My boyfriend knew I was pregnant before I did.
For a good 3 – 4 weeks after I’d last seen him, he would constantly ask if I’d started bleeding yet. I on the other hand wasn’t that worried. I’d had enough sex by then to know that you don’t get pregnant every time, and worrying about it every time was a waste of energy. I struggle with this a lot now, because I can’t decide if this absence of panic was a lack of my own female intuition, or simply a clear example of a man’s fear in having to take responsibility for his actions. He was paranoid, I thought.
My fear didn’t set in until the weekend I found out. It was my birthday, and like every year, I went to San Francisco. My boyfriend met me there since we were in a long distance relationship at the time. We stayed in a tiny room downtown but it didn’t matter because all I wanted to do was get my hands all over him – the close quarters were welcome. When he was in the shower I looked at his phone and read texts from a girl he knew in his college town. They were fucking. I immediately felt nauseous – was it my disgust or morning sickness? At the time, I felt it was my disgust, now, I’m not so sure. When I told him that I knew about his other lover we wept on the floor. I think we were both desperate and embarrassed, two feelings that don’t fit well in people like us. We were tough, smart, motivated towards our future. We weren’t like everyone else, we thought. Yet, there we were, a couple heaps tangled up together on the floor of that tiny hotel room – clinging to each other in that moment of uncertainty. We didn’t know the true uncertainty was yet to come.
A couple days later he left. Hurting, we agreed to work things out. We loved each other; it seemed easier to do that. When he was gone, I stayed in the City for a little while longer. My girlfriends and I drove to Half Moon Bay. We camped there overnight. It was cold, I was sad, and it was then I knew something was wrong. Not wrong, just different, but I wasn’t welcoming that kind of change. Maybe it was the full moon, or the tides, or the women around me, but it was then I thought maybe his fear had spread to me. Or maybe that intuition was kicking in.
Back in the City, I stayed up all night before I had to leave the next day. I was alone on my friends couch, restless, watching reruns of my favorite movie. I’m not sure where the pregnancy test came from, but I decided to open it up in the morning. I took it into a tiny bathroom. Another small space to feel uncertain in, but this time I was alone in it. While I waited I looked around at the old candle above the toilet tank, the tissue overflowing out of the trashcan, the hair collecting in the corners. No one knew what I was doing in there, yet I felt exposed and vulnerable in that moment, even before I knew the outcome. When I finally saw the result, I walked out, packed my bag, got in the back of my friends car, and left. We drove south towards home and away from that bathroom. Away from that test. Away from that hotel room. Away from my boyfriends college town. Away from his affair. Away from his fear that I would be pregnant with his child. And, as it turns out, I was.
Getting pregnant isn’t that big of a deal, I guess. It’s a physiological response to a very natural, intimate, human interaction. In my case, it was my body’s response to someone I loved, so I guess I wasn’t that bummed about it. But I knew that it wasn’t right. I knew we weren’t right, and our relationship wasn’t in the right place, nor was it heading in the right direction. This was something we both agreed upon. When I told him, confirming his fear a reality, I could hear it in his voice what he wanted to do. The decision to terminate the pregnancy was an easy one for both of us to make. I am a feminist, pro-choice, woman free of want for a child. It felt empowering for me in a way to experience this decision first-hand, one I believed fully in, and mine only to make. And he, well, he was just afraid. But he supported me, and I believe that even if I’d chosen to keep the child, he’d have cared for it. Despite his family background being laced with distance and abandonment, I knew he knew better and I sometimes imagined that our little family would somehow replace the one he grew up with. A few years later even, when we broke up, I for a moment wished I’d wanted that thing that was growing inside me. I told him amidst our separation that I’d envisioned, one day, it would come back to us – it’d have his eyes and my smile, and we’d be ready for it. The truth is, we weren’t and we never would be. That idealistic sentiment did not override the fact that starting a family wasn’t a good idea for us. I’m grateful that even though we were fearful, we had foresight.
It was that foresight that sent me to Planned Parenthood. I’d been there several times before, it wasn’t new and it wasn’t uncomfortable. I always saw Planned Parenthood as a safe haven. My first time there was in or around high school when I went with a friend. I forget what we were there for, she was getting tested for something, but we hid in the parking lot when we saw an older boy from school walk out. “Scandal”, we gasped! After that initial visit ( later, a woman in my early twenties without insurance), I went there regularly seeking out STD testing, birth control, Plan B, and pelvic exams. It was always free, it was always reliable, and people were always kind. PP was and has always been my go-to for medical care since I legally became an adult. I have since felt indebted to them.
Once again, I found myself crossing its threshold, but this time for something a little more serious. I went to get a formal pregnancy test, and to get more information about my options . . . Option (singular). They confirmed my pregnancy in a matter of minutes. I was about a month, or so, along. There was in no way any coercion towards an abortion. There was no point where the nurse speaking with me said, “Okay, welp, you’re fucked – better get an abortion! We can help you with that ASAP!” No. There was understanding and protection. There was also some delicate silence and then me decidedly asking her about how I might go about the process of getting an abortion. I scheduled it right away.
You see, I knew before going in there that it was what I wanted. Sure, I wondered if maybe I should hang on to it. I wasn’t too worried about what it would be like if I kept it. I was a well-educated, upper-middle class, (half) white girl with a great family, on both sides, who would have helped me if I needed it. I was 26 years old, and most of my friends had already popped out a kid or two, so it wouldn’t have been out of the norm. My boyfriend and I had been together, despite our ups and downs, for a long time. Us having a kid wouldn’t have been that surprising, I guess. But, no, it still wasn’t time.
I didn’t tell my Mom, which I regretted, but my boyfriend didn’t want anyone to know and we were in it together, so I respected his wishes. One of my best friend’s, who was there the morning I found out, had also had an abortion before. She agreed to drive me and support me through the entire thing, especially since my boyfriend lived far away and couldn’t be there. He sent me half the cost and called me constantly. Looking back, I wish he’d come down to be with me. Although, even then, I knew that wasn’t necessary – I had all the strength I needed within myself and in my friends who knew what I was going through. I know he knew that too.
My abortion was in the afternoon. I paid around $400 and was told I might be there for around four hours. The clinic’s architecture and internal waiting room were like any other medical facilities, but instead there was a lot of bulletproof glass and a security guard out front. There weren’t any protesters, like in Juno, but I’ve heard there usually are. In the waiting room there was a woman there with her husband and five kids, all under the age of five, screaming and crawling all over the furniture (my fate was sealed). There were also a few other women waiting, mostly by themselves. I wasn’t sure if they were waiting to be called in, or waiting for a friend or family member to come out. My friend waited there patiently with me, that goddamn angel. She was completely calm and completely herself, and in that moment, if I wasn’t already, I connected with her for life. One of my favorite things that she says a lot is, “I appreciate you!” Seestah, I’ve never appreciated anyone more.
When my name was called I told my friend she didn’t have to wait there, that she could go grab a coffee or a bite while I was gone, but she refused. She sat there in that waiting room, screaming kids and all, beginning to end. I went inside, and the process in terms of order is a little unclear to me now, several years later. Again, everything looked like a normal doctors office. I know I had to take off my clothes. I know I had to wear something made of paper. I’m pretty sure my vitals were taken. Everyone was talking to me in that cooing, soothing, motherly voice as if I was the baby, not the thing inside me. What I do remember clearly was the operating room. It was like a regular gynecological office, but bigger. There were two or three nurses setting everything up and talking me through the process. I would be mildly sedated for the operation, but awake. One nurse held my hand and asked me questions that I don’t quite remember now, but I remember they seemed a little trivial for the task at hand. She was just doing her job . . . I’m thankful for her. They told me they were gonna do an ultrasound and asked if I wanted to see a picture. I hesitated, but then said, “Sure, why not!” . . . me – so eloquent in the face of a serious matter. They showed me a black and white sonogram that looked like something I’d studied in art school, the Abstract period. Towards the bottom, there was a small circle, about the size of a penny, and they told me that was it. That was the month old creature that was created within. I looked at it objectively and awkwardly said, “Oh, it doesn’t look like anything!” The nurses sorta gave me a look, smiled, and asked if I wanted to keep it. I’m pretty sure I said no. If I did keep it, I’m not sure where it is today. The only thing I think I kept from that whole experience was the slip of paper with the due date on it: 6-27-2012.
When the doctor came in, I remember being a little surprised he was male. I guess I knew the whole experience was going to be unnerving, but I was sorta hoping for this “kumbaya” moment where all the women in the room would join forces somehow and relish in the fact we were able to make a choice regarding our own bodies, in spite of the male patriarchy! But, alas, in walks a tall, white male in his 50’s with glasses and braces, ready to get all up in my uterus. While that’s not usually my type, I’d paid for his services anyway. The whole procedure itself was really quick. While it was ultimately painless, I could still feel the scraping. I was quiet. I listened to the nurse try to chat with me. I might have cried. “I can’t believe I’m here” . . . and at the same time – I’m so relieved I’m here. And then it was over.
Saltines and ginger ale are the perfect parting gift from a medical care facility. They told me I would still be looped from the drugs and possibly nauseous, so I had to wait there with my snacks for at least 30 minutes before I left. I wasn’t bothered by that. Being nauseous was a feeling I’d had from the beginning of this whole thing, what was another 30 minutes? I left wearing what felt like a diaper, in case of bleeding. I reclined into the warm passenger seat of my friend’s car as we drove out of there. We joked about the drugs I was on and how she wanted some. I told her I was starving, so on our way home we stopped at a Mexican joint. We sat down and the entire place looked like a piñata had exploded all over it. There was mariachi music. We ordered a beer. I was numb. Not just from the drugs, but from the incredibly sobering experience I had just encountered. I was a deflated pile in the midst of a party palace, the irony almost made me laugh.
I was confident in my decisiveness, but I was not dismissive of its significance. And when you’re in a situation like this where you straddle the line of empowerment, exercising your rights, taking control of your life and your body, and also the line of “what if”, judgment from others, possibility of future regret – it’s easy to shut down, and I did.
About a week later I went for a run on the beach. It was fairly early in the morning, and there was a dense fog along the coastline, as there tends to be later in the fall. I decided to run on the sand. When I started, I looked up briefly at the sidewalk and saw a girl I vaguely knew in high school. She was a year or two younger than me and was pushing a stroller with her two kids in it. I don’t know exactly what it was about seeing her in that moment, but I took off running – fast. I smiled even, and I felt so free, it was incredible. Writing that seems so lame, but it is the goddamn truth! I ran, flew, away from that potential life. I ran from that potential regret. I ran from the worry of being judged by others. I ran from that experience that was now in my past, and towards a future that once again was at my disposal. I ran towards a life of freedom and chosen uncertainty that I embraced wholeheartedly because I knew that since I’d selected a second chance, it was imperative I make the most of it.
Maybe this all sounds selfish, and I surely am, there is no denying that. However, my selfishness beget the selflessness necessary to prevent another unplanned, unwanted child to be born into the hands of unfit parents. Even though my boyfriend and I were infinitely bonded by this experience, we separated for good a few years later. Turns out, we were completely incompatible (I don’t think a baby would have changed that).
I’m 31 now. I’m not shy about my abortion, but it’s not something I bring up a lot either. I know it’s a sensitive subject for some. I’ve been in debates about it with people who obstinately oppose it, unknowing of my personal experiences, not that that would necessarily change their views. This is the first time I’m sharing it publicly because I believe it’s a story that needs to be shared. I’m not trying to make a political statement, per se, even though every election cycle seems to make my body a political issue. I want people to know that I know what it’s like. I want there to be yet another side to the story in order to offset the risk of only one (very negative) narrative. I want women who are going through it, or have gone through it before, or who might face that choice in the future, to know that they’re not alone and they don’t have to be ashamed, despite the despicable rhetoric that is constantly thrown around on the subject. I’m not ashamed, neither should you be. I want women and men, particularly the people I know who oppose it, to look me in the eye and tell me they don’t love me anymore because of it. That everything they know, like, and admire about me is now invalid because of this informed decision I made. That because of their religious or moral beliefs, they disapprove of what I do with my body. Freedom of religion in this country is an invaluable privilege. It’s one I am thankful for. However, freedom of religion is not synonymous with the freedom to impose your beliefs on others. We also live in a free country and I think a lot of people forget that. My abortion didn’t ruin your life. It didn’t ruin your chance at getting into heaven. It wasn’t your abortion, it was mine. This isn’t your story, it’s mine. Go ahead and cherish the babies that you chose to keep. Hug them tight, I’m not stopping you. I chose differently, but I chose and that is something I hope that your personal beliefs never take away from me – the right to choose in the free world I live in.
No matter what, I will never forget that feeling of freedom I had as I flew across that beach. That feeling has and will continue to push me forward into all the things I have and will continue to accomplish in this life, and who knows – maybe, someday, it will push me back into motherhood. Next time, I’ll be ready for it.
Thank you for reading. I love you.
