The American Feminist

The American Feminist, Summer 1995

Choosing Life, Conferring Love

My older sister rescued me. She was an obstetrical nurse, and when a certain 16-year-old girl - tall, willowly, beautiful, feisty - came for prenatal care, determined to surrender her baby for adoption, my sister knew immediately that this baby was for me. Although the physician for whom she worked maintained a very long waiting list of couples desperate for a baby, my sister cajoled, pleaded, nagged and threatened until he agreed to move my husband and me to the head of the line.

I'll never forget the first time I saw Philip. He was 24 hours old, tiny, perfect, serene, beautiful. I was awash in the most powerful emotions I'd ever felt; I thought I would burst into flames. I fell in love so precipitately that I was left breathless, speechless, transfixed and transformed.

It was the power of this love that demanded that I become a pro-life activist. The precariousness of Philip's very existence was always on my mind.

When he was two years old, a controversy erupted at the local hospital about second-trimester abortions. The nurses refused to participate any longer because of the severe emotional strain of having to care for tiny aborted babies who had no chance of survival. The nurses described how wrenching it was for them to watch these tiny children gasp for breath, struggle for life, sometimes for hours, but always in futility.

I stood at the window and watched Philip marching resolutely across the lawn, his hair dazzling in the golden light of late afternoon sun. I was stunned by a crushing realization: The gasping, struggling baby - betrayed, abandoned, doomed - could have been Philip. At that moment, the abortion issue was redefined for me. I felt compelled to protect all children who could have been Philip, and to help their mothers find a better way.