Mad

Imagine you're a writer. You consider a concept for a novel for years, and finally, one day decide you will write your book, your legacy to the world. You research how to be a good writer, and you begin your rough draft. You take advice from fellow writers, friends, and family so that your book is the best it can be. For months you hammer out your novel, all the while not realizing how committed you've become to it. You haven't slept well most nights, but guess what? An editor loves your book and wants to publish it! Your dream will be real to the world the way it is to you. The day of your book's release, you go to your local bookstore, sit in the parking lot, and wait for it to open. Friends and family wait outside with you, eager to see your creation. As painful as the writing process could be at times, at this moment, it was all worth it.

Your cell phone rings. Who could be calling you when everyone you know is in the parking lot? It's your editor. She says there's been a terrible mistake. Your book will not be sold today or any day. They were printed, bound, fully made--but, they will not be sold. From your car, you can see stacks of your books being repacked by clerks in the store.

How is this possible? No matter what your editor says, you know you made a book that was supposed to debut in the world today. "My mind, heart, and time was not spent on some imaginary book!" you rail at your editor. Regardless, your book never gets read by anyone. It never leaves the store. Later, some people even say you never really had a book. To you, though, the book was real from the first day you committed to it.

Where could I possibly be going with this?

The other day, I was was reading an article in People while I walked on the treadmill. Normally, Tim likes to edit any movies and books that may upset me as I've become slightly more sensitive lately. Alas, Tim was at work.

The article was about the 26,000 stillborn babies who are born every year (this doesn't include miscarriages and infant deaths). The mothers tried to describe what it was like delivering children who, for unknown reasons, died after being carried full-term. The idea of the crushing loss of holding a child that looks like you that will never go home with you was too much for me to understand. All of your mind, heart, and time that was dedicated to a dream is gone.

The most unacceptable part is this: the parents are handed a death certificate, but in most states, they can not receive a birth certificate. I didn't understand how this was logical, and neither did the couples in the story. One woman's experience clarified the problem. She called her local government office to get a birth certificate and was told, "You didn't have a baby. You had a fetus."

Now it was clear: couples around the nation, experiencing a deep personal loss, were not allowed the dignity they wanted because outsiders wanted to make it a political issue. The parents soon realized that the national issue of abortion and when Life begins took precedent over the personal grief that occurred in the delivery room.

I can't explain how mad I was. What people believe about abortion does not matter to a grieving couple and shouldn't even be addressed in this context. To the topic-pushers, I say this: you go too far. You're treading where no person has the right to go.

Someone once told me about pregnancy, "You become committed to the idea quickly." I didn't believe this at the time. Then I saw how the idea becomes a dream, the dream becomes a legacy, and the legacy is what you want to give to the world. When the dream is over, the least the world can do is acknowledge that this wonderful gift, this unique gift, will remain unopened.