Jan 23, 2015
Rhymes With Schmashmortion
I’d been vomiting for weeks. Any time I stood, I’d have to grip something, anything near me to brace myself as standing made the world spin. I’d stare at the mangled sheets of my bed and feel as though I were being shocked as clips of the memory haunted and drowned my thoughts. He’d taken me while I slept. Convincing myself I wasn’t pregnant could only last so long.
Time seemed to slow as I waited for the result. I stared at myself in the mirror, tried to focus on my breathing as I examined the line of my jaw and crooked slope of my nose to kill time. The timer buzzed. I stared down at the screen. My head spun. My world froze. My legs threatened to give out.
This wasn’t how I wanted it to happen. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
I couldn’t manage, let alone accept that the violation continued on inside of me. Were I to keep the baby, I would be staring into some manifestation of his face, a constant reminder that neither my bed nor my body were my own. I was struggling to accept what had happened, and a baby was not the way. I couldn’t even bear the thought of carrying to term. It wasn’t a matter of what to do when it came out, but a matter of surviving the pregnancy. Mentally, I wasn’t capable of doing so.
I dialed my sister, and she sat with me on my porch as I cried to her. She hugged me, and said she’d help me tell our mother, whom I had dinner with the next day. My mother stared at me as I poured myself out over partially consumed chicken. She placed her hand atop mine, and softly said, “I had an abortion once, too.” We sat together, talked through the night. I wasn’t a failure. I hadn’t let her down. She still loved me.
I scheduled the appointment, and after hanging up my phone, I felt a burden lift. My mother accompanied me that Friday morning. Butterflies grew in my stomach as I began to fear the warning the nurse had given. “There are typically protestors outside. Just ignore them.”
I climbed the steps of the clinic, and heard the strangers voice call after me.
“It doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to kill your baby.”
I couldn’t hold myself together. “I’m not killing anything.”
Voices joined the first. “You fucking whore!” “Burn in hell!” “It can feel!”
I turned to them as I opened the door, and waved back to show that their words would not keep me from this. When my name was called, I followed the nurse to a room where she would confirm the pregnancy. She asked if I wanted to see the ultrasound. I said I did. I stared at the miniscule mark on the screen.
“Huh.”
Another nurse spoke with me about my options. We confirmed and reasoned, and then the question was: did I want the surgical or medical abortion. I decided on the medical abortion. I took the first in clinic dose and was sent home.
A day later, I took the Vicodin as prescribed, waited the allotted time, and then placed four pills between my gums and lips. I held them there for thirty minutes. Only half of a Star Trek: Next Generation episode later I bolted to the lavatory.
Everything inside of me seemed to scream. I curled up on the floor, wailing. My sister sat with me and stroked my back, shushing me. “You’re going to be okay.”
After a few moments, she set my head in her lap and pulled her fingers through my hair. I was able to manage the dull throb in my stomach. My eyes had stopped leaking, and their contents had dried to my cheeks. My mother sat outside the lavatory with crackers and water for when I emerged.
I returned to the clinic a week later for follow up. After the declaration of success, I asked for a photograph from the original ultrasound. The nurse didn’t even seem phased by my question, and returned to me with a small black and white glossy photograph.
I still have this photograph in my wallet. I never regret the decision I made. It was never an option for me to continue the pregnancy, as the reminder of the violation would haunt my daily existence. Without the capacity to receive a safe abortion, I would have attempted to take my own life. Not everything is as black-and-white as we would like for it to be. I hope to add a perspective, to add an experience to the conversation.
My support group was incredible, and I’m fortunate to have been living in an area where abortion was legal. I thought I was alone and through my mother and the 1 in 3 Campaign, I found I was certainly not. Hundreds of stories have been told, all with their own reasons and circumstances. A number of these stories have been adapted for stage, and will be performed in Washington, D.C., around the anniversary of the Roe v Wade decision. I’m thrilled to share my story in hopes of reaching and providing support to others. Our experiences should not have to sit inside of us in silence. Instead they shall be heard, and here they will have a spotlight so we may shatter the stigma.
Elizabeth shared this story as part of Advocates for Youth’s 1 in 3 Campaign, which has collected over 600 personal abortion stories from women around the country. The Campaign aims to shatter the stigma around abortion by including women’s voices in the conversation and allowing them to tell their own stories.
