Part Two: It’s okay to be scared. (I am too.)
We weren’t even supposed to be at Washington Surgi... we really weren't! And I found myself repeating that for months after. Fridays were for sidewalk outreach at the DC Planned Parenthood... not for Rescue and especially not for recovering the remains of 115 murdered babies.
But for some reason that I will never know, the DC Planned Parenthood was closed that day. Their busiest killing day and they were closed? The simplest details can change the course of a person's life. So because they were closed, we decided, "Why not Rescue at Surgi?" ... Why not indeed.
At this point, you know the story. I've shared the basics hundreds of times, so I want to specifically touch on a couple points I haven’t explored yet and how in all my years of living I had never been that scared in my life.
When Terrisa and I share the Justice For The Five story, we always gloss over a crucial moment right after I was given the box labeled “medical waste”. Why? Mostly because its embarrassing and shows a vulnerability I haven't been ready to share, but in the spirit of being honest about how I overcome fear I will tell you about it now.
When I started walking away with the box, I quickly realized two things: It was surprisingly heavy and it was making sloshing noises.
This induced immediate panic because I knew it meant bodies. I was holding a box filled with bodies.
So when we reached the street corner, the sound of Terrisa's panicked voice started to fade out over a sharp ringing in my ears. I was beyond terrified and my body was shaking. I ended up puking in a bush and screaming. It was that moment I realized I entered into a living nightmare.
To this day there's large chunk of that day my mind refuses to remember. I can only recall certain things I rewatched the videos. But the nightmares are persistent. There's one nightmare where the image of Christella and Harriet are superimposed, blending Harriet's one eye open with that same dull deadness as Christella had when I first met her.
And I think to myself this is what hell is like: not fire, not ice, but the unblinking gaze of a murdered baby.
Even writing this is painful but there is a moment that is important to share. After we had taken all 115 babies from the box, there was a silence and uncertainty on what to do next. Our emotions were raw and spirits broken over the uncomprehending violence we witnessed. The silence was broken when Terrisa said, "I finally get that bullshit you always say." I was shocked and looked at her, then to the babies, and then quickly back at her to continue. Then she reminded me of the words of Dr. Monica Miller I always quote, "It's not how many babies were saved. It's how many were loved."
These children, destined to be discarded as trash, were loved by me and Terrisa. We pushed back against our fears because while the the 115 could not be saved, they could be loved. And so to the point of agony we found no more hurt, only more love. A love that sustains this fight for justice.
I was almost swallowed by that long loneliness but as before I found my resolve and grounded myself in a radical and disciplined hope that says all this pain, hurt, and fears will not be for nothing.
So how do I continue to fight after everything so far? It comes down to what I can live with... I can live with being scared. (I have been my entire life) but I can not live with others being murdered, exploited, unloved, and unwanted. I can not use fear to justify inaction.
Since we started this journey with a question, I'll end with one as well. A few months ago my mom asked, "How can you confront the police and get arrested but you can't call the doctors to make an appointment?"
We were sitting together in the doctor's waiting room when she asked and I just smiled in response. I don't have an answer that she'll understand. After 29 years she's not really looking for one. But I am thankful that she still helps me make the appointment and sits with me in the waiting room. That's the type of love I hope to show others.
-Lauren Handy, Alexandria Adult Detention Center