hope that someday our entire country, our entire planet, will vote for the same. Let's cut the euphemism for an act that doesn't deserve one.
The opposite
of life
is not choice.
