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People always ask me what it was like to work inside an abortion business. They want to know what the atmosphere was like. Was it a sad place? Did people walk around with tears in their eyes? Was it a somber environment? Was it quiet?

It was not a sad place. Why would it be? We didn’t think we were doing anything wrong. We didn’t see that there was anything to be sad about. We joked around with the patients. We enjoyed our work. We talked to them about their weekend plans while the doctor performed their abortion. It was a loud place. A place of laughter, conversation, and a false sense of joy.

Our patients would form a camaraderie of sorts in the waiting rooms. They would share stories about their families, their jobs, school, and yes, their previous abortions. They would reassure our first-time patients. They would pray together. They would share videos on the Internet. They were bonded by their similar experiences.

“Women’s reproductive rights.” The right to be violated. The right to be abused. The right to be taken advantage of. The right to be used.

You could hear laughter and cheerful voices in every room. Well, every room but one. The recovery room was silent. There was no noise except for muffled cries and the pump of a blood pressure cuff. The camaraderie that was once alive was no longer present. Every woman was on her own. Laughter had faded. Their faces were stained with tears. Reality had set in. They were faced with the fact that where there had once been life, there was now emptiness…in their wombs and in their hearts.

Once they were in our recovery room, they had twenty minutes to pull themselves together. They needed to use that time to justify why their abortion was acceptable. They had to convince themselves that it wasn’t a baby. Twenty minutes to make their abortion acceptable in their minds and hearts. Twenty minutes to forget. Twenty minutes to stuff their feelings of regret and sadness deep inside their soul.

After their twenty minutes were up, we would give them a package of crackers and a small cup of apple juice. We would hand them a brown paper bag that included antibiotics for potential infection, condoms they wouldn’t use, a pack of birth control pills that we knew they wouldn’t take, and a sheet of paper that instructed them to go to the hospital if they had any serious complications.

We would also give them a “survey” so they could score the “service” they received from us that day. We would watch them slowly walk out. They would walk out to their boyfriends, husbands, or friends a changed person. There were no more smiles. No conversation. No hugs. No sense of relief. They walked in as strong women, but they walked out broken.

There was no follow-up from us. We had done our job. We had collected their money. Whatever happened to them after they left our parking lot was of no consequence to us. We prided ourselves on being a savior to these women. We were problem-solvers. And with a little luck, we would see them again. They wouldn’t have “learned their lesson.” They would need our “help” again. And we would be there, arms and cash drawers open and ready.

“Women’s reproductive rights.” The right to be violated. The right to be abused. The right to be taken advantage of. The right to be used. There is no choice in abortion. A woman’s freedom of choice is removed as soon as she walks in that abortion facility. She becomes a number, a statistic, a line item on a budget sheet.

Equal rights for women. I agree with that concept. But we will never be free, we will never obtain equality until we stop letting ourselves become pawns of the abortion industry. Our freedom depends on our rejection of abortion.

I am a woman’s advocate. I stand against abortion.
[Nov 18, 2014, Abby Johnson, ]