It’s almost been a year since I had my abortion. I’ve never been very good at remembering particular dates– I’m notorious for forgetting anniversaries and birthdays alike– so it doesn’t shock me that I can’t remember the date in particular. I can remember thinking it would be a day that I would remember forever, the very hour of my appointment carved into my calendar year after year as though it were meant to live in infamy.
The truth is, I’m a creature of habit, and give or take 365 days later, I can’t even remember what day of the week it was.
I do remember feeling like my heart was beating in my throat as I sat quietly beside my roommate of just four months, filling out paper after paper. Having just moved to NYC in June, I was already living in a perpetual state of nervous uncertainty. An unplanned pregnancy did nothing to quell my anxiety in what was undoubtedly one of the most turbulent periods of my life.
I had always wanted to be a mother. I still desperately want to be a mother. But the timing was off. Though I didn’t realize it at the time my “supportive” (and I use that term as loosely as I can, knowing what I know now) boyfriend and I were in an extremely toxic, emotionally abusive relationship. Neither of us were in a position to care for a child, financially, emotionally, or physically. Being a flight attendant, I lived almost half a coast away from my soon-to-be ex. There was just no way we could make it work.
As much as my heart ached– as much as it very much still does– I never once regretted my decision. I made the choice to take into account my partner’s feelings on the matter, and though I was shocked he agreed with my proposal to terminate the pregnancy knowing his political stance, I was also relieved.
The procedure itself was quick and uneventful. I hardly even bled. I cramped a little, but it was nothing a heating pad and a little rest couldn’t quell. I didn’t even cry, even though at the time I felt extremely guilty for not having done so.
When my roommate and I arrived back to our apartment an hour or so after my surgery, there was a lady bug trapped in the main hallway. Though I was exhausted and overwhelmed and wanted nothing more than to collapse into my bed and hide under the covers, I stooped to scoop it into my hand and carry it outside, setting it back out in the small patch of greenery outside the apartment building.
Though I firmly believe I still have a lot of work to do when it comes to sorting out my feelings about my abortion, that ladybug helps get me through my darkest hours. When the guilt creeps in, when the doubt cripples me, when the sadness plasters me to my bed for days at a time, I always remember: I did what was best for myself and my child, just as I did what was best for that ladybug.
