My Abortion Stories.

Photo by Morgania Moore

Not that it’s any of your business, but I want to tell you the stories of my abortions. I've had two of them. Both were under wildly different circumstances and times in my life, but neither have I ever dwelled upon with any ounce of regret or shame. So I want to tell you the story of both because now is the moment to share them. Cause, in the end, sharing always gets us through the darkness of uncertainty and comforts us to know that we are not alone. And right now, we must band together more than ever.

I was twenty years old when I had my first abortion. At the time, I was in a terribly intense, co-dependent, destructive relationship. I was wrapped up tight under his spell; he was my first real boyfriend, my first love, and he gave me my first orgasm. We moved in together after a few months and played house for a couple of years. At first, it was wonderfully fun, but as the years went on, his jealousy ensued when I wasn’t with him all the time, and our arguments became more frequent and much more dramatic. For months, I tried to break free, but each time I attempted to, he would manipulate me to change my mind. It took months to build up the courage to finally break up with him. Then, a few weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.

I called him in disbelief, hoping to get some supportive response, but instead, he said this was our "love child," and we must get back together and all about his feelings- blah blah - never asking about mine. Ultimately, his self-involved reaction only validated my decision to break up, and I hung up that conversation in tears, feeling so alone. Fortunately, I felt safe enough to tell my parents, and they were open and accepting of my choice to have an abortion. I was only 6 weeks along.

I stayed at my friends house the night before the procedure. We watched Cabaret, drank whiskey, ate pasta, and had a restless night's sleep filled with tear-stained pillows on his couch. The following day, my mother picked me up and took me to the gynecologist's office. The same gynecologist, I must add, who performed abortions all over the country when they were illegal a few decades before. He risked his life and would do it again if he were still alive today. He looked like Santa Claus and had the bedside manner of a grandfather - loving, kind, and larger than life. I immediately felt at ease.

The procedure happened in the office and lasted a handful of minutes. It felt like I was in a Charlie Chaplin movie, everything moving at warp speed. I had some cramping, but nothing too bad, and no complications. I was grateful it was over. After that, I kept thinking of all the young girls who didn't get any support and had to hide it from their parents and the terror they must be going through. I became painfully aware of how privileged I was to have been able to go through that with love and support in a safe, sterile environment. Since then, I have always supported non-profits that help women who aren’t as fortunate.

After my abortion, I lived the next decade, terrified of getting pregnant again. I explored all the birth control options in hopes of finding one that worked, but they are all awful. The pill made me utterly crazy and bloated, the diaphragm was a laughable mess at trying to get in and out, condoms irritated me, and when I had a copper IUD, my body started breaking out in weird cysts. Not to mention, I ended up getting pregnant with that thing, too (my son!). My point: having an unwanted pregnancy is sometimes impossible to prevent, no matter how responsible you are. Unless you forgo sex altogether and live in a hobbit on a hill.

My second abortion happened after I became a mother. One day, when I was nursing my then 10-month-old son, I noticed my milk dried up. I was also more tired than my usual exhaustion. I didn’t think I could be pregnant again as my husband and I rarely had sex during that time of baby tending. Let's say that the positive pregnancy test I took was very unexpected and hard to believe. I was utterly shocked I could be pregnant again. Still unaccepting of my situation, I called my gynecologist and told them I wanted to come into the office to see if it was a false positive. They chuckled and said, "I think six positive at-home tests confirm you are pregnant."

We always talked about having two kids but never did we think it would happen so soon after the first one, but these were the cards we were dealt. I tried to get excited about it and wrap my head around the reality and my growing belly, but I never could. I would even get prenatal massages, trying to spiritually connect with this little fetus growing inside me - nothing. I wasn't sure what to make of it until, at my 16-week ultrasound, my gynecologist noticed the formation of the left side of the heart wasn't looking normal. He assured us sometimes this happens and corrects itself. We just had to wait a few weeks for the more detailed structural ultrasound at 20 weeks. But, during that 20-week ultrasound, it had gotten worse. They quickly sent us to a few specialists to see how specific the diagnosis was, and more tests occurred. They found that it wasn't just the heart; the valves and the lung development were also compromised. Not to mention, the chance of surviving the full term wasn't high.

This was undoubtedly an incredibly hard thing to hear, let alone decide what we wanted to do. We were overwhelmed with grief but dove deep into researching the prognosis we were given (Hypoplastis Left Heart Syndrome). Needless to say, the information was dire:

1. The chances of the fetus surviving in utero were very low.

2. If the fetus made it to term and died in utero, I would have to deliver a stillborn.

3. If the fetus did survive, it would have to endure 6 open-heart surgeries before the age of 5 (if it lived that long).

4. If you had any other children that were healthy, their lives would be compromised too with this impending situation.

5. Not to mention, health insurance doesn't pay for all these surgeries and interventions. So, you would be stuck with a stack of bills to worry about on top of everything else.

I vividly remember waking up that next morning with a clear answer. Every part of my being was screaming a resounding NO. No way. I don't want to put this baby through all this. And, more to the point, I don't need to prove my strength as a woman if I choose to go through with it because these were the cards I was dealt. This, after all, is my body. I am the one who must endure it all, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I woke up that morning feeling grateful that I was able to have the information, understand my options, and make a choice that felt right for me. So, I very consciously chose to have a late-term abortion at 21 weeks. Was it a hard decision to make, absolutley, but it became easier once I had the information.

I had to go to a private medical building without any signs. A place that you needed to be referred to. A place that felt illegal but wasn’t. A clinic that was full of women who were knowledgeable, passionate, clean, safe, and overflowing with compassion. They supported me along with the two-day procedure with so much care. I remember being surprised, too, at how many women were in the waiting room in the same situation I was in. I felt comforted that I was not alone. We were all in it together and somehow silently helped each other through.

I kept thinking how interesting it was that I never felt connected to that pregnancy from the start. My belly was immense, but nothing - I honestly had no connection to it. Something I never experienced with my son or my daughter; both were an immediate connection even before I took a pregnancy test.

It’s outrageous that we are back to fighting for this basic human right. But here we are again, still fighting for the rights of our wombs. We live in a society where seemingly anyone can purchase a semi-automatic weapon and kill hundreds of innocent schoolchildren each year, yet now it’s illegal for a woman to have the right to her own body. Her OWN BODY. It’s insanity. It’s beyond comprehension. The only comfort in all this is that women are fierce, strong, resilient creatures whose instinct is to help each other. We are a tribe. Whether it be in friendship, motherhood, or strangers in need. We are always in the shadows, ready to lend a fearless hand, no matter the obstacle. Women as stubborn too, and no law will stop us from doing what we need to do for our particular situation. This means we have to fight harder, help each other navigate more, and support all these incredible organizations out there spearheading this underground movement, making sure women are still able to have this basic medical procedure done with respect, privacy, and safety.

I could go on and on, but I will leave you with a poem I wrote called The Storm.

my boys are asleep
all is quiet
except for the storm that has come
to cleanse me
wash over me
heal me
to settle and feel me
such a comfort in storms
the grey clouds
the water droplets
the wind
ah the wind
embraces me in a hug as teardrops fall as the rain
allowing myself to feel
for the first time in days
what has unearthed me
shaken me
extracted from me
belly sunk
without pain
without drama
with gratitude and ease
with love and comfort
with awareness and clarity
that nothing else could have been done.