Everyone wanted me to get an abortion… except me.They may admit it among themselves, but most of them still don't want others to see the truth. I heard about an incident that took place in Fredericton a couple weeks ago: One of those volunteers at the abortion mill, who escort women from their cars straight to the facility doors, making sure they don't waste any time talking to the sidewalk counselors, became so upset about a pro-life sign picturing an 8-week unborn baby, that she kept placing herself in front of the lady who was holding it, so that the sign wouldn't be visible from the sidewalk. Obviously, not every abortion mill worker (or volunteer) has the courage to admit that abortion is there to end a life.
Two days later, on January 6, 1989, at 9 1/2 weeks gestation, I had an abortion. It nearly killed me. No, not the surgical procedure, the psychological aftermath. I attempted suicide three times after my abortion and finally ended up in an adolescent psychiatric ward of a community hospital for a month to recover.
I was coerced into having an abortion and thought that by becoming a counselor at an abortion clinic, I could help others like me really talk out their feelings on the issue, truly explore their options, and help them make an honest, informed decision–or help them leave an abusive situation.
Working in the autoclave room was never, ever easy. I saw my lost child in every jar of aborted baby parts. One night after working autoclave my nightmares about dead babies were so gruesome and terrifying and intense I met with the clinic’s director to talk about my feelings.
She was very understanding, open and honest, and painfully forthright when she told me, “What we do here is end a life. Pure and simple. There is no disputing this fact. You need to be OK with this to work here.” After a few days rotated out of the autoclave room, I felt I was OK with this, and God help me, I went back.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
A former abortion clinic worker breaks her silence and speaks out for life: