But in America, we can’t even treat our teeth and our eyes like they are part of the functioning human body, so why would my uterus be any different?
Some people want me to feel bad about my abortion. I don’t. I didn’t feel bad when I had it and I don’t feel bad about it now. For me, it was medical procedure. In fact, the only time I ever think about my abortion is when idiot politicians try to restrict access and pledge to overturn Roe or when we get an alcoholic, sputtering rage machine nominated to the Supreme Court.
My abortion was a blip in my college experience. Not super noteworthy, it doesn’t make the list of top ten college memories, good or bad. I have never even brought it up in a therapy session, and I love to talk about my feelings — and my mother — in therapy.
I had less than one minute of unprotected sex with a college classmate, and a few weeks later while I was home for spring break, I noticed my period was late and my tits were killing me. I drove myself over to the Walgreens, paid for the Clear Blue Easy with a check, peed, saw two blue lines, and thought, “Awww shit.”
I said “Awwww, shit” again a few days later when my check bounced. That pregnancy test cost me a $20 overdraft fee from Bank of America.
My Uneventful Abortion
I wasn’t sentimental about being pregnant. I never thought of babies or Pampers and pink or light blue. I had a problem — I was pregnant and didn’t want to be — with a relatively easy, if spendy, solution. It galls me that some in government want to make it less easy if not actually impossible to obtain. That’s why I’m writing this today. I could be venting about the Game of Thrones finale, and yet, I’m spending my time on this. Thanks, Alabama. And Ohio. And Missouri.
I did not tell the boy whose sperm fertilized my egg that I was pregnant because we’d had Constitutional Law classes together for two semesters, and I was pretty sure I knew where he came down on the issue. Yes, I had a sex with a Republican. We all make mistakes.
After borrowing the money from my high school best friend, one of my college roommates — the non-Catholic one — drove me a few towns away for the procedure. At first, I was skeptical of the place I had chosen because the outside looked sketchy as hell. One wing was a double-wide trailer, and the main building looked like a place you took your John Deere tractor in for repairs.
The inside was another story. I don’t know if the angels who ran that clinic wanted the building to be a disguise or make the anti-abortion protesters crazies near the road think the business side of abortion care was not remunerative, but the interior of the clinic was glorious. Warm lamp lighting. Plush rugs. Comfortable couches and recliners. Amazing magazine selection including The New Yorker. Cezanne prints on the walls. It was the best doctor’s office ever, and let me state again, it’s a DOCTOR’S OFFICE PROVIDING HEALTHCARE TO WOMEN.
Prior to the procedure, they took my pee and blood and confirmed I was indeed pregnant. I was pretty irregular all through my twenties, so they guessed I was between six and seven weeks pregnant. It’s very hard to pin down when you can’t remember the date of your last period, but try telling that to men who think you can re-in plant an ectopic pregnancy that just blew out your fallopian tube.
The state where I received my D&C requires you to jump through some counseling hoops that the nurses commiserated were silly and unsophisticated yet required. It could have been worse; my state had no waiting period, and no one had to lie to me about the negative psychological aftermath or an increased risk in developing breast cancer. And I did get a paper bag filled with a six-months supply of free Ortho Tri-Cyclen. The best way to avoid return customers at the clinic is with birth control.
When it was my turn, they called me back into the exam room which was like any other gynecologist office, smelling like rubbing alcohol. The exact steps are kind of hazy because I just wanted to be done and go home. I do remember they let me wear my hoodie because I was cold, and they gave me a pair of those awesome hospital socks with the rubber bottoms.
The D&C itself wasn’t painful. The machine hummed and then I felt like quick, sharp cramp. Getting an IUD is way worse. A shot of lidocaine is way worse. A mammogram is way worse. I would say a root canal is way worse, but I’ve never had a cavity so I wouldn’t know. #humblebrag
The nurse offered her hand. I took it, squeezed it, and then I was done. They do an ultrasound before to find the fetus (a clump the size of a pea), and then an ultrasound after to make sure it was successful. I recovered for an hour or so with some ginger ale and saltine crackers. The girl in recovery next to me was having a worse time, crying and throwing up. She would have a different story to tell, but this one is mine.
For my most recent birthday, some of my best girlfriends took me out to dinner. Of the five women at the table, each of us has had at least one abortion. And it’s not a big deal to us. I appreciate hearing the stories of women who struggle with the choice or had to terminate a wanted pregnancy due to fetal issues. Their stories matter, and so do the stories of women who had an uneventful medical procedure to end a pregnancy with very little impact on their lives. We are the majority of women with an abortion experience. My abortion didn’t change my life. It maintained it.
I’m Hangry
After my abortion, I was starving. The clinic nurses sent me on my way with a giant maxi pad, a prescription for some antibiotics, and directions to the nearest Applebee’s.
I ordered a Long Island Iced Tea and mozzarella sticks. My roommate got a burger and a Sea Breeze because that was and still is her signature drink, my treat. If someone drives you to your abortion, you must buy their dinner. I don’t make the rules.
On Sunday via text, I quizzed the women who had been at that birthday dinner about what they ate after their abortions. The answers were ramen, Kraft mac n’ cheese, and “probably pizza.” One gal said, “I can’t even remember the year, let alone what I ate.”
I have never felt guilt or sadness over my abortion. My interest in listening to people who insist on fealty to some myth about maternal agony over ending a pregnancy is nil. To the people who say they want abortion to be “safe, legal, and rare,” know you are buying into that myth a little bit. Abortion should be safe, legal, and accessible. You want rare? Market that message to cancer. Abortion needs to be convenient and affordable, whenever and wherever a girl or woman wants it because abortion is healthcare. I don’t get sentimental about my annual skin check at the dermatologist, either.
