A Prayer for a Baby She Let Go

The morality and psychological consequences of abortion are a complex and impassioned subject. There are probably as many stories as there are women who have either had abortions, or chosen to forgo them and keep their babies. There is, however another dimension. It’s a choice that is rarely made now, not only because there are other alternatives, but because it is the most painful choice of all.

Almost 24 years ago, I was a young, unmarried, pregnant woman. The father was a student, and I was working at my first job after college. Abortion? Yes, if you had money or connections. The simple procedure, which is now easily and cheaply available, was $600 in 1964 dollars (probably a cool three grand in today’s currency). By the time we collected the money, it was too late. I was three months pregnant.

Played the Rebel

If it were 1989, perhaps I could have told my mother. By now, her opinions, if not her emotions about sexuality, have changed. But then, “A girl was like a clean, white, dress,” and, as much as I played the rebel, I could not face the censure, the disgust or the disappointment. Friends? Those who were sexually active feared that my condition would alarm their parents, and those who weren’t . . . .

Today, of course, young people know more. But no matter how we teach them about sexuality and morality, strong emotions and physical need often overcome resolve and logic. When the unthinkable happens, and an unplanned pregnancy results, there is an overwhelming sense of failure and a feeling of defeat that is so pervasive that even now, it hurts to remember.

I was lucky, since the father wanted to marry me, and I was so relieved that I didn’t mind the hurried little wedding with two strangers pressed into service as witnesses. Before the ceremony, though, my bridegroom came up with a solution. “We’ll still get married, of course,” he said, “but later, we can have it adopted.”

I was horrified. I’d be married! I didn’t have to give up my child! Shortly, though, I realized that this was not a mere suggestion. My husband wasn’t ready to be a father. I’d have to fight tooth and nail to keep this infant, and risk being left to raise it alone.

Parents Appalled

My parents were also appalled. It was unthinkable, immoral, to give your own child up for adoption. But, as time went on, I understood their relief. They would not have to face family and friends, embarrassed at my pregnancy. To them, my condition was a mark of their failure as parents. If I gave up the baby, no one would ever know. Secrecy, though, has its price, and I remember, with sorrow, the family funeral I could not attend because I was ashamed of being so obviously pregnant.

Eventually, I felt as trapped and victimized as my husband did. I no longer had doubts. I hated my body and the baby inside. Sometimes, I stared at myself in the mirror for what seemed like hours, talking to “it,” wondering why this “thing” had invaded me. It would be braver and nobler to overcome those feelings, but then, I was just scared and insecure. I lived for the day I would get rid of that baby, and begin my life again.

The time came, and she was born quickly. I did not want to see her, touch her, or name her, but the adoption counselors convinced me that I must. I called her Susan Janette, after two women who remained my friends. I looked at her, held her in my arms, and fed her. Five days later, I walked out of the hospital without her.

Baby Adopted

After two months, my husband and I signed the papers, relinquishing Susan Janette to a childless middle-class couple who would give her a new name and a new life. We became a nice, professional family, with the usual life style, the predictable hopes, the acceptable dreams. The previous year was only a bad dream. Nothing had happened.

And yet, some things will not stay buried. Years later, my husband and I divorced. Then a loving friend found a son he’d lost track of for many years. Sharing his guilt and confusion opened my old scar. Regret and despair flooded me in tears I could not stop and grief I could not name. I needed to confront it again, to take it out, examine it, and remember what I felt.

Finally, with a lot of help and love, I forgave myself for being who I was in 1964. I was not evil, but unsure--not unloving, but unloved. I was a perpetrator, but I was also a victim, of the times and of the roles women were expected to play.

And what of Susan Janette? Perhaps one day, I’ll meet her. But now, I must believe that, however selfish my motives, she has a better life than we could have given her, a life so full that she has no need to find the parents that gave her up 24 years ago. I hope that Susan Janette, whatever her name, wherever she lives, has the confidence and courage to accept her femaleness. Above all, I pray that Susan Janette never has to make the same choice.