When I was 21 years old, I was working as a peer supporter in my local community. One day in late August of 2021, I was in the office and I remember feeling so sick all of a sudden. I decided to leave early that day after my coworker affirmed that I looked “gray.” On my drive home, I called my mom to help me pass the 7 minutes of drivetime between my work and my parents house. I could’ve thrown up at any minute. I asked my mom to meet me at the door with a bucket, because I knew I was going to be sick as soon as I got home. I took the bucket straight up to my room–I didn’t pass go or collect $100. I threw up for the first time in years. Despite this being a very unusual occurrence for me, I attributed it to the Panera Bread I ate the day before. Little did I know, this event marked the beginning of the most traumatizing two month span of my life.
I’ll never forget the day I found out. It was Memorial Day in September of 2021. I still lived with my family – my dad, mom, and little brother. My boyfriend at the time was over that day for my family’s Memorial Day cookout. The entire maternal-side of my family was over for the gathering. I remember getting overstimulated by my family–which was a common occurrence at that point in my life–and my boyfriend and I went upstairs to my room to take a break from the festivities.
I joked with him about not getting my period, and maybe I was pregnant because that would explain why I was feeling ‘moody.’ After some back and forth, I decided to take a pregnancy test to ease my worries. Because subconsciously, I was never really joking.
I went into the upstairs bathroom to take one of the pregnancy tests I had lying around. I had a plethora of them back then, because I was so viscerally afraid of getting pregnant. If I was even a day late, I would take a test ‘just to be sure.’ So I went ahead and took one of the many tests I had, which wasn’t an unusual occurrence for me. With all my previous experience taking pregnancy tests, I had the process down to a science. Pee on stick, wait 3 minutes, sit with gut-wrenching anxiety during those 3 minutes, get negative result, and move about my day. The process this time was no different, except I didn’t get that negative result that my mental well-being so heavily relied on. The Clear Blue piss stick was lighting up menacingly with the word, ‘Pregnant.’
After taking a moment to myself, I came back to my bedroom and looked at my boyfriend with eyes the size of saucers. Somehow I managed to tell him, “It’s positive.” He thought I was joking. “You’re not serious. Let me see it.” I handed it to him, and somehow he stayed grounded. He said, “Well, what do you want to do? We have options. I have my thoughts, but this is ultimately your decision.” He couldn’t have said anything more reassuring than that in that moment. My mind was a cluster fuck, and all I knew for certain in that moment was that 1) my family couldn’t find out, and 2) they were all waiting downstairs for us.
After promising to discuss it more later, my boyfriend and I rejoined the festivities. The rest of that day is a blur. My mind was in another galaxy, picturing in vivid detail every possibility. I was critically analyzing the pros and cons of every scenario: “Do I put my schooling and career on hold to raise a child? Is this the man I want to have children with? We’ve only been together a few months. The timing isn’t right and I barely know him. Can my body handle this? I have a laundry list of health issues. I think it’d be unethical to bring a child into the world who I know has a high likelihood of inheriting my physical and mental health issues. The world is on fire; literally and figuratively. Would it be unjust to bring an innocent life into the world knowing how fucked up everything is. We’re living in an era of endless war, genocides, systematic oppression, racism, and sexism. But what if I was a mother? I would be a good mother. My family (and society) have told me so. But if I was a mother, would I lose myself? Would I be happy? Would I be happy? Would I be happy?”
Once the family gathering concluded, my boyfriend and I went through the options. It became clear to both of us that I needed an abortion. It wasn’t the right time, the right person, the right political climate, nor ethical for me to have a child. I searched for abortion clinics in my area, and found that the closest one was about 35 minutes away.
The next day at work, I found a private office where I snuck in and made that first phone call. The person who answered the phone was a beacon of hope. They explained the process, gathered my information, and scheduled my first appointment. In my state, there’s a mandatory 24 hour waiting period between the initial abortion consultation and the actual procedure. My boyfriend wanted to drive me to both appointments, so they needed to be scheduled on Saturdays, which happened to be their most booked day of the week. I ended up waiting a few weeks for the initial consultation, and another few weeks for the procedure.
During the weeks that I was waiting for the consultation appointment, I became sicker and sicker. I was getting ill multiple times a day, everyday, without any respite. My family was scared that something was seriously wrong with me. And they would later find out that there in fact was.
Telling my parents was another impossible task amidst the other impossible tasks that I was navigating at the time. I had to quit my job because of how sick I was. I sought out emergency services four times for dehydration. During one visit, the doctors incidentally found out that I had a subchorionic hemorrhage, which could’ve been life threatening.
Eventually, I mustered up the courage to tell my mom exactly what was going on. She was my rock and supported me through everything, and I thought she would maintain that track record through this. To my surprise, she started bawling once I told her. She couldn’t see past that this was “a potential grandchild.” From my point of view, she was using my pain as a catalyst to curate her own suffering. I made her promise not to tell my dad, and she kept that promise. In the meantime, she sulked around the house for weeks with a tissue at the ready. She spent her days crying and begging me to reconsider my decision. Mind you, she is a staunch liberal and believes in abortion access for all. But for some reason, this situation was “different” because I was “her own child.”
Eventually it got to a point where I felt that I needed to tell my dad. My thought process was, “Maybe he can be the mediator between me and mom, and metaphorically knock some sense into her. Maybe he can help her see my suffering.” He’s always been logical, analytical, and a ‘pros-and-cons’ type guy.
I asked them both to come into my room. They sat down and I told my dad what was going on. In a roundabout way, he said I was on my own with this one and that my mom’s feelings were valid. I later found out that they both cried about the situation in private together, which I couldn’t (and still don’t) understand. Their only daughter was violently ill, on the brink of dehydration, starvation, and a potentially life-threatening complication all because of this clump of cells that had taken over my body like some alien lifeform.
The next week or so was filled with many sleepless nights, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts and intent, repeated ER visits, unproductive conversations with my family, and days without eating due to the overwhelming sickness.
Finally, the day of my consultation came around. My boyfriend drove me to the appointment. We sat in silence for the most part. Once we arrived, he escorted me to the front door of the clinic. I was faced with protestors who held gruesome signs of babies covered in blood. They screamed, “Mommy! Why don’t you want me, mommy? I’m innocent! Don’t kill me, mommy!” In a fit of rage, I screamed back, “I’m here for STD treatment you fucking idiots!” That’s the only thing I could think to tell them at the time. In hindsight, I should’ve just called them “Fucking idiots” and called it a day. I could’ve left out the STD lie.
The initial appointment went as well as it could have. I was there for hours, but that was their process. I completed an intake form that asked a million questions about my health history, history of pregnancies, demographic information, and many more that my brain has blocked out (most likely as a trauma response). I met with the kindest volunteer who walked me through my options. She didn’t judge me, which was a nice change of pace from the way my family was treating me. Despite my overwhelming fear of surgery and anesthesia, I decided to do a surgical abortion. For me, it seemed like the most comfortable, the quickest, and most painless option. In that moment, I was more afraid of staying pregnant than I was of the risks associated with surgery and anesthesia. To ease my anxiety a bit, I asked the volunteer if I could see what one of the surgery rooms looked like. From an outsiders perspective, it probably looked cold, clinical, and unwelcoming. But for me, all I could see was hope and ‘the other side,’ whatever that might be. I saw my future; my childfree future.
On October 2nd, 2021, I went in for the procedure. In the same fashion as the initial appointment, my boyfriend escorted me to the door. This time, the protestors were even closer. So close, in fact, that the security guard came outside and pushed us into the building for our safety, while simultaneously telling the protestors that they were “trespassing and if they didn’t get the fuck off of the property, [she’d] be calling the cops.” I felt so comforted by her actions and quick thinking in that moment. Out of everyone I met at that clinic, she stood out the most to me. She exuded strength and fearlessness. She had an unwavering dedication to protecting the people coming to that clinic for help, and she wasn’t going to let a protestor stand in the way between someone’s access to care.
While preparing for the procedure, I remember feeling vulnerable while I undressed from the waist down and laid on the table with a paper ‘blanket.’ I asked for a volunteer to sit with me, since I wasn’t allowed to bring outside visitors into the appointment. The volunteer held my hand and offered comforting words. I couldn’t feel anything. The medication was doing it’s job.
Once the procedure was over, I somehow got dressed and stumbled into the recovery area, despite still feeling dizzy from the anesthetic. As I sat in the recovery room, I remember thinking, “It’s over. This chapter is closed. It’s over. I’m free.” I ended up throwing up from the anesthesia. Despite vomiting countless times throughout my pregnancy, this time it felt different. It felt like my body was purging this chapter of my life–ridding itself of the guilt, shame, disgust, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and hopelessness. The recovery nurse gave me juice and crackers. After a while, a volunteer escorted me outside to my boyfriend’s truck. I got in with my complimentary doggie bag, 12 800mg Ibuprofens, and post-anesthesia instructions, and we drove home. I was in and out of consciousness for the 35 minute drive back, but I remember every 5 minutes or so saying, “It’s over. I can’t believe it’s over.”
Everyday, I feel grateful that I was offered a choice to have an abortion. I’m thankful to live in a state that allows abortion. I feel indebted to the volunteers and staff at the clinic who unknowingly saved my life that day. If I didn’t have access to abortion, I know I would’ve either been a really shitty mom, or I would’ve ended my life. There’s no question about it.
Today, I have an incredible career. I’m almost done with my degree. I bought a house with my long-term partner. We have a dog. I’m exploring my creative side again–writing music, playing the piano, writing poetry, singing. And most of all, we’re happy. I’m alive and I’m happy. I wouldn’t have been able to say that if I didn’t have access to abortion care. I’m happy.
