The truth about my son
by Carrie Harris

Michael

Michael, my child, my son. I came so close to being your mother, but God decided that it was not the right time. I trust God, in His infinite wisdom, so therefore I believe that it was good and right that you were taken from me before you were born, yet my heart still longs for you. In the arms of Jesus you are safe, my loved one, and I will see you again when I reach Heaven, but until then know that I love you. For love you I do, and love you I always will. My heart and soul will always be your mother.

Sleep well, my baby, for when you wake I will be by your side.

All my love,

Mum.

The truth about Michael

I was only 19 when Michael was conceived. I was in a long-term relationship with Derek, Michael’s father. We had lived together for two years but, for circumstances beyond our control, I had had to find my own place to live. I was renting a ramshackle place that was a real dump; it’s only redeeming feature was it’s beautiful garden.

In October of 2000, I was on the verge of leaving Derek for good. I had left him once or twice already, because of his abuse and violence, but I was convinced I loved him, and kept running back into his arms. This time, though, I had really had enough, and having my own place was giving me the courage to walk away.

Derek came to see me one day, and offered to take me to the movies. As always, I melted when I saw him, and my resolve was broken again. I locked my house, climbed into the passenger seat of his car, and off we went to the cinema. We bought tickets for ‘Chicken Run’, and after a ten minute wait, we entered and sat in the very back row, at Derek’s insistence.

The movie started, and I was enjoying it. About twenty minutes in, Derek started touching me where I didn’t want to be touched. I told him to stop, but he refused. This continued. He tried to pull up my skirt, but I put my hand down and firmly said no. Now I couldn’t wait to leave the cinema and go home, but I didn’t want to make him angry, because he thought nothing of hitting me around.

The movie finally ended, and Derek drove me home at my insistence. We got to the front door, where I said goodbye to him and tried to close the door before he could enter. He put his foot in the way, and forced his way in, claiming he wanted to help me fix my bedside computer. He was bigger and stronger than me, so I was too scared to resist him. He guided me into the bedroom, then sat on the bed and turned the computer on. I was relieved; obviously he really did want to fix the computer.

We had only been sitting there for a few minutes when he picked up a hole-puncher. He turned to me and said,
“did you know I could kill a person with one of these?” I muttered a reply, starting to feel uneasy. He turned the hole-puncher over in his hand, then put his arm around me.
“You know, I could kill you with this.”

I protested, saying that he would end up in jail if he did that, and then he said the words that sent a shiver down my spine.
“And just what are you going to do from the other side?” He pushed me backward; I was really scared now. I knew he was serious, I saw that same look in his eyes that was always there when he was violent. He held the hole puncher to my throat, and told me I had better do what he said. He then started to remove my skirt. I tried to get up, I tried to fight him off, but he pressed the hole puncher into my neck, and I felt it started to cut my skin, so I stopped fighting back.

He then forced his way into me so violently that I was left with bruises.

After he had what he wanted, he left. With shaking hands, I rang the police, but hung up when they said I would have to go to the station to report it. I’d been down that road before, and I knew what was involved.

After a few days of fear, I rang the police again to ask about a restraining order, and they told me to go to the courthouse to get one. I got off the phone, went to the front door, and Derek was standing there. He had a sad look on his face, and he told me that he had heard the call, and he begged me not to go to the court. He said he wanted to go to America to be with his online girlfriend, and he wouldn’t be able to if he had a police record.

Stupid me felt sorry for him, and I never went to the court house. I did tell him to leave, though, that we were through. For the next few weeks, he kept coming around and asking me to take him back. By now I was feeling nauseas most mornings, I couldn’t eat, and I was depressed a lot. In the third week, I told him I thought I was pregnant, but he refused to believe me, claiming I was making it up to get at him.

After three weeks, he stopped coming around, but I could still hear footsteps by my window at night. I was terrified to turn on a light, terrified to let him know I was home. After a few minutes, they always went away. Once I heard him cough outside my window. My dog Chloe would growl, but she refused to leave me to investigate.

One night in the middle of November, six weeks into my pregnancy, I was on my way to the toilet when I experienced a crippling pain through my middle that caused me to double over and scream. I felt wetness between my legs, and I looked down and saw blood, lots of it. I made my way painfully to the toilet, and sat down. The pain was unbearable, but I didn’t know what to do. After about twenty minutes or so, the bleeding had slowed, so I wiped myself to clean it up, and that’s when I saw my baby. He was about an inch and a half long, whitish, curled over like a comma, with the startings of a spined. He looked more like a tadpole than a baby, but I could even see the cord connected to his stomach.

I panicked, and threw the paper into the bowl and flushed, then fell to the floor and sobbed. I still don’t know why I flushed him, my baby, my poor baby. It tears me up inside. To this day I can see him on that paper, covered in blood, so helpless, so lifeless. And I flushed him …

After I had recovered, I went into the kitchen and phoned Mum. She couldn’t do anything; she was in South Australia and I was in New South Wales … but I needed to hear her voice. I told her what had happened, but I refused to go to the hospital. My emotional pain was much greater than my physical pain.

When I rang Derek to tell him what had happened, he was flippant and told me I had never been pregnant in the first place. When I argued that I knew what I had seen, he asked where the baby was. I admitted that I had flushed him, and he said okay, where’s the test? I told him I hadn’t had one. He told me never to call him again, and hung up.

So, until recently, I have kept this to myself. I have no proof that I was ever pregnant, only my memories. Every year, around November, I sink into a depression. Every year it takes me a while to realise why I am depressed, and then when I do, I feel the need to cry, but I can’t cry.

This year, though, this year Ramona let me cry, and it came out. I just sat and bawled, and finally allowed myself to grieve.

Ramona suggested I set up a memorial for Michael, and I will take that suggestion. Over the coming weeks, I will set up a joint memorial in the backyard; one for Michael, and one for Grandma, both of who are safe in the arms of Jesus now.

That is my story. Thank you for allowing me to share it with you.