Brick.
March 13, 2009.
It’s been nine years since a 19-year-old me made the most life-altering decision I have ever made. Yes, one that even surpasses saying “I do,” getting married, and all the life changing momentum that alone brings with it. That’s because on March 13, 2009, I terminated my 13-week pregnancy.
I guess I can’t say that was the day I made the decision, it was just the day I carried it out. The reality is that decision was made, with ease, two weeks before that. Nine years later, I can still remember with great detail how that all unfolded. Today I share it with whomever may care to read it in hopes that speaking out about my story may in the slightest of ways be of help to somebody somewhere out there.
Let’s rewind to February 27, 2009. Wade – my hockey-playing-Canadian-college boyfriend – broke up with me on this date. Out of the blue on this evening, as “Champagne Supernova” played in the background, he tells me that he’s trying out for the NHL after graduation (he was a senior, I was a sophomore) and he needed to see what else was out there. Basically, I would hold him back and we needed to end things.
That breakup devastated me (and forever ruined “Champagne Supernova”)! I adored him, maybe even loved him in whatever way an emotionally immature, insecure, and clueless 19-year-old could love somebody. I had given up drinking and going out and took up going to church for his straight-edge Catholic ass! Even though we weren’t together for very long, it hurt like hell to be blindsided like that. Little did I know that break up was only the tip of the iceberg for what would become one of the most emotionally charged and difficult times in my life.
In the week that followed the break up, the weird shit that had been happening got worse to the point that I started to get concerned. And by “weird shit” I mean the random spells of nausea and vomiting I had been having, which I would eventually come to understand as “morning sickness” that seemed to occur at all hours of the day except in the actual fucking mornings. I can still vividly remember having to throw my car door open in the MU parking ramp to puke after work on multiple occasions. I also distinctly remember getting sick immediately after taking a multivitamin that my roommate had given me, and that pizza rolls and orange juice did not sit well with me either. It’s weird, really, the random details a mind can recall.
Eventually, there wasn’t more I could do to deny the reality that was staring me in the face. I wasn’t sick, it wasn’t the flu – I otherwise felt fine. I had to face the very real possibility that I could be … pregnant.
To be clear, Wade and I never had sex. He was a virgin – straight edge and a “good” Catholic, remember? He was waiting until marriage, as “good” Catholics do (unlike me, a “not-so-good Catholic” apparently). Ironically, I was at a wedding not too long ago that also happened to be attended by his college roommate whom he’s still friends with … turns out Wade’s about to be a father and he’s NOT yet married! I mean, if purity rings didn’t work out for the Jonas Brothers, can I really say I’m surprised he gave in too?
Anyway, shortly before Wade and I got together there had been that ONE guy and that ONE lapse in judgment on that ONE night. I had gone to a party at the oh-so-cool Legacy Tower one snowy evening. There was a stranger there named Chris that played guitar and sang Mary Jane’s Last Dance and it made me swoon (because I was 19 and stupid and dumb things like that could make me swoon). Needless to say, the best decisions were NOT made on this evening. Could this really be coming back to haunt me? Well, I guess I was going to have to find out.
Step one: buy a pregnancy test. Have you ever had to do this? I am convinced this is just as awkward for every woman, regardless of your age and relationship status. I went to Target to carry out this task – which, side note: the only Target in a college town is not the place you want to go to complete such a task if you want to avoid being seen by someone you know. To avoid carrying the damn bright pink box of First Response through the store (and avoid anymore run-ins), I paid for the test at the pharmacy. I can still feel that desire I had for the earth to just open and swallow me whole as I waited for the pharmacist to finish ringing me up.
After what is perhaps the saddest and least fulfilling trip to Target that I have ever taken, I returned to the apartment I shared with three other girls. As much as I wanted to immediately run to the bathroom and take the damn test, I couldn’t. I hadn’t shared my suspicions or what I was going through with anyone, so I would have to wait until I was alone. Living with that many girls though, I had to make the time to find myself alone and skipped a few classes the next day to make it happen.
I remember finally mustering up the nerve to drag myself to the bathroom and get it over with. After reading and re-reading the instructions whilst sitting on the toilet for what felt like half an eternity, I tore open the little pink package and went for it. Fuck …. was that awkward. It was the first time I had ever taken a damn pregnancy test - I got pee all over my hands!
I placed the cap back on the test and set it on top of the toilet, washed my hands, and paced back and forth while my stomach did cartwheels until it was time to check the magical little stick that would forever alter my future. The sound of the timer going off on my phone felt like it pierced my chest with tiny needles with every beep it made. I remember literally running over to the toilet to pick up the stick, turning it over, and seeing the two pink (also, why the fuck pink?) lines in the little window. Two, two two … my hands desperately fumbled with the folded-up instructions as I struggled to find the legend or key to decipher what the fuck two tiny little pink lines meant.
“Two lines means NOT pregnant, right?!” I repeated in my head, almost as if it were a prayer. Well, no, it does not appear that it does. So, I checked and re-checked the key, making sure my eyes were not deceiving me. Was I interpreting this correctly?
TWO lines, as it turns out, means pregnant.
“FUUUUUUUUUCK!!”
“OH MY GOD.”
Those were the first thoughts to cross my mind, as I’m sure would be the case for any girl in that situation. Fear and panic took over my body, followed by a seemingly endless and uncontrollable stream of tears. I felt so, so, so alone in that moment.
At some point I was able to compose myself and come out of that tiny bathroom, but as I opened the door and stepped out, it was as if I was opening the door and stepping into denial.
“Well I’ve never done this before,” I thought to myself. “So maybe I did it wrong and it’s not really positive!” Because, after all, HOW COULD I BE PREGNANT? I mean, I knew how, but I needed another test because this could just not be happening to me; this happens to other girls!!
If you were a sexually active young woman who went to college, you know what I’m talking about when I refer to those “Pregnant? Need help?” places, because chances are you probably walked by one at some point and prayed you would never need a place like that. Yes, I’m talking about Birth Rite, those places conveniently located near college campuses that have signs offering free help, but more importantly, free pregnancy tests.
I was a broke college student and I just could not fathom the thought of enduring yet another miserable experience buying a test, so I went to Birth Rite knowing full well they were religious and probably slightly cuckoo. I took them up on their offer of a free test (declined their free help) and, not surprisingly, it revealed the same damn two pink lines (seriously, why pink?) that I had desperately wanted to not appear.
To really top off this already awesome experience, I was forced to sit down and have a chat with the pale-yellow-sweater-wearing blonde lady that worked there. She was really trying to get me to come to Jesus, but I had already made up my mind and I don’t think there was anything that could have changed it.
Even though I had my mind made up though, I still looked at it as, “IF I really am pregnant, this is what I’m going to do….” And it was still a really big, whopping IF in my mind. I couldn’t fully accept that I was, in fact, pregnant.
What would it take to convince me? Hearing it from a goddamn doctor.
So, I made a doctor’s appointment - off campus, of course, to try to avoid any possibility of seeing someone I know. I remember telling the nurse that I had already had TWO positive tests and her telling me that the “over-the-counter tests these days are remarkably accurate.”
Thanks, Susan! So not what I wanted to hear!
But they humored me anyway and ran another test. This time I peed in a cup, somehow still managing to get pee all over my hands. I’ve never peed on my hands so much over the course of one week. I’m 28 now and still have not mastered the art of sticking something between my legs and peeing on it and only on whatever “it” may be.
I returned to the exam room, heart racing and stomach knotted, to await the results. The doctor came in after what seemed like for fucking ever and, I swear for a brief moment - just a split second - I felt like he was going to tell me I was the rare case, the exception, the fluke. That somehow, I had two false positives … but then he hit me with the real news.
“Well, you’re pregnant,” he said as he walked in. I could tell he was unsure, given my age, whether he should be congratulating me or not. It was a very uneasy experience for all of us. He told me the next step would be to establish prenatal care and that he would set me up with a referral, but that I should probably start taking a prenatal vitamin now. I politely told him that would not be necessary as I was planning on making “alternate arrangements.”
I left there devastated as my reality slowly sunk in and immediately returned to my apartment, got on my pink laptop (yeah, with the pink), and started looking for my “alternate arrangements.” My first thought was: “Ummmm, what the fuck do I google?”
Abortion+Ames+Iowa?
Abortion clinic near me?
Then, it hit me: Planned Parenthood. Duh! That is where I would start and that is what would be my saving grace. The closest clinic that could help me was in DSM. I knew where I needed to call, the next step would be to actually do so. My hands were shaking as I dialed the numbers into my flip phone. After all the digits were put in, I stared at the little screen for a very long time before I could follow through with hitting “send.”
Thankfully, the woman on the other end was kind and comforting. I made the appointment for the following Friday, March 13th. Yes, Friday the 13th. The lady told me I would need someone to accompany me. I would be given sedatives and wouldn’t be allowed to drive. Wear comfy clothes. Don’t eat beforehand. She explained the process, answered my questions, and then I was hit with another daunting realization: I couldn’t afford it.
In the fucking chaos of it all, I hadn’t even considered the financial aspect of the situation I had gotten myself into. The lady told me there were resources and financial assistance available through “X”, “Y”, and “Z” programs, but I would need to call them separately and secure the funding. Nothing was guaranteed and if I wasn’t able to provide the full amount for the procedure on the day of the appointment, the appointment would have to be cancelled.
So, my next step became to call the various programs to ask for financial help. It was embarrassing and degrading and just overall difficult to make those calls and explain my situation to the strangers on the other end of the line. I hated that I had to explain myself to these strangers not once, not twice, but four times. I hated that my own choices had put me in that position and that I wasn’t even able to face the consequences of my poor decision making on my own. Thank goodness for these programs, though, and for the people that run them, and the donors that believe in these types of causes who make these funds possible.
Thankfully, I was able to secure assistance.
Next step: tell my mom. *insert cringe* That was probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I remember calling her before work and telling her that I was going to call her again after work because I had something important to tell her. I don’t know why I did that – she’s always so busy, I think I just wanted to give her a heads up to make sure that she would have enough time to talk to me. She knew after just the first call though – mother’s intuition, I guess. When I called her the second time, I couldn’t seem to find the words or get them to come out of my mouth because I knew that what I was about to say was going to break her heart. She guessed it though, right away, and took the words right from me. She was devastated and just utterly disappointed.
Then I told her what I was going to do and that was even worse. I come from a Mexican, Catholic family and from a very religious mother. She didn’t try to lecture me or tell me I was going to hell though. She just – in what is perhaps the saddest and most disappointed sounding voice I’ve ever heard her use – told me it was wrong and went against God. Outside of that phone call, we’ve never talked about it again, but I have no doubts she’s probably prayed for my soul repeatedly in the nine years since though.
In the days that followed I also told two of my roommates, who were also my best friends at the time (one still is and I’m going to be in her wedding this September – hey Lors!). I also told another really close friend of mine at the time – Mandy. Mandy would also be the person to accompany me on the day of. The appointment was scheduled for the Friday that spring break started, so my other two friends would be gone already on that day. Mandy was able to work things out so she could come with me on Friday and travel back home later.
Telling each of those three friends about the pregnancy and what I was going to do pretty much followed the same process, even though I told them all on separate occasions: disbelief, acceptance, support. Over the next few years, I eventually shared my story with other close friends, my sister, and now - 9 years later - with everybody on the internet apparently! I’ve become much more open about it. I’ve never been embarrassed or regretful of the decision I made, I just chose to be very private about it. I don’t even think I told my husband until we had been dating for over two years (and he was amazing about it, by the way – very accepting and supportive as well).
The day of finally came. I don’t think I got more than an hour or two of sleep the night before. Don’t eat – check. Comfy clothes – check. We had to leave Ames early since the appointment was forty-five minutes away – I wonder if that clinic is still there? I also needed to stop by the bank so that I could withdraw $250 – my out of pocket portion that I really felt I needed to pay for in cash. At that time, my mom was also on my account … I didn’t want her to see the transaction and be reminded of my fuck up. So, cash it was.
We got to the clinic and had to go through a metal detector first – talk about sketchy AF. But I suppose it is an abortion clinic and at some point, somebody has probably tried bringing a gun into one. The security guard also rummaged through our purses thoroughly before letting us in the heavy metal locked door that led to a waiting area. The waiting room appeared “normal” enough, except for the fact that all of the receptionists were in little windows behind glass, probably bullet proof. I went up to a window and checked in, paid, and then was told to wait for my name to be called. I remember looking around at the other people that were there. There was a young couple sitting off to my right and the song “Brick” by Ben Folds Five started playing on repeat in my head. If you don’t know the song, it’s based on a true story about the lead singer taking his girlfriend to have an abortion.
I couldn’t help but wonder if everyone else was there for the same thing? To this day, I don’t know if that clinic only does abortions or if they do regular Planned Parenthood stuff too. After what seemed like an eternity and “Brick” playing in my head at least seventy-five times, they finally called my name. Mandy couldn’t come back with me, so I had to go alone. This was the mental health assessment portion of it process.
They took me back and sat me at a round table decorated with a vase full of cheap, fake flowers. A lady came in – a nurse, counselor, I don’t know. This is the part where they ask you if you’re really sure that you’re sure. Are you depressed? Do you feel safe in your home? Is anyone forcing you to do this? Do you have supports? Who are they? Who have you told? Are you sure you want to do this? After that, they return you to the waiting room for more - yes, you guessed it - more waiting.
Eventually I was called back in again, but this time when I came back out I wouldn’t be pregnant anymore. I was escorted back to room and told to undress before being taken to another room where I was told I would have an ultrasound done. This, I’m ALMOST POSITIVE, is a last-ditch attempt to see if you’ll change your mind. They conduct the ultrasound and show you the screen with the black and white moving lines that don’t really look like much but you know it’s a baby and you hear the heartbeat and everything! I’m convinced this is the part where most women have a change of heart. The nurse asked me if I wanted a picture and I declined. I don’t know why, but to this day, the ONLY regret I have about the entire thing is that I said no to the picture.
Then they ask you if you’re sure again.
Again, I said yes, I’m sure.
After that, I was taken to another room that was cold, white, and sterile where I was told to lay on the table with the stirrups. Blood pressure and vitals and all that was taken before I was hooked up to an IV and given a “mild” sedative that made me loopy and drowsy AF, but kept me very much awake the entire time.
I remember there was a nurse there and I’m pretty sure her only role was “emotional support.” She stood by my head the entire time, talked to me, and held my hand. The doctor came in and all I remember was that she was a female and had dark hair.
Then, it started. There was a machine and it was loud. Because of the medication, I don’t remember much and that’s probably for the best. It was uncomfortable and at some points utterly painful, but the nurse kept on holding my hand and she talked to me about her recent trip to Africa. A few minutes later, the noise stopped, and the silence was deafening. The doctor told me we were almost done .... but they had to “check the tissue” to make sure they “got it all.” THAT was probably the most disturbing part of the entire process and forever burned into my memory. If they had some sort of survey or suggestion card, my feedback would just be “Thank you for what you do, but please don’t say that to any woman ever again.”
Afterwards, I was taken to a “recovery” area, which was really just a big room with a bunch of recliners separated by curtains. There were other women there recovering from what I can only imagine was the same procedure I just had. There was a small t.v. in my little area and they gave me saltine crackers and 7UP. Thankfully, Mandy was allowed to come back and sit with me during this point. I wasn’t there for very long and was eventually just discharged. No follow up appointment scheduled or needed – just off you go. Thanks for coming ... try not to come again?
I was pretty drowsy and nodded in and out for the entire drive back home. We arrived at my apartment, but Mandy could only stay long enough to drop me off because she had to hit the road. When I got home, I was alone. Everyone was on spring break.
I remember having Bear Creek chicken noodle soup for dinner that night and that it was just the most comforting thing in the world that I could provide myself in that moment. To this day, I crave that when I’m sick because it feels so comforting to me, but it reminds me of that day every time I have it. I laid on the couch for most of that evening, swaddled up in blankets and watching chick flick rom-coms back to back as I battled through some of the absolute worst cramps of my life. I was told that was to be expected and that I should treat them with advil and heating pads – thanks for the awesome tips Nurse Judy! Anyway, it was a very emotionally charged night filled with lots of tears, wallowing, and self-pity. At one point, probably the lowest point of the entire day, I felt so alone that I called Wade.
We talked and I told him I missed him and he said he missed me too. Then, in a moment of desperation from the overwhelming loneliness I was consumed by, I asked him if we could get back together. He said he didn’t think that was a good idea and that was the last time we talked ... until two years later when he called me out of the blue, told me that letting me go was the biggest mistake he ever made, and asked me to take him back. I asked him if he was rich and in the NHL – just kidding I didn’t ask him that because I KNEW he hadn’t made it past the first round of tryouts. Anyway, I declined his offer. Another side note: about two more years after that, he called me again … this time to ask me if I had HIV. He was going to go donate blood and knew they would ask him. This is when I truly realized what a fucking moron he was. We never did anything sexual so even if I did have HIV how the fuck would I have given it to him? I gave him a crash course in sex ed. and sexually transmitted diseases and never heard from him again.
Anyway, eventually I wore myself out from all the crying and fell asleep on the couch that night. I woke up the next morning, still achy and cramping, and drove back to my parents’ house to spend spring break at home. Life just kind of went on. I didn’t talk about it with my mom when I got home. I didn’t really talk about it with the friends that I had told at the time either. It happened, I wallowed for a night, accepted it, and I moved on.
There just wasn’t much to process. I was at peace with my decision. I do not regret it whatsoever. I would repeat it without hesitation if placed back in those same shoes and given a do-over.
I can recognize what a selfish decision it was. I was only looking out for myself. I never even tried to reach out to Chris. I didn’t want to give up the life I led and where I was going. A baby would have disrupted and derailed everything in my life. Yes, it was selfish.
I look at everything I’ve been able to accomplish because I was able to choose to not have a baby at 19. I graduated college with two degrees and started law school by 21. I graduated with honors from law school and became a licensed attorney by 24. Four years out of law school and I have a job I absolutely fucking love, a nice car, a nice home, and a fucking amazing husband. A friend of mine recently told me I have a “very charmed life and it only keeps getting better.”
That is absolutely true – I do and I have no doubt that I would not be here or anywhere even near here if I hadn’t made that choice. I would have dropped out of college. I would have moved back in with my parents and returned to that black hole of a hometown that just sucks ambitious people in and holds them captive forever. I’ve seen it happen to the kids I grew up with, the kids in my neighborhood, kids I went to high school with. Now, there’s nothing wrong with small-town life or building your life in the town you grew up in – there is absolutely nothing wrong with that if it’s what you want and how you consciously choose to live your life. But that was never what I wanted; I wanted out and I wanted different. If I had been forced into that life, I have no doubt I would just be a burnt out, hopeless, and resentful woman today.
In my version of “Brick,” the brick would have been not having the termination. If you know the lyrics, you’ll understand the reference. Not going through with it is what would have made me “drown slowly” and had me “headed nowhere,” so I have no regrets.
I am so thankful for organizations like Planned Parenthood and the National Network of Abortion Funds that make it possible for women to have a say in how their lives pan out. To have options and the ability to make a conscious choice about the matter. I put my story out there because I am not ashamed and believe there should be more open discussions about a woman’s right to choose and why it is so important. Lastly, if the sharing of my story can bring the slightest ease or peace of mind to even just one woman who is facing this choice or has made that choice, then sharing this is absolutely worth it.
