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One night a nursing co-worker was taking a little abortion survivor to the soiled utility room to die. When she told me what she was doing, I couldn’t bear the thought of this suffering child dying alone. He’d been aborted because he had Down syndrome and he was between 21 and 22 weeks old, about the size of my hand. And he didn’t move very much because he was using all of his energy attempting to breathe.And I remember toward the end of his life I couldn’t tell if he was alive or not unless I held him up against the light to see if I could see his heart beating through his chest wall, because your skin is so thin at that age.And after he was pronounced dead, I folded his little arms across his chest. I tied them together with a little string, I wrapped him in a shroud, and I took him to the morgue where we took all of our dead patients.