She wanted to tell her Facebook friends how old her aborted baby would be, when she saw the sad-haunting-love post where moms she knew wrote down how old their miscarried babies would be…but she knew it would be impolite.
13, she believes. There are not many memories left of the man who created that abortion with her, mostly rides on the red line, walking near train tracks, sneaking into his room when his grandparents when to a 5pm Saturday Mass, and they could finally fuck.
She was still young enough, sexually, that she really took measures to fuck in the dark. There was a pimple-scar on her ass from middle school that she worried might be noticible from behind. There were yards of slash mark scars on her arms, but wait-she dos not mind them anymore. Sex was always dark and often outdoors.
13 years later, her memories of the pregnancy test are absent. She was a freshman in college, and this was months after the 9/11 terror attacks and very quickly she had told her mom and her boyfriend and nobody at all wanted to have a baby.
Though she was college-age, she still had a withering relationship with her DSS worker, Amy, who seemed to have a 6 month grace period to care for her clients once they turned 18. And this pregnancy was within that window. It was the classic mistake, getting pregnant as a freshman in college. And Amy, a gentle giant from Wisconsin where all people are nice and have the patience and brown eyes of cows, offered to chauffeur the abortion service.
People only write about their abortion stories when they regret them. People who don’t regret them may get a chance to admit to them, but rarely. Where is the audience to read a “feel-good” abortion story?…
Rest assured, this was not a feel good abortion, and all abortion memories are tinged with a rust-stained fantasy of what might have been…
At the last minute, she knocked on her mother’s door, and said she thought she Could have the baby and would it really be so awful? Her mother brushed the idea away like it was absurd. Feeling rebuked, she met with her boyfriend, an electrician, a recovering heroin addict well before the current epidemic, and he said no as well. His mom thought it was a bad idea. There might have been some cloying sad sex but it was still a No.
immediately, then, the next memory is of being lain on a gurney and wheeled into surgery. Was it really a surgery or a suction? What did the D and C stand for? She didn’t have a lot of info, but she knew Amy, her social work turned Good Samaritan, would be there to pick her up and drive her home. She did not have her own car, but you can’t drive after an abortion anyways.
The drugs leading to an abortion felt so good. Euphoria dripped into her veins. The bright surgical light above felt warm and secured her, like she was at the beach, and the medications dripping into her veins made her begin to laugh…
She remembered laughing, later.
when she woke up, she cried. The nurse assured her that this was a reaction to the “waking up medication”. She wasn’t so sure. “I’m so sad, I’m so sad”, she cried. Where was that euphoric feeling? How long would this crushing sadness last?
Was this how abortions were supposed to feel? Was she feeling it right? Was she supposed to our or grieve, or would that be an infidelity to her decision, now made, and never to take back?
She then looked at her boyfriend as the father-who-wouldn’t-be, and this filled her with disgust. Him not magically providing her with the resources or false hope, passion needed to carry a baby cast him as impotent in her eyes. Just another man who’d failed her.
Soon, before the winter was over, their relationship was over.
Her relationship with her social worker, also over. The abortion ride seemed like a last-gift, a deeply painful memory among many Amy had witnessed, and in her absence, she gave her a charm necklace, a lovely gained glass, flower-filled circle, that she said was made in Italy.
She still has that necklace, each flower is like a tiny painful secret that no-one knows, now.