Every few months, the abortion debate comes back into focus in the mainstream media - like it did several weeks ago, when the news broke of Bristol Palin's pregnancy, and her mother's stance on abortion rights. That's when I started feeling guilty, and angry.
The circumstances of my abortion were incredibly mundane. I was 19 years old, a junior at a college in Boston, deeply in love with my boyfriend (J.), and doing well in school. I worked full-time at our school newspaper, heading there daily after class and staying regularly past midnight. I was taking birth-control pills, but my schedule - which forced me to value every last moment of sleep - made me irresponsible about taking the pills at the same time every day. Sometimes I would miss doses entirely and take two in one day to make up for it. Occasionally, I would have (what I didn't really think of as) unprotected sex; I believed I was protected not only by my inappropriately administered Ortho Tri-Cyclen, but also by young-adult invincibility.
I found out I was pregnant on a Sunday, thanks to a home-pregnancy test that I bought at CVS after discussing with J. that my period was late. I don't remember being nervous about taking the test. But when I saw the results - positive - I left my dorm suite bathroom and literally crumpled to the floor just outside the door, weeping out of fear and for the decision I knew I would make.
I wasn't ready to have a child. That's it. Not financially, not emotionally. There was nothing else to think about. I called J., called Planned Parenthood, and scheduled my abortion for Halloween 2002.
My memories of that day are unformed. They aren't fuzzy, or hazy, as people describe memories; I believe they literally never took shape. I know that we walked to the Planned Parenthood clinic across the street, and made our way past the protesters who stood - only a few strong - in a cluster outside the state-designated "buffer zone." Inside, I found out that I was approximately six weeks pregnant. I know that a Planned Parenthood doctor gave me one RU-486 pill at the clinic, and another to take at home. (I'd decided to have a medical abortion, rather than a surgical one, because I thought it would be less physically painful and less invasive - more private. Also, I was within the eight-week time frame when it's still an option.) She warned me that shortly after taking the second pill, I would experience some pain.
Back at the dorm, hours later, I know that I writhed in my twin bed, suffering from debilitating, convulsing cramps. My roommates, best friend, and boyfriend hovered around; they brought me pain killers, Tiger Balm, hot-water bottles, and applesauce, and all the while they stroked my head and conferenced in the background about how I was doing. I bled profusely as my body rejected the fetus that had been described to me as "the size of a grain of rice." I threw up. And finally, I fell asleep.
Three days later, I showed up for work at the newspaper as though nothing had happened. In some stroke of truly black comedy, we had an editorial-board discussion that very night about whether or not to run a pro-life insert that would bring in a ton of money, but go against our editorial stance. I felt sick. We opted against running the insert, and I can't remember if I even offered an opinion during the conversation. That's the last thing I recall in the days immediately following.
Now here I am, almost exactly six years later. My abortion made me practice safer sex, and it introduced me to the pro-choice movement. It put a strain on my relationship, which broke apart eventually. It made me feel scared, and relieved. And it puts me in a group with the 40 percent of American women who have also had abortions by the time they're 45 years old.
That's a lot of women. But we're rarely the ones you hear about.
When pundits and politicians debate abortion, they often bring up the most unfortunate cases: rape or incest victims, or women with medical problems. The fact that these women risk losing the right to govern their own bodies is outrageous. So we end up fighting for those worst-case scenarios, which somehow makes what we might call the "normal" cases seem more cavalier. As if some cases are less essential, and therefore less justifiable, than others. Let's be clear - it's the circumstances that vary, not the validity of our decisions, nor our need for access to safe, legal abortions.
Years later, my experience still causes me to feel guilty that I lived in a state where no one, other than those who were directly involved, questioned my decision. It makes me somehow embarrassed to admit that all I had to do was cross a street, while others have to bridge state lines, family boundaries (I still haven’t told my parents), and financial constraints (my boyfriend put the procedure on his credit card; I paid him back for half as soon as I had the money). Essentially, I’m sorry that I was more privileged than other women who are in similar circumstances.
This is my story, and mine alone, and the one I’ll carry with me forever. But the fact is, most women’s stories are more like mine than they are like the extreme scenarios that are bandied about when politicians — and even regular people — talk about abortion. So where does that leave women like me? Should we feel ashamed? Does anyone think about us, the people who have actually gone through with an abortion, and come to terms with it, and accepted that it was the right decision, for whatever reason, at that time?
Some of us don’t feel safe, mentally or
physically, sharing our stories, because they are not the extreme. We
are not the women who needed a medical procedure to save our lives, or
whose bodies were violated by strangers or loved ones. Our decisions,
therefore, seem less ethically justifiable in today’s society. Yet we
chose what we did for our own reasons, which sound trite and selfish to
many, but which speak volumes in our heads every time the debate comes
up in conversation or the news. The law has been interpreted to protect
us. We shouldn’t feel so alone.
Why am I anonymous?
The women in Jennifer Baumgardner’s book are
so brave and confident. I’m not quite there yet. I do tell some people
about my abortion, if it’s relevant to a conversation I’m having. But
because of the stigma that still exists, I haven’t yet told my family
and I’m not sure if or how I’m going to do so — and I know that I don’t
want to “tell them” in a newspaper that thousands of people read each
week. So why tell my story at all, especially to run alongside this
other, about a book that encourages openness and attempts to challenge
the very stigma to which I’m falling prey? Because I believe that any
narrative, even a nameless one, helps take away some of the mystery and
shame associated with abortion. Because I want to remind people how the
public political debate can sometimes have very personal ramifications.
And because I’m committed to fighting this battle, even if it’s from
the sidelines.
This article was first published by the Portland Phoenix.
