...what I remember from that abortion was my relief...
The first time I got pregnant by mistake, I was living in Montana. I went to a local clinic in Livingston, and when I got the positive result, I expressed my unhappiness. The nurses smiled understandingly, and asked me when I wanted my first prenatal appointment. This was 1974 and I was 25.
I looked at them as if they were crazy. “I’m not going to have a baby I don’t want,” I explained to them, half-horrified that they would suggest it, expect it. Even the thought that I would be forced to bear a child I didn’t want and go through an unwanted pregnancy, made my lose my breath. Feel strangled.
I had to travel up to Missoula to get the abortion at a Planned Parenthood clinic, and what I remember from that abortion was my relief, and the fact that we got some blues records up there that got us through the winter. I went on to have several more abortions over the next few years, all fundamental to my life as a struggling writer. I was living in New York then, and leading a “downtown” life that had no place for child rearing. I was researching Joan of Arc, staying out late, living on gig work. Years passed and I went on to have three beloved children, all at times when I could embrace them, as well as being able to realize myself as a writer and community activist.
