My sons Nicholas and Zachary would be turning 15 right now. But they aren’t here. They aren’t here because in 2004 —when I had just entered the third trimester of my pregnancy—I developed severe preeclampsia.
The disease had already killed one of my boys by the time I was admitted to the hospital, and during that first night there I got sicker and sicker until I was almost dead too.
I could tell you all about it.
I could tell you about the procedure I had — it’s the big one, the one the abortion foes get all upset about. Yes, I had what’s commonly called a “partial birth abortion” — except I won’t call it that because that medical procedure doesn’t exist. …
I was 17 but I’d been living on my own for about eight months in a shared house. The owner of the house was working oil rigs in Alaska so I didn’t meet him until he came home at Christmas, and then only briefly. I mostly kept to myself going to work and spending my time at the house in my room behind a locked door.
It was New Year’s Eve of 1985 when it happened. I was in bed early because I had to open at work the next day and I woke up because I couldn’t breathe. …
I quit reading my facebook feed about two months ago. I didn’t know what would happen, or if it would last, but I knew this for sure: it was making me sick. My anxiety was through the roof, I was angry all the damn time, and I was wasting hours of my time each day.
I’d tried to quit before. I’ve gone on Facebook “diets” where I only allowed myself to visit a few times a day. …