Planned Parenthood, which operates the state’s only abortion clinic, appealed the law after it was passed in 2005. U.S. District Judge Karen Schreier temporarily prevented the law from going into effect, but the 8th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals in July 2008 overruled that order, and the state began enforcing the law. According to the AP/Journal, Schreier will decide during the hearing whether to grant motions for summary judgment and will consider Planned Parenthood’s request to stop the state from imposing sanctions over the law’s requirements.

Although I certainly understand that there are numerous issues wrapped up into this lawsuit, that are inherent in the abortion debate in general; the government’s role in relation to abortion, a woman’s right to choose, and a doctor’s role in performing an abortion, among the many others, most important in my mind is the concept of telling a woman that she is ENDING A HUMAN LIFE.

As the survivor of an unsuccessful abortion attempt, I must be honest in saying that I find it demeaning and disrespectful to me, the other survivors of abortion, and the 3,700 children killed each day in the U.S. alone by abortion, that so many in our culture still want to argue that we are either a) not a human life as an unborn child, or b) that it disempowers or attempts to control or manipulate women by telling them that.

I am well aware that many women are in compromising positions when they seek abortions; many are coerced by their partner, friend, or family into doing it; many feel like they aren’t ready to parent or can’t parent for some reason; many feel like there are no other real choices or resources available to them. Despite the issues that women are facing that drives them to seek an abortion, I don’t believe that it does women any justice to avoid being honest with them about the “procedure” that they are undertaking. Some argue that such laws as this South Dakota law solely seek to reduce abortions by telling women something that they already know, thereby manipulating them into having to listen to something that they shouldn’t—that they will be ending the life of their unborn child.

Although I believe that individuals and groups on either side of the abortion debate can sometimes do more harm than good, and can skew data and laws to support their stance, I believe that honesty with women about the procedure they will be undergoing and its effects on them and their unborn child IS the right thing to do. For any other medical procedure, it appears that we, as a culture of individuals, expect our medical professionals to tell us about the procedure, its’ effects on us, what our recovery will be like, etc. Why wouldn’t we expect the same from the professionals providing abortions? I certainly did not find it demeaning when my daughter’s doctors told us all about the MRSA that she was hospitalized with a couple weeks ago and all of the things that we needed to know about her recovery and how we would need to deal with this the rest of her life, day after day.  In all reality, I appreciated that they were honest with us, and that they took the time to truly talk with us one on one.

I just can’t imagine what it must have been like for my biological mother and for the other women like her who have sought abortions as they underwent the procedure.  I know that some women report feeling relieved by ending their pregnancy, but that feeling pales in comparison the pain, grief, anger, sadness that they experience.  I would only hope that the doctor working with them would be honest with them about what they are undertaking, what it’s effects on them will be physically, emotionally, spiritually.

We can argue all we want about the role of the government in creating and enforcing laws around abortion; we can argue all we want about the doctor’s role in performing an abortion, but in my opinion, stating to women that they are ending a human life is part of that discussion.  In my opinion, and from what I’ve experienced in my work, the underlying reason people have a problem with legislating that doctors tell a woman that abortion ends a life, or that they show a picture of an ultrasound, is that such practices bring to light the REALITY of abortion, to the women that are seeking them and to the rest of society.

I don’t believe that anyone out there truly believes abortion is the right thing to do, that abortion is the solution to the problems that women face, but I do believe that as a society, we have become very good at avoiding those things that most make us uncomfortable.  It is that very avoidance that prevent us from being honest with women seeking abortions, and even ourselves, about what abortion truly is, what it does, and it’s life-long impacts.  It’s that very avoidance that keeps us from telling it like it is:  abortion ends a human life.

Abortion was meant to end my life.  Abortion ends a human life—3,400 each and every day in the U.S. alone.

In observance of Independence Day, I, like many other fellow Americans, can’t help but reflect on these concepts of life and liberty.  And although I believe we owe a debt of gratitude to our service members for their commitment and dedication to fighting for and preserving our freedoms, I can’t help but focus on the reality that if it wasn’t for the basic right to LIFE, there would be no freedoms, there would be no armed forces, there would be no Independence Day.

But by the grace of God I was saved from the certain death of abortion.  Without God’s salvation, I would not be here to celebrate Independence Day.  Much like many veterans seem to honor and appreciate days like the 4th of July and the underlying principles that make it important, more than the general public, I, too, as the survivor of an unsuccessful saline infusion abortion have a different perspective on life, rights, and freedoms than many.  It is very easy, in my opinion, for others to say that it should be a woman’s choice whether to end the life of her unborn child, but if it would have been THEIR mother who had made the choice to end their life, then what would they think? Just as those who have never experienced having their freedoms restricted or oppressed can oftentimes take these freedoms for granted, those who have never experienced the reality of “choice” can take that for granted, also.

In observance of Independence Day, I want to honor the 3,400 unborn children whose lives are ended EACH and EVERY DAY in the U.S. alone.  By God’s love, I was saved from a similar fate.  I do not take this reality lightly; I believe that it is my life’s work to not only share the story of my survival and God’s strength with others, but to also pay respect to and advocate for  the tens of millions of children who have died from abortion.  This 4th of July, I encourage you to join me in honoring the servicemen and women who have so selflessly worked to protect our freedoms, and at the same time, honor the unborn children who will never have the right to life, of liberty or the pursuit of happiness.

I must say that I am both horribly shocked but at the same time, not terribly surprised, by this unfortunate story. When I was in high school and college myself, and now even when I visit high school and college campuses when I speak across the U.S., the incidence of young women inducing their own miscarriages was and is very commonplace. What makes this young woman’s story so unique is the length at which she was willing to go to have this miscarriage, and the subsequent response to it.

I am saddened that this young woman felt such obvious pressure to end her pregnancy, for fear of losing her boyfriend. Why is it that we punish this young woman for the poor choice that she made to place herself and her unborn child at risk, while her boyfriend, who influenced this decision, goes without any consequence? Unfortunately, this is also a very common circumstance in our world; out of fear of losing her family, her friends, her significant other, her job or education, many women feel like ending their pregnancy, despite their own feelings about their unborn child, about having an abortion, is the only choice available to them to meet their needs. All the while, the family, partner, friend, employer, whomever gave her the ultimatum, whomever backed her into a corner where she felt like abortion was the only choice, are not consequenced, are not even confronted by society for their actions or inactions to support the woman.

I don’t know for sure what drove my own mother to enter the hospital in August of 1977 to undergo the abortion attempt that was meant to take my life, but from what I’ve gathered so far from my biological father’s family, it may very well have been her father, my biological maternal grandfather, who influenced her to have the abortion. My biological parents had dated for four years before becoming pregnant with me and from all accounts, they were in love with one another. No one in my biological father’s family had any idea that my biological mother was ever pregnant with my father’s child. The only thing that they do recall is that one night back in 1977, my maternal grandfather called my biological father and told him to “never darken their doorstep again.” My biological parents broke up, and she was never seen with my father again. My grandfather, a school administrator, was known to be a very demanding, commanding, controlling individual, and from the sounds of it, my mother’s life was not off limits to his control.

It’s interesting isn’t it, how this young woman, not much younger than my mother was when she became pregnant with me, is being charged with felony to commit murder for this incident, which gratefully did not severely harm her or her baby, but yet my own biological mother, who went through a five-day attempt to end my life, was never consequenced or scrutinized for the very same “choice” she made to attempt to end her child’s life. Please know, by no means, do I believe that my mother should have faced criminal penalty for her choice to end my life, (her penalty has been to have to live with this for the rest of her life and ultimately face God someday), but I do want to point out the inconsistencies in our treatment of women and their so-called “choices”, and the often double standards that we impose.

I pray that this young woman comes out of this incident as best as she can, and that no matter what she chooses to do with her child, whether she keeps it, puts it up for adoption, that the baby is unharmed and is loved for who they are. I can relate to this young woman’s unborn child. I may have been unplanned by my biological mother, but I was far from being an unwanted child-just ask my adoptive parents.

Although Sunday night’s speech wasn’t the best one that I’ve ever given (somehow, Olivia always seems to pull a no-sleep night with me when I need sleep the most), that really did’t matter to me. What matters is that I once again touched other people’s lives by sharing my story with them, I helped to unite the pro-life community in Storm Lake, and my family was together for the first time in a very long time. Although, in recent years, my adoptive family has experienced its share of conflict, our love for each other, and the story of how abortion affected all of our lives ties us together.

Speaking one on one with audience members is always my favorite part of a speaking event, and tonight was no exception. I got a big hug from a man who was the vice principal of my high school, which meant a lot to me. There were also a large number of foster and adoptive parents present. I always enjoy hearing about the children they’ve loved and let into their homes and hearts.

On Monday morning, I shared my story with grades 5-12 at St. Mary’s schools, and to be honest, I was really nervous about it. Although I’ve spoken to high school students before, and have worked with younger students in the past, I had never shared my personal story about abortion with younger students. Thankfully, the time and effort that I put into creating my speech, coupled with God’s guidance, made this the best event that I have ever done. For those of you that speak publicly, you know what I’m talking about—you know, right there in the midst of what you are doing, that you are nailing your speech, that you are connected with your audience, and connected I was. In that sanctuary, I was more honest with those kids than I ever have been with anyone else (besides my husband and God). From how I found out about the abortion to what my pregnancy was like with my daughter, I bared my soul to the students and let them see, firsthand, how abortion affects the lives of individuals and communities.

I was so impressed with how attentive the students were throughout my speech (especially since it was an early Monday morning), how well-behaved they were, and how insightful their questions were. I truly believe that kids have a leg-up on us as adults; they are so pure and so true.

Participating in this event with the students reinforced in me that reaching out to younger kids is key in pro-life work. Although it’s important to reach out to those young adults who are most impacted by abortion (college students), it’s even more important to reach out to kids before they get to that point, when they are busy forming their beliefs, principles.

Following the event, I was blessed to meet a handful of the students involved in the schools’ pro-life student group. What an amazing group of young people! Many, themselves, are adopted, and could relate to my story about growing up as an adoptee. The pro-life student group gave me the most wonderful gifts I have received from any speech—a HUGE thank you card on butcher paper, and a beautiful cross.

We were additionally blessed to have media coverage of the day’s event from the Pilot Tribune. Olivia and I were photographed along with some of the students from the Pro-Life student group (there is a link on the media page if you are interested). Since that time, I have continued to hear great feedback from community members, family of students, and students themselves, about the event and how it impacted them and their perspective on abortion.

All in all, these two events in Storm Lake were a joy to do! Of course, I appreciate not having to jump on a plane and fly across the country to share my story, but even more so, I enjoy doing local events because this is not just my story, this is OUR story. The more I share my story, the more I’ve come to recognize that my story has affected tens of hundreds of people right here in my home community, and as I tell my story, it becomes the story of so many more. Thanks to all of you at St. Mary’s for your hospitality and your commitment to the pro-life movement!

It’s interesting, I have such incredibly mixed feelings about this. I strangely feel saddened by his death. I guess that’s the true pro-lifer in me. Although I obviously disagree with the decisions that Mr. Tiller made in his life and the things that he did, I don’t believe that any human being deserves to be gunned down and murdered.

I haven’t thought about the abortionist who performed my biological mother’s abortion for a long time, and Mr. Tiller’s death has me thinking about that doctor tonight. I wonder if that abortionist knew right away that I had lived, or if others stepped in to save me? I wonder if my survival had any impact, if any, on their decision to continue to perform abortions? I wonder, if they are still alive today, if they’ve seen any of my information and have any inkling that I am the child that they failed to kill?

When I was younger, I used to envision that the abortionist had a change of heart at the last minute, saw that I was alive, and was part of the group of people that saved my life. As I have gotten older, this little fantasy of mine seems incredibly far-fetched, but I guess I will never truly know about how the abortion came about and the abortionist who carried it out.

What I do know, in my heart, is that no matter what that abortionist did or did not do for me that fateful day in 1977, I forgive them for what they did; it is not my place to be their judge and jury and I will leave that in the hands of God. And what I also know is that despite their attempt to end my life, that abortionist, just like George Tiller, would not deserve to be gunned down and murdered. Although I can certainly understand the passion that drives some people to take things into their own hands, and end the destruction that someone is causing, it is so contradictory as a pro-lifer to take that offending person’s life. And unfortunately, it is such instances as George Tiller’s murder that often reflect poorly on the pro-life movement. Instead of focusing on the facts of abortion and the important testimonies of those that have been harmed by it, such as myself, pro-lifers often all get labeled as domestic terrorists, anti-choice misfits, and the like.

May Mr. Tiller rest in peace, although his name will live on in infamy, and may the pro-life movement not have its’ eye blackened by his murder.

The theme for the walk was “Love Never Fails.”  What a wonderful theme for today’s walk, and I couldn’t agree more! That’s what my life has truly been about—love and the power that unconditional love truly has.  God loved me and that’s how I survived that abortion attempt.  The nurses and doctors at the hospitals where I was treated after the abortion attempt loved me enough to provide me the life saving care I needed, nurture and nurse me back to health, and even name me so that I wasn’t just some nameless child.  My adoptive parents loved me despite the poor prognosis I was given for health and life.

I think many people are stunned to learn that I was able to come home to my adoptive parents two months after my survival of the abortion attempt.  But that’s the power of love-the love of God, the doctors and nurses and my adoptive parents—they sustained me and healed me from the sickness I suffered as a premature infant.  Likewise, I think that many people are surprised when they meet me and they discover that I am a normal, happy, healthy, successful adult.  I have suffered no physical, emotional, or mental disabilities, I have a Master’s degree, and from what people tell me, I am a talented writer and speaker.  That’s the power of love there, too.  My adoptive parents and their families, my friends, my community and school growing up, my employers, my church, all of those people have loved me at my best of times and worst of times, and supported me through my long search of finding my biological family and learning about myself.

I can’t help but think about my Olivia when I think about the power of love, of course.  I always thought that I knew what love was, but I didn’t fully understand the depths of that love until I had her.  The love that a mother has for her child is the deepest, most soulful love that must be out there in the world.  Every time I look at her, no matter what she is doing (naughty or not), it just hits me deep within my soul about how much I love her.   I love her for who she is and what she will become, and it’s my love for her that motivates me to continue to share my story with the world, to hopefully make it a better place for her.  I may not be the perfect mother, but I know that no matter what mistakes I make with raising Olivia, all will be well, because my love for her will make up for it.

Love never fails, and I am living proof of this.  Thank you to all of those people who have touched my life in one way or another and loved me!

Thankfully, I survived a potential lay-off from work this fiscal year, but I don’t know about next year. It’s looking pretty bad at this point, but there’s no use worrying about it right now.

I’ve recently ended my speaking arrangements with Feminists for Life, and although I will greatly miss working with them, I have gained friends for life, will remain a member, and support their cause throughout my life. I am excited about the opportunities that “being on my own,” so to speak, gives me for branching out and continuing to share my story in many different contexts, especially faith-based areas. I have come to that point in my life where I just can’t not say things in my speeches about my spiritual beliefs and my gratefulness to God for saving my life, and I am grateful that I can share my story and my gratitude with the world.

I have finished the manuscript that I have written about surviving the abortion attempt, searching for and being reunited with my biological family, and finding myself in the process, and I hope to hear back soon from a literary author/speaker’s bureau about possible representation from them. Say a few prayers for me about this! This would fulfill my life long dream to really pursue full-time speaking and writing.

In case you haven’t seen it yet, my new website is up and running–thanks, John, for working on it. I love it! I need to post some more recent photos of all of us, but it’s a great update to what I had previously. On the website are some videos of interviews that I have done and some short speech clips, but we will continue to post additional speeches and interviews on YouTube. There’s this really amazing digital story posted on YouTube that’s about four minutes long, that a good friend of mine produced for me. I encourage you to check it out and share it with others. I think it’s a good example of how abortion truly affects peoples lives. As I outline on my website, “one decision, one single moment, can have such a detrimental impact on so many people, living and dead, born and yet to be conceived.”

It all started innocently enough one late evening in February of 2008. Progressively pregnant and increasingly more exhausted, I mindlessly surfed the Internet while I was watching TV in bed. Just like so many times before, I typed my biological father’s name into the Google search engine, curious to see if there were any new hits related to him. In the past six months, I had been lucky enough to find out, with the help of the Internet, that he was a computer programmer at an insurance firm and that his wife was a nurse at a local hospital. I had spent hours upon hours endlessly reading the multitude of posts that he made on professional computer programming sites, even though I had absolutely no idea what any of the things that he was referring to in his posts even meant. With the aid of the Internet, I even discovered that Elliot and his brother were connected with horse racing and training.

Looking back on it now, I was probably one of the lucky ones during my first 12 years of searching for biological family. My search may have not been easy, but I was blessed to not encounter any embarrassing family stories, significant criminal histories or even obituaries for members of either side of my immediate biological family when I began my search on the Internet. Little did I know that my fate would change that auspicious February evening.

Glancing down the list of 111 hits that were found for him, I couldn’t believe my eyes as they settled onto the third hit on the list. The Sioux City Journal, the local newspaper, had a recent article that pertained to him. On first glance, this was a very exciting new prospect for information. However, on second glance, sadness welled up in my throat with a lump, and hot tears stung my eyes. This was no ordinary news article that I had uncovered about my biological father, this was his obituary!

With a mixture of pride, anger, and deep sadness, I curled up under the warm, safe covers of the bed and blindly read through my tears about the life and death of the man that I had been searching for and waiting to hear from for so long.

Although the obituary provided me just a brief glimpse into the far too short fifty years of Elliot’s life, I read and re-read it over and over again, attempting to remember every piece of information by rote, tucking it away into the corners of both my memory and my heart.

I couldn’t help but be struck with sadness and disappointment that I was now learning more about Elliot in his death, than I had ever learned about him in his life. Learning that he participated in football and was a member of the National Honor Society in high school, that he had received an appointment to West Point Military Academy after high school, that he was an accomplished database administrator at a local insurance firm and an active member in the community personally and professionally as an adult; learning that he even donated his organs at the time of his death, the depth of my pride for this man that I had never met truly caught me by surprise.

Yet, mixed with this pride was a strong dose of anger; anger at him and at God that he had died before I ever had the opportunity to meet him, anger with him for living a life of fullness and happiness that did not bear any mark to the anguish that punctuated my arrival into this world.

Despite the overwhelming strength of both my pride and anger that evening, as I read of my biological father’s untimely death, the undercurrent of sadness swept through my heart and soul with a fierceness all its own. Deep down in my heart I knew, even in that brief moment of time, that it was not really anger that I felt towards my father and God, but great sadness that I had lost one of the few people that I had a biological connection to in this world. I had now lost any opportunity to one day meet him, learn about him, and even learn about myself through him.

Never again would I have to worry about accidentally running into him in the grocery store; never again would I anxiously arrive home from work to check the mail, wondering if today was the day that he had finally responded to my letter. Never, never, never…..my list of nevers could continue on and on.

Ever since I can remember, I knew that I was adopted. Like a badge of honor, I have carried that distinction with me throughout my life, proud to share with others that my parents found me so special that they invited me into their lives, their family. That pride of being an adopted child has not waned over the course of time. On the contrary, time and maturity have given me the opportunity to admire and respect my adoptive parents in ways that I never imagined were possible.

Being adopted, in and of itself, caused me little strife other than the normal teenage urge to question who I was, where I came from, and where it was that I might be going.  Fantasies of who my birth parents might be, of meeting them, of having them involved in my life, often filled my daydreams, as I progressed through adolescence.  Being the supportive parents that they were, my adoptive parents never once ridiculed or shamed me for my adolescent search for self and meaning, and the role that my birth family played in it.

Although I have always been aware that I am adopted, and I seemed to experience few, if any, issues, both in our family and in the world around me, as a result of this intimate knowledge, the tides of change blew in with adolescence.

It was during these formative years of my adolescent life that my world, as I knew it, crumbled at its’ very foundation, and a new concept of self emerged.  On a cool, crisp, autumn evening, a Friday to be exact, during my 8^th grade year, my sister, Tammy picked a fight with me, which was far from anything new at our house.  What was new, however, was that Tammy was a ballooning, hormonal, pregnant high school student at this time, and I was fast growing into a more confident, sarcastic teenager, myself.  Not only was I now able to physically protect myself from my sister (not just because she was pregnant, but because I was continuing to physically mature and had grown taller and more muscular than her), but I was also able to better handle her emotionally.  Prior to our fight that night, I felt incredibly confident that there was nothing that Tammy could say or do that could penetrate the thick skin that I had developed over the years to cope with her.

That fateful fall night, my sister landed not only her most explosive blow thus far in our young lives, but the most volatile.  To be honest, I can’t even remember what we were arguing about that night.  In the back of my mind, I am aware that we were engaged in battle about her pregnancy, and I will own the fact that I was likely goading her for being pregnant and still in high school, which I am now very ashamed of, now.  I may not remember what I said, but I do remember, however, the words that rolled off of her bitter tongue that night.  Her words initially filled me first with hilarity (once again, she was appearing to show her apparent ignorance), and later, upon reflection, dread.

“AT LEAST MY PARENTS WANTED ME,” she screamed at me into the living room from her spot in the middle of the brightly lit kitchen (There it is again, that single trademark attack that had been crafted years before).  As I spun around, laughing at the sheer foolishness of her statement, preparing to shout back a sharp-tongued, teenage retort, the seriousness of her face stopped me dead in my tracks.  “Just ask Mom tonight, you’ll see,” she ominously directed as she stormed out of the room.

Now, knowing Tammy, I took her foreboding with a grain of salt.  Yet, despite my doubt of her credibility, I couldn’t help but notice that there was something different about her this time, a slight amount of concern that she had exhibited towards me.  It was very unlike her to leave an argument as she did that evening, purposely avoiding an opportunity to go in for the kill, to verbally rip me apart at the seams of my soul.  That night, for probably the first time in my life, I took her advice, and waited up to speak with my mother.

Like most Friday nights, I was still awake when my mom returned home from work late.  As she sat down on the couch next to me that night, like so many nights before, I shared with her the mystifying conversation that I had with Tammy that evening.  The crushed look on my mother’s face, how it fell when I shared my story with her, confirmed to me that my sister was actually on to something big.

It was there, in the half-light of a lamp cutting through the darkness of the night, that my mom told me the painful reality of how I came into this world.  In her maternal protection of me, avoiding this conversation was something that had come quite easily to her, not that I blame her one bit.  In that brief moment of time, the world stopped spinning, and everything stood still.

“I just always thought that you knew,” she started.  “You were born so premature, you were so little…” Yes, I was born four months premature; yes I was just a little over two pounds when I came into this world.

Much like being adopted, I had seemingly always been aware that I had been born prematurely.  In fact, my prematurity was sewn into the fabric of my life.  “Mom, I don’t want to go to bed yet,” I can remember moaning as I slumped against the hallway wall by my bedroom one night when I was around six years of age.  “Missy, you know you need to go bed.  You were born premature, you need your sleep,” she answered back to me.  “Aw, man, you’re right,” I responded as I begrudgingly made my way to bed.  That memory makes me smile now, realizing how my mom was able to play me like a fiddle back then.  Back then, however, it seemed like an absolutely valid argument to me—you lose four months of sleep, you need to make up four months of sleep, right?!

“I don’t know how else to tell you this, so I need to just come out and say it.  Please know that we love you, and that we never meant to keep this from you.  There’s just no easy way to say it.”

Nothing could have prepared me for the words that came next; not an ounce of my being could have ever fathomed the great secret that the world around me had harbored the past 14 years of my life.  “Your mother had an abortion during her fifth month of pregnancy, and you survived it.”

All at once the wind was sucked out of my lungs and my stomach turned sour.  Tears streaming, cries racking my body, my mother consoled me that night, and our lives were forever changed.

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