A few years ago, my boyfriend and I were in a weird spot. I got pregnant. I told him with tears in my eyes, happy because I didn’t think that i was ever going to be able to get pregnant. I wanted to keep my baby, but my boyfriend wasn’t ready.
He asked me to terminate. He was panicking. We did love each other, but it was a wrench. Unplanned. We weren’t quite stable enough. But I was destroyed. I scheduled the abortion and I took care of it myself. Right before my appointment, my boyfriend wanted me to wait so we could think about it a little longer.
I was 7 weeks and I didn’t want to wait, because I didn’t want the procedure abortion. I wanted to take the medication and deal with it myself. I took the pill at home by myself, called into work and handled the worst of it before I had to see anyone else. I ended up telling my boyfriend I miscarried so he didn’t have to carry guilt. I cried, it took me a year to get over. I’m so glad I did it.
It’s three years later, same boyfriend. We bought a house and talked about trying for a baby. We’ve been trying for six months and we just found out we’re pregnant and due November 2019. The choices we made brought us to a more prepared version of being parents.
