From: nyikos@math.scarolina.edu (Peter Nyikos)
Subject: The PAS of Nancyjo Mann, founder of WEBA (Part 1)
Keywords: the peace of total meaninglessness
Organization: USC  Department of Computer Science
Date: 27 Jan 93 13:51:28 GMT

The following excerpts from the foreword to _Aborted Women, Silent No
More_ detail one of the most devastating cases of moral and psychological
disintegration I have ever encountered.

I sent a copy of this foreword to Larry Margolis, who by his recent 
posts on this subject seems to have gathered the chaff from this
foreword and scattered the wheat to the winds.  In particular, he 
insinuates (and indirectly claims) that NancyJo Mann's post-abortion 
syndrome was not due to the abortion, but to other factors in her life.

I invite readers to judge for themselves how true this is, paying special
attention to the paragraph beginning with "Before that needle had entered
my abdomen...", the one beginning with "I became preoccupied with thoughts
of death, and the final one in this, Part 1 of a 2-part series.  Also take
note of the paragraph immediately following the revelation that she had
a hysterectomy at 22, "all because of that `safe and easy,' legal abortion.

If Larry is skeptical about the contents of these paragraphs, I urge him
to write to NancyJo Mann and, if she deigns to answer him, to ponder the 
meaning of his life.

Rows of dots indicate breaks in the original account.  This post is
long enough as it is.

			*****************

	After the (amniotic) fluid was withdrawn, he injected 200 cc's of the
saline solution--half a pint of concentrated salt solution.  From then
on it was terrible.  My baby began thrashing about--it was like a 
regular boxing match in there.  She was in pain.  The saline was burning
her skin, her eyes, her throat.  It was choking her, making her sick.
She was in agony trying to escape.  She was scared and confused at how her
wonderful little home had suddenly been turned into a death trap.

	For some reason it had never entered my mind that with an abortion
she would have to die.  I had never wanted my baby to die; I only wanted
to get rid of my "problem". But it was too late to turn back now.  There
was no way to save her.  So instead I talked to her.  I tried to comfort
her.  I tried to ease her pain.  I told her I didn't want to do this to
her, but it was too late to stop it.  I didn't want her to die.  I 
begged her not to die.  I told her I was sorry, to forgive me, that I
was wrong, that I didn't want to kill her.

	For two hours I could feel her struggling inside me.  But then,
as suddenly as it began, she stopped.  Even today, I remember her very
last kick on my left side.  She had no strength left.  She gave up and
died. Despite my grief and guilt, I was relieved that her pain was 
finally over.  But I was never the same again.  The abortion killed not
only my daughter; it killed a part of me.
	
	Before the needle had entered my abdomen, I had liked myself.
Though I may have had my share of problems, I had seen myself as a 
basically good person....But when that needle entered my womb...when the
child I had abandoned suddenly began its struggle within me, I hated
myself.  It was that fast.  Every bit of self-esteem, every value I 
held dear, every hope of which I had ever dreamed--all were stripped away
by the poison of that one vain act.  Every memory of joy was now tainted
by the stench of death.
			.....................
	A little while after my baby stopped moving they gave me an
intravenous injection to help stimulate labor.  I was in hard labor
for twelve hours, all through the night.  When finally I delivered,
the nurses did not make it to my room on time...After I delivered her,
I held her in my hands.  I looked her over from top to bottom. She
had a head of hair, and her eyes were opening.  I looked at her
little tiny feet and hands.  Her fingers and toes even had little 
fingernails and swirls of fingerprints.  Everything was perfect.  She
was not a "fetus".  She was not a "product of conception". She was
a tiny human being.  The pathology report listed her as more than seven
inches from head to rump.  With her legs extended, she was over a foot
long.  She weighed a pound and a half, more than many of the premature
babies being saved in incubators in every hospital in the country.  But 
these vital statistics did not mention her most striking trait.  She
was my daughter.  Twisted with agony.  Silent and still. Dead.

	It seemed like I held her for ten minutes or more, but it
was probably only thirty seconds--because as soon as the nurses
came rushing in, they grabbed her from my hands and threw her--literally
threw her--into a bedpan and carried her away.

	To add insult to injury, after my daughter was taken away, they
brought another woman into the room to finish the last hour of her
labor.  But this woman wasn't having an abortion.  No, she had a 
beautiful, healthy baby boy.  No words can describe how rough that
was on me.
		....................................
	Three weeks after my abortion, I chose to be sterilized by 
tubal ligation.  I couldn't cope with the idea that I could ever possibly
kill again.  .......
	I became preoccupied with thoughts of death.  I fantasized about 
how I would die.  My baby had struggled for two hours.  I've tried to
imagine myself dying a similar kind of death.  If a pillow was put over
my face to suffocate me, I would struggle for a bit, but in less than
four minutes I would pass out.  But she had suffered for *two hours*.
Would I be so tormented?
	Four months after my abortion, the bleeding and infection were
still persistent.  Too ashamed to go to my own ob/gyn, I returned to
[the abortionist] and he performed a D&C to clean out the uterus.  He 
cut off my cervix and left the packing inside of me.  Three weeks later
I was grossly rotted out inside.  Several months later, at 22,
I was forced to undergo a total hysterectomy--all because of that
"safe and easy," legal abortion.
	
	By this time, I didn't care if I lived or died any more. ...Though
I had been shy as a teenager, now I forced myself to become bold and
aggressive. If I could only become tough and callous, I reasoned, I would
be protected from the hurt.  So I began to hang around the tough crowd, 
imitating their ways, taking on their attitudes.  What attracted me to them
was their destructiveness--their contempt for the world.  Soon I was
carrying guns and knives, and biking around with motorcycle gangs and
worse.  The people I ran with were out to destroy, steal, and maim,
and that is what I wanted to do to both others *and myself.*
	
	The desire to destroy is a double-edged weapon.  It is both
a sword of wrath and a ritual suicide knife of *hara-kiri*.  I hated
the world only as much as I hated myself.  By becoming destructive
I was able to release my growing hatred towards this world that
had abandoned me, abused me and exploited me.  At the same time,
by running outside of the law, by attacking others, I opened myself
up to attack.  I signaled the world that I was ready to be punished
and even killed...

	I tried to immerse myself in destruction.  I wanted to prove
to myself that destroying others didn't hurt.  After all, once you've
killed, you should be able to do anything.  By doing every conceivable
wrong, I hoped to strip myself of my conscience.  I hoped to destroy
all the values I had ever held.  If only I could prove to myself 
that everything was meaningless, including the innocent daughter
I had killed through abortion, then perhaps I could have the peace
of total meaninglessness.
			***********

[To be concluded tomorrow in Part 2.]

Peter Nyikos