It Was Feminine & Sterile.

And isn’t that so telling of Women’s (and trans, and lgbtq+) healthcare in this country?

My hands are shaking. Not sure if it’s from the content itself, or the amount of coffee I’ve had in order to channel the courage to write it.

My journey with motherhood started long before the version of motherhood you see me living today. It started 9 years ago, when I had an abortion at 23 years old. Over the past year and a half of telling new stories and having bold conversations, I’ve thought a lot about my 23 year old self, and the choice I made then; and when - or if - I would ever share it here. 

The Decision

I was 11 days late, and took a test. For any sexually active woman, you’ve likely had this exact experience - a scare, “Shit, let me take a test just to give peace of mind.” And then, in an instant, two pink lines showed up. My eyes stung with tears, and looking up at my then boyfriend, his eyes were fear-filled.

We stared at each other, and I remember collapsing into bed thinking my life was over. The next day I had to return to a high-pressure job, and continue living my ‘big life’ with a big secret inside. I said to him, and he mirrored back, “We can’t do this right now.” That decision has continued to be an unspoken part of our relationship in the decade that followed. Especially in parallel with friends who welcomed a child at the same time ours would have born. 

Finding Care

I called my doctor. I explained to them that I was pregnant, and did not want to continue the pregnancy. Their tone turned very cold, explaining to me they didn’t do that kind of procedure, and I would need to find somewhere else. I was taken aback, I didn’t realize this wasn’t something OBGYNs didn’t cover; that this was care deemed untouchable. 

I called around and found a clinic in my area. I went for an initial visit. They require a mental health check, an exam, and for you to live with the decision for a few days to make sure you’re “sure.” That week was hell; filled with shame, uncertainty and grief. I turned to my mom, my sister, and a close friend. Together, this small army of women held me upright, and for that I’ll always be grateful for the power of womanhood. 

Terrified to tell my mom, when I finally did, she said, “This is your choice. But when you make it, you have to accept it. Forgive yourself and do not question it. It’s going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done.” In the years that follow, I’m so grateful that we have a shared knowledge of what happened; that I can speak to the one person in the world who understands me and also the gravity of that choice. And, even though her decision would have likely been different, she supported me in my right to choose mine. 

That’s the power of a mother.

Day Of

There are distinct moments I recall; and most are in flashes of a memory.

The day of the abortion, I showed up at the clinic, expecting to take an oral pill that would end the pregnancy over several days. Pulling into the parking lot there were a half-dozen people - men and women - with signs of aborted fetuses yelling about my pending decision. 

I had never been this close to something like this; I was no longer the “good girl,” instead I was now a living example of the “worst thing that you could do.” Every young woman knows this narrative - get knocked up and your life is over; don’t have sex and you’re a prude; have sex and you’re a whore; have a child you’re unable to care for and you’re irresponsible; decide not to have a child and you’re selfish.

Inside, I was called back, with my partner having to stay in the lobby to protect the women and their privacy in the back. I was offered to hear the heartbeat; I declined. It wasn’t a path I could fathom; I had to forgive myself for what I was about to do, and I never could if I knew it was something more than 2 cells colliding. 

The medical staff explained to me the difference between an oral and surgical abortion. The oral would be very painful, taking several days; the surgical would be instant and allow for faster healing. I had to meet my partner in the lobby, and in a small public corridor discuss my options; on the doctor’s recommendation, we went with a surgical procedure. 

Terrified of a finger prick, to face this alone, paralyzed me. I remember laying back on an ice cold medical table, the nurse holding my hand as the anesthesia set in, and counting backwards from 10 as a stream of tears fell from the corner of my right eye. I woke up in a room with other women, lined up in our respective gurney beds - at least 25 of us - laying in a bay of “quiet what could have been.” I was disoriented, and the older woman next to me - at least 15 years my senior - put her hand on mine. She said, “It’s going to be OK. I have kids at home, and I just couldn’t have any more.” We both had tears. 

Afterwards

I tell the nurse that I am going to be sick - losing control on both ends. She tells me it’s just the medicine. Turns out it was my nerves, my shame. I pulled myself out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. I was there for 30 minutes pooping and puking all the grief out. 

I came out an hour or so later. My partner grabbed my hand, and led me to the bed. Later that evening, I remember I had a work call. I expected to work. (Let that sink in.) I assumed I would end my pregnancy, and go back to work within a few hours. 

I laid in the bed with my camera off, saying I was under the weather. 

This Week

Writing this is scary, because unlike the innocent women whose health is at risk, or are victims of abuse, my story is one of choice. It was one I did for my future self, my future family, my future partner, my future life, my future impact. I am the woman I am today, because of every choice I’ve made, including that one.

I struggled to share this because what is it that I really want to say? I want to say that pro-choice doesn’t mean pro-abortion. 10 years later, a decided mother myself now, I look back at my 23-year-old self and feel for her so deeply; the trauma and weight she carries. I look at what I would describe as the most feminine and sterile experience of my life; and isn’t that so telling of women (and trans, LGBTQ+) healthcare in this country. When we feel like we don’t belong and aren’t valued in these systems, it’s because we’re not. They are designed to dehumanize us, to minimize us, to rule us by shame and fear. 

I don’t wish an abortion on any person. But, what I also know to be true is removing the right and access to healthcare does not stop abortions; instead it stops safe abortions; it creates unprepared mothers; it perpetuates the false belief that women are unable or incapable of making sound, autonomous decisions about our bodies, health, and futures.

I dream of a world where not only we have choices, but we have systems and care that support and affirm our power individually and collectively.

And finally, while no abortion should require explanation, I share that my first pregnancy happened while actively using birth control and condoms - intentional, preventative measures to not have a child.