The words uttered by a certain secretary of state emeritus keep coming to mind as I read the accounts of Kermit Gosnell's services in Philadelphia.

Filthy equipment, underage and unqualified staff, bodies of children in orange juice containers, animals running loose. One would think that is the greater scandal here.

I have an anaphylactic response to the premise of the outrage here. What difference does it make?

The clinic I went to 30 years ago was immaculate. The furniture was comfortable. It was staffed by registered nurses and board-certified physicians. There were warm smiles, cold utensils, and a professionally produced follow-up instruction sheet to accompany you out the door. My baby was early first trimester, tiny in size.

And I am sure that my experience is exactly the same as those of the clients of Gosnell's clinic. The effect of destroying our own children and the consequent damage to our souls and society does not discriminate when it comes to hygiene, credential, or zip code.

Or size of the baby.

One step out the door, and I am quite sure I would not have noticed -- or cared -- if the place was filthy or ill-staffed.

The memory of paying a stranger to murder my own child, pretending to return to a normal life, and then subsisting in a society of unfathomable contradiction and hypocrisy toward the unborn trumps any outrage about filth or licensure for me. What difference does it make?

Almost thirty years ago to the day, I am exhausted from the pretense, denial, and fakery that is the post-abortive life. Good God, if it were any different, I would question if I am still human! Stories abound about the addiction, suicidal tendencies, and promiscuity that follow abortion. Perhaps, though, the greater population of women are like me. We returned to our careers, raised our families, and have tried daily to hide the consequences of misery and disorder that abortion has wrought in our lives. Each day its shameful reality compounds to a degree that we struggle to comprehend.

As for the effects on society and our future generations, I can only shudder. So I retreat to the aforementioned pretense and denial. I wait for the headlines and feigned outrage to disappear. They always do. Reconciliation with my God, counseling, and spiritual support only mitigate the horror and pain I live with each day.

So the fact that the place was filthy and the staff was unlicensed doesn't make a bit of difference to me. Not a damn bit of difference at all.