I got pregnant in college. I worked late nights and had early morning classes, and simply forgot my birth control pill on occasion. My boyfriend at the time was kind and supportive, but I had no future plans with him. My mother is not a role model and I can see so much of her in me, I knew I never wanted children. I thought I had the flu and ended up in the ER, being told by a stern, condescending doctor, “you know you’re pregnant, right?” I cried for days. My parents took me to Planned Parenthood for my abortion. They encouraged me to make my own decision, but agreed with the choice.
I was met with screaming voices calling me a murderer. Someone held a plastic fetus in their hand against my car window as I was exiting the passenger side. Things were thrown at me, pamphlets, photos of angelic-looking babies in sunshine. There were handwritten letters to the fetuses all over the walls in the waiting room. I watched a video detailing the procedure. I was shaken and traumatized, but still couldn’t wait to be free again. This was in 2003. I have never wished I made a different decision and I thank myself frequently for not caving to the social pressure and extremist attacks. I’m blissfully happy to be child-free and will fight for the right I had to an abortion for all.
