The First Person I Saw Die
Today I was at Home—just like I was yesterday, just like I will be for eternity—on a hike with my friends. I rounded a blind corner in the path and, without looking up, stumbled into a woman coming the other direction. Startled, I looked up at her. She smiled and met my apology with her own. Her dark eyes and dark hair were pretty, and she had the strong features of someone from South Asia. I looked around and noticed my friends had suddenly slipped away. It was as if they knew I would not be joining them for a while. I asked the woman her name, and she replied, “Daughter.” My face must have shown confusion. “God named me. My parents never gave me a name. What’s your name?” I told her, adding a smirk. “It’s not as special as yours.” Her smile widened, and she looked distinctly surprised. “I’ve been wanting to meet you since I came Home.” I did not know how to respond. “Yeah? Well, here I am! When did you come Home?” I knew time has little meaning when you are at Home, but I asked anyway. “When you were twenty-two years old,” she said. “You saw me die.” I had seen plenty of people die in my career, but very few happened when I was that young. I tried to remember how old I was in medical school. She did not look familiar at all. Thinking I might have seen her in a hospital somewhere, I asked, “Did I know at the time that you were a Believer?” “No, my story is different—full of mystery that is astounding and appalling. You watched as I was thrown into a trash can a few months after I was conceived. I was the first person you ever saw aborted.” I noticed her eyes swelling with tears. The first time I had witnessed abortions was in rural India. I spent a year in India helping prove the value of women in community development. “Yours were the only eyes that watched me the whole way into the bucket full of needles and rags and bloody gauze. You watched me die in that bucket.” I quickly tried to sort out my memories. The Indian government sponsored abortion and sterilization clinics several times a year at the hospital where I lived. There were always dozens and dozens of women who came. I remember them lying on cardboard or blankets side by side on the floor, just a step outside the operating theater. They would be given some sort of sedative, and it always took a few people to help them stand and move into the theater when it was their turn. I remembered standing next to several doctors—contracted by the government for this purpose—who seemed to command the room. It was systematic: The Linacre Quarterly 83 (3) 2016, 242–245