
In 1973, when the Supreme Court legalized abortion with its Roe vs. Wade decision, I was a young nurse working in an operating room in Boston. There were no abortion clinics in Massachusetts at that time, since abortion had not previously been legal in that state, so the procedure known as a “D and E” — for dilatation and evacuation — would soon be performed at my hospital in the O.R. When this was announced to the nursing staff, I was horrified at the thought that I would be required to participate in abortions. I considered myself to be liberal and supportive of the women's movement, but abortion gave me pause.
This news was largely met with approval by my co-workers, who considered Roe vs. Wade to be a monumental victory for women's rights. The feminist movement was in full force in those days, and I knew I was in a minority of people who would object to abortion. I really did not want to be the one to have to say anything. Fortunately, there was a one nursing supervisor who was a Catholic who spoke up and took a stand for the rest of us. Catholic nurses would not be required to be involved in any abortions. This came as a huge relief to me because I loved my job and would have hated to leave it. And although I was not exactly the poster child for the good Catholic life at that time, I was glad to be able to hide behind my religion and not have to confront militant feminists.
One night, though, I was called into work for an emergency “D and C” (dilatation and curettage) on a woman who had had an abortion and was now hemorrhaging. This case presented no moral dilemma for me as there was no longer a living fetus and the woman could have bled to death. As the scrub nurse, I was collecting the bits of tissue that were being scraped out of the uterus to be sent to the pathology lab, as was required with any surgical procedure. I was not expecting to see anything recognizable on the surgical sponges and instruments when I suddenly came upon something solid; a bit of firm, white, waxy -looking substance. Upon closer inspection I was shocked to see that it was a tiny, perfectly formed right foot. So much for an unrecognizable clump of cells! I stared in amazement at the sight of such a tiny foot. It was like an exquisite, miniature sculpture with delicate curves, detailed bone structure, translucent skin, tiny toes, minuscule toenails. Its perfection, delicacy and beauty were so grotesquely incongruous with its position on a bloody surgical sponge lying in the palm of my hand. It broke my heart.
There are those who claim a fetus is not a person, but there is only one creature with a foot that looks just like that, just like my foot: It's called a human being. I started to wonder about the person who owned this foot. It certainly did not belong to the woman on the O.R. table; she already had two. This foot was not a part of her body, that she had a right to control, as abortion proponents would say. It must belong to someone else; to a separate and unique individual who had been denied the most basic of human rights, the right to life; to an infant who would never be held; to a little boy or little girl who would never kick a ball; to a baby who was dead now, who now belonged to God.
Thirty nine years ago I had the choice, as a Catholic nurse, not to participate in abortions where I worked. I don't know if I would have that option in today's frightening political climate of health care mandates. Thirty-nine years ago I was glad I didn't have to say anything about my position on abortion and I have been mostly silent ever since. Today I am speaking for the child whose foot I held in my hand. Abortion has killed too many of our most innocent, most vulnerable and most precious human beings. There are alternatives. Let's stop this!
-- Rita Sandberg Silverthorne
http://www.summitdaily.com/article/20120126/LETTER/120129876/1078&ParentProfile=1055