09.03.19
‘They’ say that your body knows when you don’t want a baby, for me, I felt like mine did. But nonetheless, I drank excessive amounts of orange juice and took vitamins in hopes that the vitamin C would turn my womb from a welcoming incubator to an inhospitable wasteland. (This is because Vitamin C has the ability to weaken the bond between the wall of the uterus and the egg.)
I woke up the day my period was due, knowing that its habitual crimson should be staining my inner thighs to find only my skin, white and laced in stretch marks. My Mother worked in a clinic for a few years, and, assumedly knowing that I was in my early 20’s I was sexually active, kept condoms and pregnancy tests in the bathroom for me and my friends, if ever we needed them.
That day I picked up the thin pink metallic foil, and gingerly peeled it open. It wasn’t a long, thick stick like the ones in movies, it was the small, very thin one you get at the doctors when they pop it in that vile of urine. I went to the bathroom, I peed on the stick, I waited.
It didn’t take long for it to mark as positive.
Immediately a gut punch of dread hit me and I began to sob. The initial panic lasted about half an hour, I paced, still sniffing, calling my long-distance boyfriend to tell him what happened.
I’m debating whether or not his reaction was important, but I suppose we’d been on the same page all along. I doubt I would have changed my mind regardless of his reaction, I think I would have just been made to feel bad about it. In this sense, and many others, I’m very lucky. Quite simply, his reaction was a heart wrenching “shit.” Full of guilt and remorse and regret. We had never wanted children. We weren’t financially stable, we were so young, we barely in love at this point and a list of other arbitrary reasons that piled underneath the most domineering: I didn’t want a baby.
Before we fully talked it through I knew what I was going to do. As my Mother worked in a clinic she often worked with the neighbouring clinic that specialised in testing and (in hushed tones) abortions. I was grateful for those in-car whispers, and although whispering might have implied shame, there was nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed by.
As soon as I hung up I arranged an appointment. I’m sure it felt like I had to wait forever. Initially during the process, I was upset, particularly when talking about it to a nurse – who, along with all staff members were incredibly kind to me – not because I felt bad for “killing” off something in me, but for having put myself under so much strain that could have been avoided. For hosting the last remaining spec of love in my relationship that was soon to be no more. It was all such a tragic, beautiful metaphor.
I was so early releasing I was pregnant that it wouldn’t show up on a scan, and I had to wait another two weeks for a procedure to even be carried out. Because I was so early it also meant that I got the pill and not the machine. I understand how vastly different these procedures are and I can’t imagine how it felt for those who had endured such stress, to say the least. In this sense I am lucky; I had been spared the vicious claws of the machine.
Weeks passed, I waited endlessly. On days, I knew I refused to be weighed down by the literal weight and exhaustion that my body suddenly carried; I worked out with my friends but resigned to bed for hours. My kitten, Binx, slept on my lower stomach…she knew. She comforted me as we slept aside one another.
For me, it was exhausting: debilitating is often the word I use to describe it. It felt so physically restrictive that I could barely do anything; my mom blamed it on my recent travels, she wasn’t to know until a few years later. The odd thing is she went through a similar experience at 22, but that’s her story to tell, not mine.
Because when I returned for the final scan before the procedure, the nurses informed me that the collection of bean shaped cells hadn’t grown, and that there was a good chance that it wouldn’t make it. Kindly, the choice of “naturally” letting it pass and me, actively making it pass were given to me. They said they understood the importance to some to let it occur without interference. I was steadfast on actively ensuring that it wouldn’t stick, tethered by the fear of having to become a mother, to carry a child.
“You sure?!”
I nodded vigorously and shuffled into another room. The nurse gave me a tablet orally and one anally; she administered two pain killers and gave me a wad of pads and paracetamol. The procedure itself was fairly non-invasive and quick. I couldn’t have been in there for more than ten minutes. I was dismissed within ten minutes. My boyfriend quickly came to my side (we thought it would take longer) both eager to get home before the contractions came.
Little to no blood appeared, and I was concerned. I called them up as hours passed and nothing seemed to happen. They assured me it was normal, so I lazed about until a sudden pain pincered my insides; it crushed my womb inwards and I doubled over. I could barely call my boyfriend’s name before I was being sick and shitting with violent convulsions.
“I need you to get me the pain killers? Ok?” I said, wincing and crying as I sat on the loo until the nausea and bowel movements stopped. Everything was liquid anyway.
Soon after he passed me the pills and water through the bathroom door I crawled back into bed, holding myself together as the cramps continued to contract and expel the cells from my womb. I felt breathless, I couldn’t talk. But soon the drugs kicked in, and as the pain ceased a fraction, it was enough to be pulled under by the drugs. I fell asleep for two hours, clammy and restless.
He didn’t hold me. I wish he had.
My experience is an incredibly privileged one. For me, everything went as painlessly as possible. The timeline ran its course without much interruption and little restriction; let’s make it clear, I had just finished my undergraduate degree and was looking for a job, but I had enough from my loan, part time job and my mother (who let me live rent free) to help me get by.
I also knew where to go, I had a (somewhat) supportive partner, access to information and an understanding family and safe practitioners. I was incredibly lucky, I am incredibly lucky to have access to these services, for free nonetheless. I’m white, I can’t imagine or truly understand how difference my experience would have been if I wasn’t. The intersection of race, class and gender politics is so deeply nuanced and complex; that’s not to say I shouldn’t attempt to tackle it.
I thought my mom would be angry, but as always, she was understanding, and she shared with me her experience of a losing, what she considered, a child and holding a sense of great, swelling loss. For me, the gene of motherly love has stuck fast on animals and never shifted to that of children.
I openly shared my experience whenever the opportunity arose, primarily to destigmatise it, to attempt to unravel the patriarchal/societal discourse surrounding it. To unwrap layers of archaic notions of shame, to grate away at the policing of sexualities (that are deemed so horrific the victim blaming attitude of “well what else did you expect?” came to result in carrying a baby you don’t want as punishment for your sexual behaviours) to assert agency and the right to choose, and to normalise a medical procedure that is more often than not, life saving for a multiplicity of reasons.
In short, to reduce it to its sweet simplicity: I have no remorse surrounding my decision to expel a bunch of cells in my body.
As I shared my story I came to find myself in the same space as two other people who had also recently experienced having an abortion. I can’t speak for them, but for me it gave me a sense of solace. I wondered what could happen if we all spoke up, shared our experiences more (in safe spaces and communities – not everything has to be shouted from the rooftops – safety is paramount.) my hope is, than in sharing my experience, I can positively contribute to the discourse surrounding abortion, for all the reasons above and more. I hope that one other person can find comfort, as I did, particularly those who weren’t as lucky as I, doused in orange juice
PIP 