Have any of you ever faced an executioner only to have your termination
called off? I have.
I'm reminded of it every year on the anniversary of my near death, when I
get a phone call from my mom . . .on my birthday.
Every year, on October 11th, at six in the morning the phone rings. Mom's
always a bit tearful, remembering the day I arrived, shocked with how
quickly the years have passed, and most importantly she tells me how much
she loves me. When I was a kid and asked where I came from, Mom would always
smile and tell me she ran a race to win me, and of course, since she came in
first I was the prize. She never told me that, in fact, we were both
running a race with death.
That story only came out at the fiftieth wedding anniversary party for my
parents. My sister and I were off in a corner sharing a bottle of wine,
reminiscing and I joked about Mom's old story about running the race. My
sister turned serious and spilled the real story of it all. Stunned, I
asked my parents if it was true.
I'll never forget the way they both looked at each other and smiled that
knowing smile that parents will always share, no matter how old their
children become. Their adult son, (who like all children will never quite
grow up in their eyes) was asking a question that they preferred he had
never found out about. It was a tough story to listen to.
There was suppose to have been a brother in my life who was never born, lost
the year before me due to a miscarriage. Mom was advised not to have any
more children but nevertheless, several months later I was on the way.
It was a tough pregnancy. (Strange to write that. There's one fuzzy
picture of Mom from that time, looking so very young, pretty, and hard to
believe that I am in that picture as well.)
Then the nightmare hit. Serious complications set in and suddenly the
doctor involved went to talk to my Dad.
The doctor said he could either save Mom, or save me, but he couldn't save
both of us. Then he tipped the scale even further. They weren't sure how
much oxygen I was getting. . . in other words I might be severely retarded
or die anyhow.
This wasn't some shoddily written movie, or cheap drama. They were asking
my Dad to approve what my generation now calls partial birth abortion.
Though back then it wasn't partial birth, I would, instead, have been
chopped into pieces and extracted.
It was legal then in only one extreme situation, a life and death decision
regarding the mother.
Both my parents chose me. Fortunately for Mom and me, a well known
specialist was brought in. It was a long fight but he saved both of us.
Mom would live, and so would I.
They made a choice for life and without hesitation wagered their marriage
and the life of my mother on the outcome. Dad quietly said that for them
there was no other choice.
A few of you out there might know me personally, but for most of you, I'm
just someone who writes a column.
Know that I have a life far beyond these words. Like you I live, breath,
laugh, and cry. I love and have been loved in return.
I've been touched by many lives, the first girl I kissed, a special teacher
who loved me like a son, the mother of my own child, and my daughter who is
such a daily delight.
In turn I've been told that I've touched others, the students I've worked
with, friends who call in times of trouble, readers who enjoy my books and
of course my family.
All of that would have been lost, never to be experienced and shared if my
parents had made the other choice.
It could be said by some that I never would have known the difference. I
would, of course have been dead, executed before I was born.
Try telling that to my parents.
I am awed by the power of life, the uniqueness of it, the sheer splendid
mystery of the fact that I exist. It is a gift, this life. On the night
I heard the real story about my birth date, the uniqueness of living was
shot into my soul.
I have wondered so often since how to ever say thank you. That is
impossible. . .and besides, they have never asked for my thanks. The mere
fact that I am alive, and take joy in living is all they ever wanted for me,
and dreamed about for me long before I was born. For them there was no
other choice but to give me that chance to live.
No other choice.
Today, even as you read this, someone is making that choice. They'll be
urged to make that decision with the disinformation that the child isn't
real, doesn't feel pain, and doesn't desire life. In fact, it will be
called "choice." Such a simple word, "choice," when placed into the
context of all that partial birth abortion implies.
Forty years hence, the victim of that choice, what would he or she have to
say about it? Will they thank the doctor who did it? Will they thank
him for all the love and laughter missed? Will they be thankful for a life
never lived?
Look into my eyes, into the eyes of someone whose parents made the decision
in my favor and tell me the answer.
Dr. William R. Forstchen is a professor of history at Montreat College and writes regularly for the Asheville (N.C.) Tribune where this column appeared.
