Abortion is Healthcare

I had an abortion when I was 21. I don't usually tell anyone about that. I am not ashamed. I am simply sad. And I feel it to the core of my being.

I did not want an abortion, I wanted a baby. I had always wanted babies. Many. It was in my plan. Unfortunately, my long-term partner did not want a child. He was seven years older than me and had been married and had a child. He had his heart broken when he divorced and had sworn never to re-marry or have more children. I think he secretly also swore never to love again, which is why he always kept me at arm's distance even though he did love me.

But, given my childhood, loving someone who pretended not to love me felt normal. I was scared to death when I found out that I was pregnant. But I was also excited. I was six weeks along and had gone to the doctor thinking that I had an ulcer. I was shocked to find out that I was pregnant. Literally shocked; I started chanting the word "What" then fell to the ground and turned ghostly white. This was not what I expected. 

I told my boyfriend and the first words out of his mouth were, "What are your thoughts on abortion?" I immediately had him drive me to the bookstore and purchased the book What to Expect When You are Expecting. I thought he would come around. Because I knew deep down that he loved me. And I knew what his values were. He was a good guy, he was just scared.

But, for six weeks he rode me. Daily. Grinding me into the ground, "You and that baby will starve to death on ramen before I help you." We had stopped living together. I cried myself to sleep every single night alone in my bed. Actually, it wasn't a bed. I was sleeping on a stack of blankets because I couldn't afford a bed. I was dirt poor. I was working for $5.25 an hour at a convenience store. My boyfriend was rich, literally rich, and he just watched me suffer.

I got a terrible cold and didn't take anything for it and it seemed to last forever. I quit smoking, cold turkey, the day that I found out. I was having terrible withdrawal symptoms but couldn't do anything for it. It was winter and I had been diagnosed with Major Chronic Depression, which was always far worse for me in the long dark winter months. So, to put it mildly, I was a mess.

My boyfriend's younger brother, who was my age, was an addict. Hardcore. He was looking at prison time for hitting an old man in the side of the head with his skateboard. He started showing up and talking to me, nicely. He said that if his brother wasn't going to do the right thing then he would. It felt really good to be treated kindly. Even if he always stank of alcohol while he talked to me.

One night, immediately after a huge blowup with my boyfriend where he broke up with me and said that he no longer wanted to talk to me, I went to his brother's house. I was inconsolable. We had sex. I went completely numb and limp and I cried silently. Immediately afterwards his brother said that he had plans for later that night. He got up and got ready to leave. I quietly left and drove myself home. I had hit Rock Bottom. 

The next day I found an abortion clinic. And I made the appointment for the following week. I kept to myself for that week. Broken Hearted and Barely Alive. 

I went to bed the night before my appointment. I laid awake for hours. I wasn't thinking at all, I was just lying there in physical pain. My heart and soul were completely broken. I had just dozed off... 

I was later told by my roommate that there had been loud knocking on the door. It was my boyfriend's brother. My roommate just let him in and went back to bed. 

He came into my bedroom. He was drunk and high and stunk. He took off his clothes and laid down next to me. All I said was, "NO. I can't. It will hurt the baby." And I said this over and over again as he climbed on top of me and tried to take my clothes off. I struggled against him. This lasted for about 10 minutes. He shouted "Fuck!" and then he jumped up and put one hand around my throat while he masturbated in my face. 

When he was done he rolled off of me. I just laid there and I think that he thought he was going to sleep. I began pushing him to get up,  I lied to him and told him that his brother was coming over and that we had plans to talk. I begged him to leave. "Please, you have to go before he gets here." Finally he stood up and headed for the door. As he was leaving he looked back at me and said, "I love you."

As soon as he was gone I ran to the bathroom and vomited. I laid on the bathroom floor. I spent the rest of the night locked in the bathroom. And in the morning I made the three hour drive to Portland for my appointment. That was the closest clinic to my home.

When I got to the clinic I had to verify my identity with an armed security guard and he had to buzz me in through a metal door that had a glass window. The window had a sign on it saying that it was bulletproof.

The women at the clinic were very kind to me. They explained to me ALL of my options and they answered all of my questions.

I am to be the first person seen today. But, I’m not the only one there early. I look around the waiting room and it occurs to me that I am the only woman there alone. All of the women have men with them. But, I think that I am not really alone. No, for a few more precious moments I have my baby with me, in me, a part of me.

My memory magically transplants me from the internal hysteria of the waiting room to the blind numb fear in the tiny back closet of a changing room. I’m sitting on an army cot.They give me a basket for my clothes and a gown to put on. My clothes seem to melt and fall into the basket.  Somehow I manage to tie the knots on the gown. Now I sit again.

My hands on my stomach, holding my baby for the last time. Holding my stomach as if I were nine months pregnant and waiting for the doctor to arrive and deliver my baby. Deliver me. 

Blackness, again a magical transportation of my body into another room. I am lying on the table. There is a girl sitting next to me. She is explaining that they will only be giving me nitrous because I have to drive myself home and the valium would last too long.

No memory.   NITROUS.

A doctor. What happened first? Talking. The feeling of de JA vu. I know everything she is going to say before she says it. Giving me more nitrous, she asks about my schooling and blah, blah, blah.  She’s holding my hand.

I think?

Or, did I just grab her hand. Grabbing and gripping her hand in pain. The sound of a vacuum.  Roaring so loud in my ears.  

WOOSHING

WOOSHING

NITROUS

Sucking. All I can hear is bloody sucking. So much pain. So unreal. Wet Sucking. I can hardly breathe. Are they stabbing me with knives? Are they tearing my uterus out of me? I’m being ripped apart. What are they doing?

Oh God Stop!

Tearing my baby apart. Tearing my soul out my cunt. Darkness. Bright beautiful flashes of a beautiful baby boy, Vincent. I see a daughter, Kiara. Voices again. Why am I hearing everything twice? “Almost done.” Heard twice or was it heard once and remembered once? Picture in my mind of my beautiful mutilated baby. Bloody arm, face, leg – all in a clear plastic garbage bag.

No memory.  Only absolute darkness.

I find myself hunched over and walking into the “recovery” room. As if I could ever recover from this. Still high. Still dying. I lay on a gurney next to a window. There is a heating pad placed on my now empty uterus.  

Finally, I cry.  

Sob. 

Shake.

And I apologize for crying to anyone who will listen. I lay their trembling and staring out the window. I look at the tall buildings of Portland. So different from my home. Look at those tall buildings. 

The city.  

“I will never forget how the world looks at this moment.”

Unexpectedly I call for the nurse. I ask her if I am bleeding because I feel wet all over but I can’t seem to pull myself up to look. She lifts the sheet and says “a little” and leaves.

Now, after staring, crying, praying, resting and trying to stop the pain. I ask for help getting up.  I can go when I’m ready. When did they tell me that? I think I’m ready.

I’m led to the bathroom, still hunched over from the pain. I’m staring at the two girls who have been added to the room. One looks how I feel, and the other one looks like she just had her hair cut and isn’t quite sure if she likes it.

“Don’t flush the swabs - they will clog the toilet.”  

“What?”

“Make sure you use a pad, not a tampon.”

“What?”

I’m in the bathroom now trying to figure out why I can no longer understand anything.

I look down.

My white gown is solid red from the waist down. Did that happen after I asked the nurse if I was bleeding?

Did she lie to keep me calm? Or is this really only a little bit of blood to her?

I’m trying to dress when the door opens.

“oops - sorry”

I smile “oh that’s o.K.”

Now I am gone. When did I leave the clinic? How did I get out of the building? How did I manage to find my car? My key?  I have a yellow pouch of pills in my hand. Advil? 800mg?

I also have a pocket full of big bulky pads. The kind I haven’t worn since I was in middle school. 

My time warp has again transplanted me somewhere new. I’m sitting in my car.

I will tell everyone I miscarried. I don’t need to tell anyone the truth. They won’t understand.  

They will think I’m bad.

OW!!

It still hurts so badly.  

Three hour drive home. Home to the world of no abortions. Home to the world of my judgmental family, my distant friends, and my boyfriend who wanted this. But I won’t tell him  I won’t let him think he won. My decision. My choice. Not his.

I will deal with this alone. Because now, I am alone.

I was two that became one.

I thank God that I had the choice and that I made the choice that I did. I'm grateful that I could have a safe and legal abortion. I could not imagine having to go through what I did while also having to procure an illegal abortion. Because I would have had an abortion either way. If I had to drive to Mexico or go to a stranger's dirty basement it wouldn't have mattered because I would have made the same choice. Nothing could have stopped me.

Abortion is Healthcare. Abortion is private. Abortion decisions should be made between a woman and her doctor. Women across this country should not have to tell their private stories. But we do. Because, unfortunately, the private is political. And, the only way that we can secure the right of all women to make their own medical decisions with only their doctor is by telling our stories. And by voting. And by being an activist for other women. #metoo