Here is the final portion of a story about my recent abortion. If you missed the last part, please read it here. It left off with my walking into the Planned Parenthood office.
I signed in, then sat for about ten minutes, reading Tom Robbins' Even Cowgirls Get The Blues. When they called me, I signed a few papers, gave my insurance and emergency contact information, then was told to go upstairs.
When I reached the top of the staircase, I saw at least 70 pale, exasperated women waiting. I went to the desk and was given a wristband and a bit more paperwork to fill out. Then, I waited.
By the rate at which other people were being called back, I could tell I would be there quite a while. Hell hath no tension like that of a room packed full of impatient women awaiting their abortions.
An hour passed before my name was called to get in line for blood work. I’m usually fine with needles, but not having eaten or drank anything since the previous night, I was feeling a bit faint. Surely, the next hour and a half of waiting for my sonogram didn’t help.
When I was finally called back, the sonogram tech said she was having trouble, because I was dehydrated. Gee, I wonder why. She eventually got an image and asked if I wanted to see it. No, thanks. She told me that I was only five weeks along, which makes for a relatively easy procedure. Swell.
More waiting. After forty minutes or so a cute, young woman took me back downstairs for my counseling session. We talked of my failed contraceptive, my psychological and emotional state and what contraception I’d like to use in the future. Though the ring is generally as effective, I figured I might as well go back on the pill - tried and true.
After trudging back up the stairs, I was almost giddy when my counselor bypassed the waiting room and lead me straight to the back. Finally! She showed me to a small dressing room, where I was to change into a robe - meaning a tissue-thin smock and paper slippers.
I undressed, then I was shown to a small, chilly room full of other girls in smocks and paper slippers. Fuck. Some of the women tried to joke and make conversation, while others just complained how long this was taking. Some had been in this room for over two hours. I had already been at the clinic for five, so I called my aunt to tell her there was no rush.
Having already finished my book, there was nothing to do but shiver as I waited. I couldn’t help thinking this was all wrong. We felt like cattle; freezing, hard-nippled cattle. I cursed myself for choosing Planned Parenthood, instead of asking my gynecologist to recommend a private practice.
I had done an internship at Planned Parenthood of Western Washington a few years back and it was nothing like this. They were small, personal and efficient. I suppose in New York, Planned Parenthood is the way to go if you have no insurance, but barring that, stay away. Why the hell is there only one clinic in all of Manhattan? Why do they over-schedule patients when there are only two doctors working?
After what felt like a week, I was finally taken in for my operation. I was so glad to be out of the waiting igloo that I wasn’t even nervous. I thanked my doctor, then felt a tingling sensation up my arm and smiled at the anesthesiologist before passing out.
I awoke on a cot feeling dizzy, but relieved. A moment later, a nurse helped me walk over to a chair and handed me some crackers and ginger ale. I text messaged my aunt to come get me, then had my blood pressure taken. It was too low for me to be released, so I was told to eat more crackers. Though I wasn’t the least bit hungry, I stuffed my face so I could leave. I’d been there nearly eight hours.
After my blood pressure returned to normal, I immediately got sick in the bathroom, but I was free. I met my aunt downstairs and she drove me to her house. On the way, I called Marc to let him know I was okay. When he asked how I felt, I told him I was just glad it was over.
Everyone has their story. That’s mine. Through this experience, I heard the stories of several other women in my life who’d had abortions. I think it helps to hear the experiences of other women.
I’d like to leave you with a link to one of these stories. Before my grandmother passed away a couple years ago, I recorded a few of our conversations, which I have since transcribed. One was about her abortion, which she had before Roe v. Wade in 1973. Hers is a touching, entertaining story of a ballsy, Jewish woman who tells it like it is. It’s a slice of history which makes me incredibly appreciative of the reproductive rights we have today.
