Female Kinds; That’s About All We Have In Common

I’m not normally in the habit of posting personal experiences on this blog, but for reasons which I hope will become clear in the body of this writing, I have decided to post this here. I’m sorry that the first thing I’ve posted in four weeks has to be such serious business, but I’m sure the four week absence will be best explained with the post itself.

Wednesday morning, May 23rd, 2007, I had an abortion.

It isn’t something women talk a lot about. We whisper about it to each other when a friend is faced with a difficult choice, and maybe we speak out about it from the safe, anonymous lofts of the internet forum, but for many reasons, we rarely mention it in casual conversation, even amongst friends. Surely it is a private affair. But I’m afraid that abortion is not only private, but secret. And the secrecy makes it feel wicked. And it makes it hard to talk about. And it makes it, and us, vulnerable. So I’m choosing to speak openly about my abortion, because I want other women to know they can do the same, that so many of us endure it, and so many of us have experiences and advice and comfort to offer. The women at the clinic I visited said 1 in 3 women have had abortions by the age 45. If the women I know are any indication, that number is much too low. I personally know more women who have had abortions than haven’t.

But you’d never know it, because no one says anything.

I wanted to have the surgical abortion rather than the medical abortion because, frankly, I knew it would hurt less. I’ve given birth to two children, both via natural childbirth, so I knew I could stand the pain. But suffering pain to bring forth life was a spiritual quest I wanted to endure; this didn’t seem to qualify. So while the idea of lying on a table with my feet in stirrups quite frankly terrified me, I knew it was the way I had to go.

I arrived at the clinic early, unable to find ways to occupy my time or my mind. There were a few other women in the waiting room, from college age to about mid-forties. Everyone had an escort—everyone but me. I chose to go alone, feeling strongly but inexplicably like this was something I had to do on my own. I didn’t think I could have sat in that room and made small talk with anyone while I waited for them to call my name. Yet being there alone made me feel vulnerable, and maybe a little bit pitiful.

My appointment was for 10:15, and by 11:00 they had done all the sonograms, paperwork, blood pressure tests, etc. that I needed done. I’d done the counseling, blood work, and sonogram the previous week. In fact, I was originally scheduled to have the abortion the previous week. But when the nurse looked at my sonogram, she deemed the gestational sac just a wee bit small, and recommended that I wait another week to ensure they didn’t miss it and have to repeat the procedure anyway.

I personally know more women who have had abortions than haven’t.

At 11:00 they called me into my room, where I got undressed and waited for the anesthesiologist to come administer my IV. I did my research beforehand, and I knew that the cocktail used in the IV was a combination of Nubain, a narcotic pain med and sedative, and Versed, a sedative with hypnotic and amnestic properties. I was told that I would likely remember very little of the procedure, which would prove true.

The doctor came in with the anesthesiologist after what seemed like an eternity but was probably about 10 minutes. She was very kind, but very chatty. I don’t like to chat when I’m in situations like that. When I gave birth to my kids I didn’t want anyone talking to me, and I didn’t want anyone in the room even to talk to each other. But I breathed deeply, and forced a smile. While the anesthesiologist hooked up my IV, the doctor thumbed through my chart. Holding up the picture from my earlier sonogram, she clucked her tongue and said, “Oh, honey. I’m sorry, I could have done this last week. I would have worked with this.”

I sighed. “Don’t tell me that. That would have saved me a lot of morning sickness and time off work!” The doctor patted me. The anesthesiologist hrmmed and said, “I don’t think your IV is in right,” presumably because I was talking coherently and not totally zonked out. She fiddled with the needle and in about fifteen seconds, if that, I just got really dizzy and lay down. She smiled. “That’s more like it.”

That’s about where my memory ends. I very vaguely remember the doctor saying something about a yeast infection (“Really?” “Yes, it’s not bothering you?” “No” “Well, good. Women get them all the time, we just don’t know about it because mostly they don’t bother us.” “Really?” “Yes” “Fascinating” “We’ll give you some meds to clear it up if you want” “Okay”.) That she was rooting around in my nether parts must mean that my legs were in the stirrups at this point. I have no recollection of this.

When she administered the Lidocaine, she said something like, “You might feel a pinch.” I didn’t. I didn’t feel much of anything during the abortion. I vaguely recall feeling some pressure, like someone was pressing down on the inside of my uterus. And I vaguely remember thinking, “What’s she doing now? Oh, oh! That must be the actual abortion.” But it’s very surreal. And then I remember the anesthesiologist and the nurse trying to get me to sit up.

“It’s over?”

They smile at me. “Yes, it’s over.”

It seems unreal. I don’t understand what’s happening. The doctor asks me a question; I don’t know what she’s saying. The anesthesiologist looks to the doctor. “I think she’s still a bit stunned that it’s over.” I hear chuckling. The doctor says, “It’s all over, honey. I think you fell asleep. No, you did fall asleep.”

I process this a moment. “I’m not pregnant anymore?”

And now everyone flat out laughs. The doctor shakes her head, smiling. “No, you’re not pregnant anymore!” I laugh, relieved. I went to sleep pregnant. I woke up not pregnant. It feels like magic.

The nurse is helping me into my pants. I’m still on the table. I can’t move very well; I’m totally drugged. I wiggle into my jeans. She helps me off the table, into my shoes. I pick up my purse. She guides me toward the recovery room and asks, “Was that a gift from someone? You don’t seem like the kind of person who would buy a Coach bag for herself.”

I have to laugh at this. We only just met today; she doesn’t know what kind of person I am at all, except that I’m the kind of person that would have an abortion. And what kind of person has an abortion? Female kinds. That’s about all we have in common.

“I can’t be fit into any one box,” I say to her.
In recovery, I ate a bagful of pretzels and drank some very sweet lemonade. I noticed immediately that my nausea was gone. I felt good. I felt euphoric, actually. I sat on the bed and talked to one of the other nurse counselors, the one that did my counseling the week before. She took my blood pressure; it was sky high. (Something terrifying like 180 over 100). She looked up at me, frowning. “You need to lie down.”

I phoned my husband to come get me, and lay on the bed for a while. They take my blood pressure again. 120 over 80. Normal.
I talked to the counselors in the recovery room. No, talked is the wrong word. I babbled incessantly. I have no idea what I talked about. I was loopy. I know I asked about volunteering; the whole experience made me realize how valuable abortion care is, and that I have to do more than give lip-service to being pro-choice. This right isn’t secure, and we have to fight every day to keep abortion legal and safe.

I fell asleep when I got home, and slept for several hours. Later I got up and made the kids some dinner. I had strong cramps that night, and took three Tylenol. I slept through the night without too much trouble. I had no cramping or bleeding at all the next day.

What I experienced that day was life changing. It saved me from a future I didn’t want. It saved me for my children, for my husband, for the future that I have planned for and worked for. It gave me back my body. That was one of the first things I realized—how happy I was to have my body back, for myself. I had felt a hostage in my skin the week before, constantly sick, and irritable, and tired, and miserable. But the abortion made me normal again. It let me get back to living my life.

Since I made the decision to have an abortion, many of my friends and acquaintances have come to me with their own stories of trial, of victory, of shame, of pride. I’ve heard several women talk about having abortions “where they might not necessarily be warranted.” And I want to state for the record, as the mother of two amazing little people, that the ONLY reason to have a child is because you want to have a child.

Not because you can afford to.

Not because you’re married and it would work out okay.

Not because you would make a good mother.

You should only have a child if it is what you want to do. Because to have a child is to go through life forever with your heart walking around outside of your body. And if you don’t want that, you shouldn’t do it. And no woman should feel guilty for recognizing the very basic reality of that fact.

The pro-life faction has such pretty rhetoric, such an idyllic, pastoral understanding of the nature of life and living. But truly, it isn’t as simple as “choosing life”. It’s a question of navigating a vast web of interconnected outcomes, and figuring out which path is the path we want to travel. Neither having an abortion nor having a child is without its consequences. If a woman chooses to have an abortion she is not, contrary to so much rhetoric, absolving herself of the consequences of sex. (The presumptions of which are, I’m afraid, going to have to be subject of an entirely different post). Bearing out the pregnancy might be the “natural” course of things (and even that requires some unpacking), but humans have been gifted with the ability to choose our futures quite outside the natural order of things. That’s why we have vaccinations, and surgeries, and adoptive families, and schooling, and government. We make conscious decisions all the time to go against the grain of what the natural world would dictate for us. Because we have the capacity to imagine, to see a future for ourselves that is better, brighter, more meaningful than the future nature would give. And it has never been a fault of humanity to build bridges toward that future. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone say it is the fault of women to build similar bridges for themselves.

Making a choice that defies nature isn’t shrugging off consequences. It’s being human.

There’s so much still to say, so much I feel I’ve left unsaid. But perhaps this is enough for now. Perhaps this is enough to lead with. If other feel compelled to share their stories, to voice their opinions, this is the place to do it. I hope that what I’ve said here falls upon fertile ground. I hope I could provide someone with some insight, some light, some comfort.