I WAS 25 YEARS OLD WHEN MY BOYFRIEND BEGAN PUSHING ME TO SEE A DOCTOR and take care of a little mistake we had made. I did not want to do that. But he was a law student pursuing his dream career, and a real catch, I thought. I was in love with him and didn’t want to disappoint. Besides, he made all the arrangements and committed to paying for the abortion. It was a lot to fight against. And so, regrettably, I didn’t.

When the procedure was completed, I was left so empty and horrified by the experience I couldn’t stop lamenting about it; how cold and blind it was, how alone I felt. The doctor hardly said a word, and didn’t care a whit if I was prepared for what he was doing to me. When the vacuum aspiration machine was turned on making that awful sound, I was nothing more than a piece of meat; the target of its cannula. He didn’t care about the frightened girl on his table one bit.

My boyfriend, wanting to patch me up emotionally, arranged for me to meet a director of an abortion clinic, a young woman who happened to be the girlfriend of a coworker. She could educate me about the process, albeit after my procedure, like she does with groups of women before they get their procedure. They would learn what would happen. I would learn what just did happen. I guess I can see how it made sense to him.

Impressed as I was with what appeared to be so much support, the young director of the clinic noticed my positive response. She and the women who worked there took a liking to me and I to them. Yet, when they offered me a job, it was a strange moment. It wasn’t that I wanted to work there so much as I felt I had to. You see, the abortion was my second one. I had my first one when I was 19, an experience pushed on me by my mother, and where I was put to sleep for the entire procedure. After it was over, my mom felt the need to get something off her conscience—as if a secret she was carrying was ruining her to stay unconfessed. She told me that 19 years earlier she had tried to abort me. At once, it made some sense of why she was so detached and distant from me my entire life, but it also filled me with deep pain that abortion had always been a part of my story.

And so, when the clinic offered me the job, perhaps I thought it was a chance to address it; as if helping women through their abortions would somehow pour salve on my emotional wounds.
But the good I thought I would be contributing to seemed to unravel right away. It began when I started noticing just how calculating the clinic was when it came to the words they used. They downplayed everything. It wasn’t a baby. It was a mass, or remains, or products of conception. They said patient instead of woman. They said the procedure wasn’t painful when it was very painful—I know; I held the hands of the women during the abortions. It hurt them terribly. The clinic said the recovery was a breeze. It was bloody and terrifying. Truth was, some never really do recover. The emotional toll is perhaps the worst of all.

It didn’t help that the body parts I saw stayed with me, gathering in my memory with no release valve for them to escape. Everything began to hurt. A battle waged within about what I was a part of.

I was one of two people addressing young ladies in a pre-abortion orientation group at the clinic when one of them raised her hand.

“Yes,” I said, giving her the floor.

She had an earnest look on her face. “Is abortion killing?” she asked.

The room went silent and cold. My stomach quickly jumped to my throat. I had never heard that question before. I could do nothing but turn my face in hope that my coworker, a director, might take the cue that the question was hers to answer. I didn’t have one. Or, perhaps, I was just afraid of it.

“Well, is it killing when you swat a fly?” she said. “Because that’s the size of what it is.”

It nearly broke me. She didn’t look past the question and into the eyes of the young woman to see she was fighting for her baby’s life. The director could have seen that she was wrestling with something much larger than merely clinical, and sent her to someone who could address it. Instead, the director reduced the abortion procedure to nothing more than a fly swatter, and the life inside her to an unwanted bug.

The reason? The clinic wanted the money.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I was driving to work one day when I got T-boned by a very large car as I crossed an intersection. It crushed my little VW, as well as my neck. The impact threw me, broken neck and all, onto the floor where I passed out. I don’t know how long I was there, but at some point, I heard a voice.

“You’re going to be alright,” the voice said, lovely and low.

As I opened my eyes, a man was standing just outside the passenger window. He had the most serene face I had ever seen. He just stood there—he didn’t reach in to open the door, and he didn’t reach for me. He just looked at me with a profoundly satisfied expression.

Between the collision and waking up in the hospital, that is the only recollection I have.

As I recovered in the weeks that followed having just escaped death, I was no longer the same. I questioned everything about my life; who I was, what I was doing, where I was going, and my place in the world.

A former classmate reminded me that our professor offered us a paid internship…in Alaska, if we wanted it. Alaska was far from San Francisco, but far seemed to be exactly what I needed. I took it.

Sometime after moving to Alaska, I found myself piqued by the kitchen table of a neighbor I was visiting one afternoon. On it were stacks of Christian literature. They told of a man who saves people.

That’s what I wanted more than anything. Please God, save me from me, I prayed. I gave my heart to Jesus.

Forty years passed and I was a part of Abortions Survivors Network when one of the women there suggested that I get in touch with Abby Johnson who ran a ministry that brings healing to people in the abortion industry. So much time had passed since I was in the industry, it didn’t seem totally necessary. But I had seen Unplanned and was deeply impressed with Abby. People of her courage and conviction don’t come around very often. I decided to give her a shot at me.
At an AND THEN THERE WERE NONE healing retreat, Abby instructed us to add up, as best we could, the number of deaths that happened while working at our clinics. When I was done, the number was 7,000. I contributed to 7,000 deaths. The weight of the number pushes one to their knees in confession and repentance, as it did me—and that is the only place healing can begin. 

Judging by how I feel now—truly forgiven for what I had done, I had no idea how much I needed to come to the foot of the throne of God by the blood of his son, Jesus. Healing is a journey and I can feel my feet firmly on that road, growing lighter every day. When I think about AND THEN THERE WERE NONE, I shudder to think what I would still be carrying if they hadn’t come into my life.

I think about the man outside my VW window. He was telling the truth. I am alright.

Where Are They Now? Priscilla Hurley

In 1949, the grieving widow of a post-World War 2 era experimental test pilot crossed the border from California to Mexico for an abortion after losing her husband in a crash. Bereft of her husband and with three little girls and one boy to care for, the thought of another pregnancy sent her over the edge. The procedure was believed to be a “success,” but later after returning home, her doctor confirmed she was still pregnant. Her fourth daughter, Priscilla, was born.

Today, Priscilla is the type of woman who, once she discovers her purpose, pursues it with focused passion and singlemindedness. Her zealous love for God and truth is tempered by the humility of a woman with a past, a sinner saved by grace who desires to spare others the pain of the paths she once walked.

Abortion has been a triple threat in Priscilla’s life, beginning with the attempt on her own life. Priscilla feels that it is likely she had a twin who died that day, but she will never know for sure

“I felt like I was born into the unwelcoming arms of a mother who was deeply grieving the loss of her husband, my biological father,” she said. “It affected me. That abortion attempt traumatized us both. When you don’t feel wanted, loved, and validated, that is a very deep and specific pain.”

Priscilla was unaware that she was an abortion survivor until she was 19 years old and was coerced into having an abortion by her mother.

“I remember after the abortion, I was walking with my mother, and she just told me matter-of-factly that she had also tried to abort me,” Priscilla said. “We never really talked about it after that, but for me, it answered so many questions. Why she didn’t want me, why I never felt her love, why she did not even try to nurture me. Even though she never asked for it, I was eventually able to forgive my mother.”

Priscilla’s childhood trauma caused her to rebel.

“I was using drugs and having sex. I had no idea about the real value or role of my sexuality and was so vulnerable. I sexualized my need for love and acceptance,” Priscilla said.

Priscilla found herself on an abortion table twice between the ages of 19 and 25. Ironically, it was the horrible abortion experiences she endured that pushed her toward the industry.

“When I had my abortions, no one even talked to me. No one told me what to expect,” Priscilla said. “I was utterly alone at this awful place. When I first took the job at the women’s clinic, I felt like I would be helping other women have better experiences. I wanted to hold their hands, tell them exactly what would happen, what they could expect. That’s what drew me.”

Of course, Priscilla wasn’t able to tell women the whole truth when they had questions about their procedures. She recalls one unsure patient asking if she would be killing her baby.

“My co-worker just laughed at the woman’s question and told her that if killing a fly was killing, then yes, she would be killing her baby,” she said. “That always stuck out in my mind.”

During her time as an abortion clinic worker, Priscilla struggled with what she saw. She began to doubt that she was helping women. However, she was so steeped in the deceptive stream of the feminist, free-love culture that she wasn’t able to see the truth clearly.

One day, while driving to work at the clinic, Priscilla was involved in a near-fatal car accident. She remembers clearly seeing a man who she feels was an angel telling her that she would be alright before passing out and waking up much later at the hospital. This accident redirected her path. She accepted an internship in Alaska and left California behind.

“In Alaska, I made more Christian friends for the first time. They would witness to me, and they impacted my life,” Priscilla said. “But I was still deeply wounded from my past, my abortions, and my time in the industry. I became pregnant a third time.”

Some of her friends counseled her to have a third abortion, but this time, Priscilla was resolute.

“When my son was born, I didn’t know Christ, but I knelt down and asked God for help. I knew I needed Him and He set me free that day. I finally found unconditional love and purpose. He changed the whole trajectory of my life. I knew He had saved me in the womb all those years ago, and when I gave myself to Him, I was all in.”

Priscilla has three grown children, and while she struggled as a single parent, she successfully taught and directed the first abstinence education program in California, something she continues to be passionate about.

“The opportunity to teach abstinence was such a glorious thing for me,” she said. “I have so much compassion for those lost and empty kids. I relate to them. I want them to find their way early instead of experience the hardship that comes with years of rebellion like I did.”

Priscilla still had a long way to go to find healing.

“I felt like my entire life, I was captive to abortion. From my mother trying to abort me, to my own two abortions, and then my involvement in the industry itself, it’s like I didn’t understand the worth and value of human life.”

A 12- week post-abortion recovery group ended up being the first step on that arduous path of healing for Priscilla, which was extremely beneficial for her. She heard about Melissa Ohden and the Abortion Survivors Network and knew that she needed to contact them. Due to her unique experience as an abortion survivor, it was difficult to connect with others and discuss that part of her story.

“I contacted Melissa and went through the abortion survivor healing program, and then I became a facilitator myself,” Priscilla said. “I spoke about being a survivor, did interviews, and went on podcasts.”

In 2020 Melissa recommended that she reach out to And Then There Were None to find healing for her time working in the abortion industry.

“I jumped in full bore,” she said. “Since it had been so long, I didn’t think I really needed healing. I thought time heals, but then I went on a retreat. It was so wonderful to meet other ‘Quitters’ and I was helped so much.”

Priscilla urges anyone who is a current or former worker to reach out to And Then There Were None. At first, she was hesitant since she had been out of the clinic for so many years.

“It is never too late to get redemption and healing,” she said. “Please reach out to And Then There Were None if you have been involved in the industry. They love on all of us ‘Quitters’ so well. It is humbling how much they are willing to pour into us and are with us every step.”

Today, Priscilla is a joyful, resilient, active mother of three and grandmother of 11, all who are following the Lord. She has led breakout sessions about being an abortion survivor at the CareNet conference, taken part in the March for Life with other abortion survivors, and will be leading a session at the upcoming Pro-Life Women’s Conference entitled “The NEW Sexual Freedom Revolution.” Despite all the pain and darkness in her past, her zest for life and desire to help others find the source of her joy and healing is clear to all who meet her.

Three times, the enemy tried to destroy Priscilla through abortion: first attempting to snuff out her life the womb, then pitting her against her own unborn children and trying to rob her of motherhood on the abortionist’s table, and finally to blind her to the value of human life as a worker in the industry. However, the grace of God was stronger. Priscilla’s is a story of grace and mercy that God obviously intended to be told, and Priscilla loves to share what He has done in her life.