Chelian’s conundrum continued as she hunted to find a place to dispose of her fresh kills. She visited funeral homes first, “who ultimately started talking about how much a body weighs before they could figure out how much it cost, had to go from pounds to ounces and they were like, ‘We don’t even know how to charge you for this.’ They showed me a body bag, and I was like, ‘Dude, we need to go to a Tupperware jar.’ In which case we started talking about the freezer jars we used. [It] really freaked them out because all the fetal tissue is mixed together after we do our products of conception check and they just wanted me to leave.” The crematoriums didn’t want the babies, either. No surprise. No one does.

“Not far from us, flames were leaping up from a ditch, gigantic flames. They were burning something. A lorry drew up at the pit and delivered its load–little children. Babies! Around us, everyone was weeping….. Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp …. Never shall I forget that smoke. Never shall I forget the little faces of the children, whose bodies I saw turned into wreaths of smoke beneath a silent sky.”

–Elie Wiesel, Night

I’ve now gone through the second set of leaked Planned Parenthood videos, the three part series entitled “Fetal Disposition,” or in layman’s terms, how to dispose of the babies once they’ve been turned into corpses. I’ve seen more in my work as an anti-abortion activist than I can possibly write, but for some reason, this series has left me more nauseated and heartbroken than the worst abortion footage I’ve ever seen. There is something so ghoulish, so hideous, and so cannibalistic about this panel of calm, well-spoken women discussing how to deal with the piles and piles of irretrievably shredded infants. It’s times like this when I shudder for our society, for our churches, for our communities, for all of us, as we calmly tramp down sidewalks while the sewers beneath us run crimson with the blood and body fluid of our silent, murdered offspring. Little girls and little boys should bring about questions like pink or blue? Not crematorium or freezer?

I wish I could say that the preceding sentences were just a literary device to help you understand the abortion reality. They are not. As the panel discussion on what to do with the children who are inconvenient even in death proceeded, Renee Chelian, who owns three abortion clinics around Detroit, revealed her struggles. “The garbage disposal [for aborted fetuses] was the completely legal option which made me sick to my stomach,” she said to sympathetic murmurs. “Because there were 45 clinics in the Detroit Metro Area, and many of them using garbage disposals, so I was busy contacting everyone. You have to stop, this cannot be! If it can’t be on the front page of the New York Timesyou shouldn’t be doing it, any of you. And they consistently showed me a 40-year-old law in Michigan that said pathological waste was fine to go in the sewer system.”

Babies in the sewers. The alternative to the options listed by another provider: “Burial, cremation, incineration, or donation.”

Chelian’s conundrum continued as she hunted to find a place to dispose of her fresh kills. She visited funeral homes first, “who ultimately started talking about how much a body weighs before they could figure out how much it cost, had to go from pounds to ounces and they were like, ‘We don’t even know how to charge you for this.’ They showed me a body bag, and I was like, ‘Dude, we need to go to a Tupperware jar.’ In which case we started talking about the freezer jars we used. [It] really freaked them out because all the fetal tissue is mixed together after we do our products of conception check and they just wanted me to leave.” The crematoriums didn’t want the babies, either. No surprise. No one does.

Babies in Tupperware coffins. The heads, arms, legs, and torsos of tiny children mixed together with the body parts of their tiny brothers and sisters, like a basket of guillotined heads sitting at the edge of a French gibbet. The Sexual Revolution’s victims are tinier, quieter, and there are oh, so many more of them.

Chelian was frustrated, and her voice was strident. Stericycle turned her down because of successful pro-life exposé campaigns. To laughter, she joked about giving the children back to their parents. “We were really tempted to give the fetus back. We could just give it to everybody in a gift bag and they could figure out what to do with it. It was their pregnancy. Why is it our problem?”

Babies in pieces, in gift bags. But the parents rejected the gift of children once, of course. And they couldn’t put the children back together again. Even if they tried.

It got worse for Chelian. She was like an evil little old woman who lived in a shoe, and she didn’t know what to do. “Nobody wants to talk about dead bodies,” she almost shouted. “And nobody but me! I’m just saying. There was a point when Stericycle fired us that I had five months of fetal tissue in my freezers. We were renting freezers to put them in. It was all I thought about, was fetal tissue. Like, I was so consumed with fetal tissue, I was ready to drive to upper Michigan and have a bonfire. And I was just trying to figure out, you know, how I wouldn’t get stopped. Or you know, how far into the woods would I have to go to have this fire that nobody was going to see me? I mean, it was the worst. I dreamed about how to dispose of fetal tissue.”

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