Abortion-War Casualty

Of course Bart was pro-choice—sort of. Like most people who suctioned a 10-week-old fetus out of a woman's womb or cut a 16-week-old fetus into five pieces so it could be extracted, my uncle had a nuanced view of the procedure, far, far removed from political rhetoric. He often referred to abortion as a "lesser of evils," meaning keeping the procedure safe, legal and affordable was better than the annual addition of a million more unwanted children to the U.S. population. But in his last speech Bart called abortion "the killing, at least, of potential life." Dr. Tiller must have thought so too. He offered his patients funerary services for aborted fetuses.

The death of a loved one is always the worst thing that can happen to a human being. But when someone dies before they've had the life you think was rightfully theirs—long, joyful, fully realized—well, it's not that you don't think you'll survive the wound, you just don't want to. You flail—if, like me, you have the luxury. Some in my family did not.

When Bart was killed, his wife, Lynne, had been a stay-at-home mom for 15 years. She was proud of her role. It was all she wanted to be—before and after. Because, however, economically she had to, she returned to the work of her young adulthood, nursing. But raising four children alone on that salary, sending them to college—well, it is impossible. She may soon have to give up her house.

Loss is long and canny, and murder, in particular, offers two new companions. Grief, and the most terrible knowledge. Anything can happen. My friends were shocked when children shot their schoolmates at Columbine High School and again when a posse of young men hijacked airplanes and flew them into New York's tallest buildings. But once someone you love dies while waiting for his soup to warm—or, I imagine, handing out church programs—you know that anything can happen. Aliens could land.

So, while pundits puff and activists argue, we trudge on. Of course, life is not without joy. Bart's oldest son graduated from law school; my mom—Bart's sister—has started a thriving retail business. I had a baby. But every day—every hour, really—longing seeps out of your heart. What would Bart make of his grown, handsome accomplished sons, my daughter, my sister's twins, my mom's store, of flat-screen TVs, of 9/11, President Obama, what I have written about him? On the really bad days, I try to sew up the hole. On better ones, I just miss him.

Robb is an author living in New York City.

© 2009