Last week, I posted the first part of a story about my recent abortion. I left off on a Saturday, puking my guts out and trying to figure out how I was going to pay for the procedure. Here’s the second portion of my story:
By Sunday, I was still a mess: sleepy, queasy, grumpy, bloaty (7 dwarves of pregnancy?) and my tits hurt like hell.
The previous evening, I had cancelled plans with my ex, let’s call him “Marc,” telling him I had a stomach flu. When he called the next day and I was still sick, he wanted to take me to see a doctor. I was stuck: I wanted to spare his feelings, but hated lying to him.
“I’m not sick,” I began. “I’m, well… I’m pregnant.”
Then came the verbal diarrhea, full of attempted reassurances, cocksure optimism and the occasional stutter.
After a long pause, he replied, “I thought that might be what was going on.”
Then my apologies erupted. I just kept saying I was sorry, silly though that may seem now. Sorry for the malfunctioning contraceptive, sorry for the awful timing, for putting him through this again. He assured me it was okay and he would support whatever decision I chose to make. We made plans to have lunch the following afternoon.
When I hung up, it felt like an anvil had been lifted off my chest and I slept the rest of the day.
On Monday morning, I made a few phone calls to find out if my insurance would pay for any of the procedure. To my surprise, I was told the whole thing would be covered. What a freakin’ relief! I guess it makes sense for the insurance company, since terminating a pregnancy is considerably less expensive than carrying it to term.
That afternoon, Marc met me at my apartment and we walked to a little Mediterranean café nearby. I couldn’t eat much of my hummus, but it was comforting to spend some time with him. We giggled about my fuller breasts and grunted about our bizarre situation.
When he asked if I wanted to stay with him at his (considerably more spacious) apartment for a few days, I declined, but did ask him to stay with me on Tuesday night, so he could get up with me early the next morning to walk to the clinic.
Cut to Wednesday morning. Sleepy and dehydrated, I made the trek across town. I'd been told not to eat or drink anything that morning, since I had chosen to be put under for the procedure. My thirst was making me second guess my decision, but I'd figured I might as well be unconscious while they excavated my uterus.
From two blocks away, I could tell we were nearing Planned Parenthood. Angry-looking old men holding “murderer!” posters are a big give away. As we approached the clinic, a man stood in front of the door, commanding me not to “kill my baby.”
“It’s not a baby yet,” I murmured, as Marc opened the door for me, blocking the protesters.
We went through a metal detector and had our bags inspected before entering the waiting area. Inside sat a few dozen men with their heads in their hands.
“Do you want me to stay?” Marc asked, squeezing my hand.
“No,” I replied, "I could be here for six hours. I’ll call you when it’s over.” I kissed him before heading into the cavernous office.
Please check back for the final portion next week.
This article appears in Dec 2-8, 2000.