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I never thought that I would have to get an abortion at the age of 28! I was always the good girl. The girl everyone relied upon. The girl who would come to your house in the middle of the night to help you get over your bad breakup. I was also always the girl who was the virgin. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. I really wasn’t comfortable with men. Men were scary. It might have been my Catholic upbringing. Or it might have been the fact that I was abused as a child by a stranger on my street.
Whatever it was, I was not interested in sex. That was until I met Jullian. Perhaps, it was his unusual name. Or his whole attitude towards sex. But I loved him from the moment I saw him. I wanted him. It was the kind of wanting that I had never felt before. For the first time in my life, I wanted to rip my clothes off for someone. I had never had such lascivious thoughts before. I even surprised myself with the intensity of some of them.
I was 28 at the time. I had had sex perhaps two or three other times, but it was always a bust. I didn’t really enjoy it much, but I did it because I had to. Because it was necessary. Because I didn’t want to be a loser. Because people made fun of me when they found out I was still a virgin at 23. Because it was the right thing to do, according to my friends.
But when Jullian came into my life, for the first time, I felt like doing it because I thought it would be a fun way to engage with man. I wanted him, and he wanted me. It was simple, and for the first time in my life, I actually enjoyed sex.
You know how it works. A man and a woman get together, and as Stoic philosophers say, rub their body parts together to create friction and energy, which bursts and ends with a production of fluids, and hormones. Or something like that. That was exactly how it happened for us. For me, it was more of a fanfare situation, because for the first time in my life, I actually orgasmed. I mean, me, the good girl. I actually felt pleasure in a sexual activity. I felt like quite the vixen.
But, either God hates me, or he is trying to teach me a particularly hard lesson, because as soon as Jullian finished the fifth time we had sex, I knew instantly that something was wrong.
I got up off the bed, to go pee as I always did after every sexual encounter, deathly afraid of getting a urinary tract infection (what can I say, my mother had OCD tendencies). I realized then that the condom that Jullian had protracted from a friend as he had run out was defective. It had holes in it, or at least that’s the only explanation I could find for the fact that fluids that were supposed to be held by the condom were now being held by my intimate parts.
I panicked. I couldn’t talk to Jullian about it. He would leave me for sure if he found out he might have impregnated me. Or, maybe he wouldn’t. He was a sweet guy and maybe he would stay with me. Maybe we could get married, and have more babies, and live happily ever after.
Either way, I left right away. I had to get away and figure out how to deal with this dire situation. I couldn’t think straight.
The first thing though I did do is go to a pharmacy and grab some Plan B pills right away. I don’t care, if I am a Catholic. I’m only 28, and unmarried. I’m not getting pregnant right now, I thought to myself, screaming to myself in the Honda Civic that I had owned for 5 years now. I was the only one in the pharmacy at this time. I walked in, and I felt shame engulf me like it always did when I had to speak about anything related to sex. I stood in front of the pharmacist, it was early, maybe 6am, and I said, “I would like some Plan B pills.” I tried to be as strong about it as possible. I didn’t want to waver. I didn’t want to falter. I didn’t want the pharmacist to think that I was ashamed of myself. Even though I was. Utterly and completely.
I grabbed the pills from him, without looking him in the eyes. I could see the sympathy in them though, and I knew that I would start crying if I looked directly at him. I needed to be strong right now.
As, I sat in the car, and took the pills, gulping them down with some water, I wondered what I was doing with my life. I was sitting in an old ratty car, after a sexual encounter with a man who would probably never marry me if it came to that, and taking Plan B pills, because I wasn’t careful enough. Was God punishing me? Is that it? For having sex before marriage?
I didn’t know, but right now, I didn’t care.
I zoomed home, and got ready for work. My shift started in a few hours, and I had to be presentable for that.
A few days later, I knew something was wrong. My body was acting weird. Strangely enough, I had never had such a deep connection to my body before. But now, as I was deathly afraid of getting pregnant, I was watching my body like a hawk. Any changes in my pee production or bloating levels, and I started panicking. I woke up this morning and I swear to the Lord, I had morning sickness. I felt nauseous and my body was telling me it was getting ready to produce a baby in 9 months.
I felt sick. How fertile is my damn body?! I mean, it was a quickie, and I even took Plan B pills right after, maybe 15 minutes after. Could it be so quick? Could Jullian’s sperm have fertilized my eggs in the matter of those few minutes? I don’t understand how that could be. I know friends of mine who have been trying for ages to get pregnant. And they haven’t been able to. But my body gets one chance at it, and it grabs it like a lifejacket in a tsunami.
I did another dreaded walk of shame, and this time grabbed a pregnancy kit. I had never had occasion to buy one of these for myself before. I had gone with friends and grabbed it for them before. But never for myself. I knew what I was doing though. I had done it enough with girlfriends to know what was going on.
I took it over to the furthest stall in my office bathroom. I couldn’t take this kit home. I still lived with my parents and they would murder me. There would be so much crying and yelling. I just can’t take that right now. I’m way too emotional as it is.
The test came out positive. As I knew it would. I knew I was pregnant. Oh god, oh god, oh god. What am I going to do now? I cannot get pregnant now. I am still young, and I have so much I want to do before I start a family. I cannot do this. I know, I know. I’m Catholic, and we cannot have abortions. But this is my life we are speaking about.
I couldn’t do it. I decided to get an abortion as soon as possible before the fetus had any chance of becoming a human. If I got an abortion at 3 weeks, it would just be a mass of cells, right? I mean, that’s not murder. That’s not killing another human. And what if it is? Does that mean that I should kill off my life, for another’s sake? I am not like that. I am selfish. I want my own life. I don’t care.
After hours of debate with myself, I finally made the call to the abortion clinic that I had called several other times for my girlfriends. They had a spot available in a couple of weeks. I made the appointment. I would figure out the details. I would take time off work. I would find a way. I just couldn’t do it. I can’t be pregnant. I had to get rid of this fetus.
They told me to come with someone. I wondered who I could take with me. I couldn’t ask Jullian, even though I eventually had to tell him that I was pregnant with his child and I was getting rid of it. But I would take care of that later. For now, I had to find someone to take me to the clinic.
The only person I could think of was my sister. She was one of my best friends, and she was the support system that I never had in my friends. I was afraid though. She had had high hopes for me always, and now that I was going to tell her that I was getting an abortion at 28. What would she think of me? Oh well, it can’t be helped. I’m not perfect. That’s the gist of it. I’m an imperfect being, and that’s all the defense I can offer up to the world.
I called her from work, because I was too afraid to talk to her about it face-to-face.
“I’m pregnant.” I said. Without any preamble.
She gasped.
“I know what you are thinking. Why are you judging me? I haven’t done anything wrong. I was just doing what everyone else does. Why do you have to be like this?” She hadn’t said a word, but I judged her judgement from the vibrations coming down the phone line. I was wrong. She never judged me but supported me through the whole process.
She was my strength. We walked into the clinic together that day, and I knew that I had nothing to worry about, as long as my sister was with me.
We stood there by the elevators, waiting for the elevator door to open, for it to take us to the 3rd floor, where the nurses and doctors who did this hard work, did it every single day, even though the barrage of hatred, and hate mail came harshly towards them.
We sat down on the same seats that hundreds of other women had sat down in, and we even cracked a few jokes, perhaps out of discomfort, shame, or fear.
I didn’t know how it was going to be. I had deliberately avoided looking at websites online. I didn’t want to know. But I did spend a few minutes, that morning, talking to the fetus.
“I’m sorry, little one. I am so sorry. It just isn’t a good time for me. I wouldn’t be able to love you and take care of you as I really want to. If I ever have a child, I want to be there for them 100%. I can’t be there for you like that. I really don’t want to do a shoddy job. I want to be a good mother. I’m sending you back, so that you can find someone else. Some other beautiful mother who truly wants you and wants to take care of you. I know you will find someone else, because you are beautiful. I can feel that you are beautiful. Just remember that even though I am sending you away, I still love you. I’m sorry for being this way. Have a happy life, wherever you go.”
I spoke to her. I knew it was a girl. And I told her I’m sorry. Over and over again.
Even as I lay there in the stirrups with the machine sucking up whatever was inside of me out and into the garbage disposal, I was still talking to her, thanking her for choosing me, and apologizing to her for sending her away. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, little one. I’m so sorry.
As I sat in the recovery room after, with a glass of orange juice, and tears in my eyes, I wondered who I was crying for.
Was it for myself? Was I sad for myself that I had to deal with something like this? Or was I crying for all of the other women who had to go through this by themselves? Or was I crying for my little girl, who I really never got a chance to see?
I don’t really know.
As I walked out of the building with my sister that day, I noticed a few protesters, with signs saying, “You are a murderer.” And I thought to myself, “I know. I know. But it couldn’t really be helped, I’m afraid.”
I went back to work the next day, and I never really thought about that day again, until the next time, I got pregnant. This time around, I wanted the child, and I was married.
I never really had the conversation with Jullian. We broke up soon after, because I couldn’t look at him in the face again without thinking of my little girl. My first little girl. I would look at his face and wonder if she would have had his blue eyes, or his full lips. He was a beautiful man, and I couldn’t bear to look at his beauty after that day.
Now, I do have two little girls. One day, I will tell them about my first little girl. The one who was never born. Perhaps, I will tell them that story when they are in their teens, so that they know it is alright for them to change their mind about having a child, and they can get an abortion without judgement from me (who am I to judge really?). But also, to remind them that they could have had an older sister, and she’s probably somewhere out there, in the world, hopefully with a loving mother, and a kind father.
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