Read this op-ed in the LA Times and tell me this isn’t the coldest, most emotionless thing you’ve read in a good while:
My wife and I just had an abortion. Two, actually. We walked into a doctor’s office in downtown Los Angeles with four thriving fetuses Ã¢â‚¬â€ two girls and two boys Ã¢â‚¬â€ and walked out an hour later with just the girls, whom we will name, if we’re lucky enough to keep them, Rosalind and Vivian. Rosalind is my mother’s name.
We didn’t want to. We didn’t mean to. We didn’t do anything wrong, which is to say, we did everything right. Four years ago, when Tina and I set out on this journey to have children, such a circumstance was unimaginable. And yet there I was, holding her hand, watching the ultrasound as a needle with potassium chloride found its mark, stopping the heart of one male fetus, then the other, hidden in my wife’s suffering belly.
Keep in mind that this is a man who just watched two of his sons being killed, but what made him cry? When the Supreme Court upheld the partial birth abortion ban. Something’s wrong.
This is such a clinical description that it sounds as if it’s either a planted story, or the father who wrote it is a total cyborg. The Terminator was more feeling than this guy.
Can’t have kids? Get fertilized, pick which ones you want, and slaughter the rest. Thank God for this “right.”
The problem with the perpetuation of this “right” is that, eventually, guess what? — You’re the “unwanted one.” It’s only a matter of time.