My Unknown Children
The pain—the pain that for months had consumed and disabled me—was in an instant completely gone. And despite the disfiguring surgery I had endured several years earlier, amazingly, I was whole again. And even though my veins had been pumped full of sedatives and painkillers, my senses were remarkably keen. I could smell the last lingering pine-scented wisps of disinfectant sponged early this morning across my hospital room floor mingled with the pleasant and familiar aroma of my husband Roger's after-shave. I could hear the faintest hum of medical monitors, and even my mother's all but silent whispering of the Hail Mary sounded incredibly distinct to my ears: "Now and at the hour of her death."
And, while it seemed that for an eternity I had seen a hospital room ceiling whenever I opened my eyes, now instead I was looking downward from some loftier perch. Roger was still pressing my hand against his chest. My son Michael, 14 and trying to be a man, stood with his back to my bed, his clenched fists stuffed into his pockets. He glared steadfastly out the window, attempting to hide his grief and to stifle his tears. My daughter Mary Jo sat in a chair at the foot of the bed. Silent tears streaked her cheeks. My poor darling was trembling. Though the recent decline in my already frail health was an indication that my passing would be eminent, and regardless of the bitter respite to prepare herself, I knew that at only 11 years old, she feared facing the future without her mother at her side. My mom, upon whispering the final "Amen" of her prayer, gently eased the lids closed over my blue, once animated eyes. So, this was death.
Without more than a moment to come to grips with my new state, I felt myself suddenly pulled away by some invisible force. Beams of white light, one brighter than the other, whirled around me like a cyclone. I completely lost my bearings. Which way was I facing? Where was the ground? Where was the sky? There was no horizon, no visible point of reference, just a whirlwind of light, and I, a powerless passenger whisked along on an unknown journey. And then, after what seemed to be only a few seconds, the beams of white light were interfused with rays of darkness, until only darkness remained and I stood somewhere in the midst of its seemingly infinite void.
After a moment of hesitation, I reached in front of me and then out to the sides only to hear the rustling of my robe, but I touched nothing. I carefully tested whatever surface I was standing upon and took a couple of steps forward, but nothing changed. I was about to turn around when I was startled by the Voice. As He spoke of my transgressions, starting from the time I was just a little girl, it was as though I could see each incident distinctly in my mind's eye, just as it had actually happened: coloring on a wall but blaming it on my little brother, cheating on a high school biology test, lying to mom and dad about my whereabouts and my companions, premarital sex, neglecting to go to Mass for months at a time, drunkenness in college, making frivolous purchases when I knew that Roger and I couldn't afford it, putting my own selfish desires before my children. It seemed an extensive, inexhaustible list of sins, and after each, I responded to the Voice: "Yes, Lord, I did that," or "Yes, My Jesus, that's exactly how it was," or "Yes, Lord, I knew when I did that, it was wrong."
Although I can't begin to guess how long it took, finally the Voice ceased and I continued to face the darkness. So, this was judgment. While in one sense it had been grueling, in another it really hadn't been so bad. While Christ had confronted me with my sins, He hadn't spoken a single unkind or condemning word to me. He didn't yell at me. And since He had not yet levied neither a sentence nor a reward upon me, I tried to cling to a sense of reluctant relief while attempting to quiet my dread. I certainly had not lived a perfect life, but I did usually manage to pull myself out of trouble and straighten up. I stopped the drinking and the drugs shortly after I was out of college. A couple of years into our marriage, I came to truly regret and repent my episodes of premarital sex, both with Roger and with the men I dated before him. After Michael was baptized, Roger and I began to attend Mass fairly regularly. Though I should have always been respectful to my parents, I did finally put aside my immature, rebellious pride and entered into a peaceful, even warm, relationship with mom and dad. I was always faithful to Roger, and despite occasional bouts of selfishness, I sincerely tried to be a good and generous mother. I must admit that I was very surprised that the Voice had not so much as reminded me of my use of birth control. Maybe the Catholic Church had been wrong after all. Maybe I'd felt guilty all those years for nothing.
Enduring the silent darkness, however, made me anxious, and once again I reached out ahead of me and tried to take a few steps. Turning around, I was surprised to see a young man standing before me, carefully studying me. In spite of the darkness, I could see him perfectly. No light appeared to shine on him, and he himself did not seem to be a source of light, but I could see him as distinctly as if he were standing outside on a summer afternoon. But he too was surrounded by the darkness.
He looked to be about 19 or 20 years old. He was tall and slender, and dressed somewhat formally, as though he were on his way to an important appointment. His brown hair was short and curly, and, except for his blue eyes, he seemed to be an almost perfect, though younger, carbon copy of Jake, the man to whom I had surrendered my virginity years ago. Jake and I had been together off and on until finally, with talk of marriage, we enjoyed a carefree, spirited love affair for close to a year, our irresponsibility and immorality obscured and hidden from the world (and our parents) thanks to birth control pills. The young man seemed very content just to look at me, so it was I who finally broke the silence. "Are you Jake?" I cautiously inquired.
"No," he responded thoughtfully, "Jake is my father."
"Then who are you?" I coaxed.
"I don't have a name," he answered. "You never gave me one."
We both paused. I was confused and didn't know what to say. Who was this young man and why had he come to me? Why should it have been up to me to give him a name? Finally he continued:
"You're very beautiful, Mother, just like I always knew you'd be."
I was stunned. "You must be mistaken, I'm not your mother." And in an attempt to rationalize my situation I added, "Jake and I didn't have any children together."
The young man looked saddened. "I have to go now. I just wanted to see you before you leave. Good-bye, Mother." He leaned forward and as he kissed me, it felt as though a warm breeze caressed my cheek. Then he disappeared instantly in a twinkling of light.
Before I leave? Where was I going? Where was I now? But I had no time to muse about my circumstances, for I noticed a very pretty teen-age girl standing just a few steps from me. I could see her just as clearly as I had seen the young man. She was wearing an attractive, modest dress and looked to be just a couple of years older than Michael. She scrutinized me a bit longer before walking closer to me. It was then that I noticed that she looked very much as I had when I was her age. It was I who spoke first: "Hello. Who are you?" She tilted her head and continued to gaze at me. "What is your name?" I asked.
"I am your daughter. I don't have a name, Mother. You didn't give me one. But I would have liked very much at least to have a name."
"There must be some mistake," I mumbled feeling threatened.
"Mistake? Mother, don't you know where you are? You've just spoken with Almighty God, Judge of all creation! There are no mistakes here," she countered impatiently seeming amazed at my ignorance. She hesitated a moment as if expecting me to offer some insightful response; then, in a more serious tone she added, "Mother, did you ever think of me? Did you ever miss me?"
"I really don't understand what is going on here," I answered. "I miscarried one child, but she would have been much younger than you. And I never had an abortion. I truly don't think you could be my daughter."
The girl looked frightfully hurt, as though someone had thrust a dagger into her side. "It's true then. The Others were right. I should have never come to see you. You never thought of me. You never loved me. You never even knew I existed! I just wanted to live, Mother. I just wanted to look up into your face, I wanted to feel the sunshine on my back, I wanted to smell flowers and to run through fields and to catch baby birds. I wanted to do good, generous things for other people. I was supposed to follow Christ; to walk in the footsteps of the Good Shepherd, but you never gave me a chance. I just wanted to live!" By now the girl had started to sob, and I was completely at a loss as to what to say or what to think. "Please," I implored, sensing that I should somehow believe this girl, "please explain how you could be my child. I never had an abortion."
"You had plenty of them!" the girl snapped. "They weren't surgical—they were silent! Silent, deadly abortions!"
Still confused, I reached out to comfort the girl, but the moment I touched her shoulder, she disappeared, just as the young man had. I stared dumbfounded into the darkness where she had just stood, and feeling more perplexed than ever, and alone, I grappled with the ever-swelling darkness of my confusion and my dread.
Scarcely had a second passed when I was startled by a faint rustling behind me. Turning, I was astonished to see a young girl, maybe seven or eight years old, holding an infant on each arm, one dressed in pink, the other in blue. Both nestled on her shoulders, and the three of them gazed at me intensely. The girl, clad in a yellow spring dress with flowers embroidered on a white collar, was strikingly beautiful. Her golden, curly tresses cascaded to her shoulders, her cheeks shone with a touch of rose, and her laughing blue eyes greeted me warmly. The girl was smiling at me. Astonished by her resemblance to Mary Jo at the same age, I knew I would not be able to deny her if she too claimed to be my offspring. And the babies were darling. Plump, bright-eyed, all but bald and with barely any eyebrows, they reminded me of how my own babies had looked.
I felt unexplainably moved—almost to the point of tears—at the sight of the three of them. They were so beautiful, and their silent, gentle stares seemed to beckon to me. As I took a few steps closer to them, I felt overcome by that ever-familiar sweet scent-the sweet fragrance of a baby after a bath. Resisting the overwhelming urge to scoop them into my arms, I dared approach no closer, lest my touch would cause the children to disappear.
The girl spoke: "Mommy, you're so pretty, just like I knew you would be!"
"Thank you," I barely managed to say struggling with a loss for words. "You're very pretty too." She called me "Mommy." Was she really mine? How could this be?
"These are your twins. The boy and the girl," she said indicating each with a turn of her head. "They don't have names."
Very suddenly and without even the slightest hint of forewarning, the baby boy pulled the thumb from his mouth, stretched his arms outward and lunged towards me. Instinctively I reached for him to prevent his falling, but the very moment my fingers touched him, he was gone. Then, just as quickly, the baby girl let out a cry and thrust herself toward me as well. I reached out to steady her, but the very moment my fingertips came upon her, in the blink of an eye she too disappeared.
The little girl in the spring dress appeared not the least perplexed by the sudden disappearance of the babies. "They've gone back to the Others," she announced matter-of-factly. We stared at each other in silence. I was more confused than ever. I'd been visited by a young man and a tearful teen girl both who claimed to be my children. The accusation of silent abortions—what was that? And now the little girl and the twins—all unknown to me. The little girl kept studying me—though so sweetly and serenely—waiting for me to speak. So finally, mustering up my courage, I managed to say, "I bet you don't have a name either."
Her smile broadened. "Oh, no, Mommy. You gave me a very beautiful name. My name is Rose. Do you remember me, Mommy? Did you ever think of me?"
"Rose!" My lips formed her name as though for the first time, savoring its very sound like a fine wine. "Rose!" I said again unable to contain my joy. "Oh, Rose darling, you're even more beautiful than I ever dreamed you'd be. Oh, yes, Rose, I remember you. I always remembered you. I thought of you often."
And, just like the memories I had seen while the Voice addressed me, I saw that morning again in my mind's eye, exactly as it had happened years earlier. I woke up that morning with severe cramping. Such cramps were unusual for me, and I hadn't been ill. Roger was already up; I could smell the coffee he was brewing for us in the kitchen. I staggered into the bathroom, concerned by the intensity of my pain. Then I felt that I had passed something—I was frightened when I saw that the toilet was full of blood, and I didn't know what to do, but I dipped my hand in anyway—and picked it up out of the bloody water. I rinsed it under the faucet to see what I had passed. And while I didn't even realize it, I had begun screaming, and Roger rushed into the bathroom only to find me standing there holding her— our perfectly formed little baby girl—stretched out over my hand.
Roger didn't say a word. He took the baby from me, then followed me into the other room where I stood paralyzed looking out the window. He came up behind me and put his arms around me as we both peered silently at the rose bush outside the bedroom window. I'd had absolutely no idea that I was even pregnant. I'd been taking the Pill and I hadn't missed any periods. I'd felt a little bloated for a few weeks, but I didn't know I was pregnant! All of these thoughts were going through my head, when finally my eyes pressed against the beautiful yellow blossoms just beyond me. "Her name is Rose," I tearfully proclaimed. "Her name is Rose."
Everything happened so quickly after that. Roger called in sick for both of us and took me to the doctor. After we returned home, Roger buried the baby for me—in the shade of the rose bush. I was allowed the customary six weeks for postpartum blues, and after that, life was business—as-usual. We never confronted one another with the question of whether or not the birth control pills had killed her. We just acted as though it had never happened. But it was just an act. It did happen. I was the mother of a dead baby.
And so I embarked upon a journey of silent suffering—of isolated loneliness. Though Roger and I never ever spoke of Rose again, I thought about her often. For the first few years, it was every day. How I wanted to hold her. And how my heart ached whenever I saw another mother with a baby in her arms. Every Christmas and every Easter after that, every family picnic and every child's birthday were somehow saddened for me. I missed my little Rose. What would she have been like? What color were her eyes? What did she like to play? And what did I miss out on? The hours of holding her in my arms? Her little hand on my cheek? Her sweet head resting on my breast? No, this was a sorrow better put behind me, but I never could. Now and then I would have a chance to speak to another woman who had miscarried, but I never mentioned my misgivings about the Pill. Roger and I never discussed having more children. We had long since decided that the two were all we could handle. And though inwardly I wanted another child, to replace the baby I had lost, I just kept on taking the Pill.
The girl was still standing smiling in front of me, her serenity still unshaken, and though at first I wasn't even conscious of it, I was still repeating her name, tenderly, like a caress: "Rose! My precious Rose! My darling Rose!" I couldn't help but acknowledge I was not the only one who had missed out because of the child's death. Rose had also missed out—missed out on life. "Rose," I asked her, "Do you ever wish that you had lived?"
"Yes, it would have been better to live," she calmly responded. "I know that the Father had something special in mind for me to do for Him, and I'll probably never even know what it was. It makes me sad that I never had a chance to even try to please Him. And, I would have liked very much to have seen Creation for myself: a mountain or a cave, or perhaps the ocean with a wide sandy beach. I wonder what wet sand between my toes would have felt like. Or sunshine on my face. And I wonder what it would have been like to hold a puppy—they sound like such wonderful creatures. But I try not to think about it, Mommy, because I am so very much more fortunate than most of the Others. I have a name, both of my parents held me—even though I was already dead, and I had a Christian burial. It's really so much to be grateful for."
"And who," I began with great caution, "who are the Others?"
"The Others," Rose continued still very matter-of-factly, "are the other babies killed by their mothers—thousands of them every day. The bigger babies are cut into pieces, or poisoned or burned with chemicals. But they are whole and well when they come to us, and we take care of them and help them to grow. And the little ones! The little ones are so tiny that I've held dozens of them all at once," she explained while at the same time forming a bowl with her hands and looking tenderly into it. "They are so precious and adorable. We take care of them and they grow up with us. Just like the Others took care of me when I arrived."
"And Rose," I asked trembling, not really wanting an answer, "please explain to me, I don't understand how their mothers could kill them."
"The mothers ask doctors to kill the bigger babies for them with abortions," she explained, not at all fazed by the gruesomeness of her topic. "Their bodies are discarded in the most terrible, hideous ways: put out with the trash, thrown into garbage disposals, or burnt to cinders in huge ovens. I'm so thankful you and dad gave me a Christian burial.
"The very tiny babies," she continued, "are killed by pills and shots, patches and other things that their mothers use so they won't have babies. But the mothers do have babies. The mothers become pregnant even though they don't want to. Usually the babies live inside their mommies for a few days, sometimes just a few hours, then their mothers flush them away down a toilet. It's horribly undignified. Most of the time the mothers don't even know their babies ever existed. They don't remember them or ever think about them. I'm very happy that you remember me!"
I thought to myself how close I had come to flushing Rose down the toilet. How terrible it would have been for her tiny body to be lost, forever drifting in a tomb of filthy, hideous sewage! While the horrid reality she had just described seemed not to diminish her serenity in the least, my stomach tensed with knots, a lump grew in my throat, and my heart wrenched. Though I knew that the last of my courage had scuttled away, I managed to ask her the one question I had fled from all those years: "Rose, did the pills I was taking cause you to die?"
"Yes, Mommy. The pills you took not to have any more babies killed me. You know, I think it is very odd that the very same pills killed you also. The same pills made you sick."
The cancer! The warnings I had heard but chosen to dismiss in the name of convenience and selfishness. The surgeries! How I grieved my disfigurement! How I struggled to still be a woman! No, the cancer tore not only at my flesh, but also at my marriage, my family, and even at my identity. And the same Pills that caused my suffering and death killed my Rose, my precious little Rose.
"I can't help but think that it would have been easier for you, Mommy, just to have more babies instead of being so sick. Wouldn't it have been easier, Mommy?" she asked without even the slightest suggestion of malice.
"Yes, my love," I managed to say through my sobs. "You're right. It would have been easier—and better—to have more children. I've done a terrible thing. You must think I'm horrid."
Rose said nothing, but just continued to smile sweetly.
"The others who came to see me today," I struggled to ask, "the young man, the teen girl and the twins—they're really my children, aren't they?" It seemed a ridiculous question, for I already knew the answer. Nonetheless, Rose confirmed my fears, nodding silently, still smiling.
"Are there any more?" I implored. "Do I have any more children that I don't know about?"
"Yes, Mommy. There are more."
"How many?" I queried, desperate.
"I don't like to count them," she said. "It makes me sad to know how many."
After a few moments of silence she suddenly pronounced, "I have to go now, Mommy. Good-bye." Before I could try to coax her to stay longer, my beautiful daughter Rose wrapped her arms around me, but when I tried to return her embrace, before my aching arms had fully encircled her, she was gone. And I knew I would never ever see her again.
A sadness I had never known permeated my whole being. I sank to my knees and began weeping bitterly. I understood now why Jesus had not condemned me for contracepting. He didn't need to. Instead he sent my own children, my own unknown children, to convict me. Silent, deadly abortions! Most of my life I had mocked the Catholic Church for her stance against birth control. I had been judgmental and arrogant. I never even bothered to ask why—why did the Church oppose contraception? And now it was surely too late for me.
Between my sobs I heard a faint whimpering. I looked up to see a toddler, about 2 or 3 years old, standing within my reach just in front of me. He was wearing denim overalls, a T-shirt and a baseball cap backwards on his head. He looked like Roger. He was pouting and his eyes were wet. His little upper lip began to quiver, and finally a large tear poured from his eye and rolled down his little plump cheek. Taking care not to touch him, I reached out my hand to catch that first tear. Others followed. Soon he reached his arms out to me and cried out, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" He rushed into my arms, but the moment I felt his little head on my shoulder, he disappeared, just as my other visitors had. My precious baby, my poor precious baby.
The passing moments lingered in torment. Slowly, I rose to my feet, and strained to see another face in the darkness. But no one came. I could not help but notice that the tear I still clutched in my hand seemed to undergo a change, and seemed to be traveling beneath my fingers, as though it had a will of its own. I opened my hand and peered at it. A faint glow—a small golden light—appeared at its center and shone dimly through the darkness. The tear, seemingly animated, rolled over my palm in slow circles. Gradually, the glow increased in intensity until suddenly bitter heat from the tear burned my hand. I dropped it, and instantly, flame began to consume the darkness!
A true contraceptive is a drug or device that prevents the conception of a child from happening at all. Most methods of birth control on the market today are not true contraceptives, but act as abortifacients instead. The IUD does not inhibit conception, but rather irritates the womb to such a degree that the already conceived child dies. Hormonal birth control: the Pill, Norplant, Depo Provera, the Patch, and similar methods, fail to prevent a woman's ovulation in up to 75% of cycles. A child may be conceived in any of these fertile cycles. These hormonal methods of birth control impoverish the lining of the womb to such a degree that the newly conceived baby is unable to implant in the uterine wall, and dies. Spermicides, designed to kill a man's seed, occasionally damage the sperm cells instead, leaving them defective. This can lead to the conception of a defective child. Frequently, such pregnancy will end early, in what appears to be a miscarriage, though it is actuality a chemically induced abortion. If an unborn child survives any of these deadly attacks on his life, he will beat risk of birth defects.
Mrs. Lisa Marie Contini, wife, mother of three children, and 11 year veteran of homeschooling, is a pro-life activist in her community and is a vocal opponent of classroom sex education. She addresses teens about abortion, chastity and family values. She has been a featured speaker at Call to Holiness conferences in Toronto. Her articles have appeared in various Catholic and pro-life publications. She operates Aletheia Press, featuring pamphlets faithful to Catholic teachings designed for teens and young adults about morality. She welcomes guests to her web site www.aletheiapress.com. Her last article in HPR appeared in October 2002.
This item 6080 digitally provided courtesy of CatholicCulture.org
