@oil_guns_merica
I’m going to tell you about the time I aborted my child, and how it has affected my life. Abortion advocates have assured me that my lack of a uterus disqualifies me from contributing to this debate, but I believe holding a woman’s hand while our child’s life was snuffed out has earned me the right to do so. After all, the #ShoutYourAbortion hashtag was created for people like me to tell our stories, was it not?
I was in my late twenties, living in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. My girlfriend was a beautiful, smart, cunning woman from Mexico. She came into the country illegally by hopping over a calf-high barrier. Her uncle was a drug-trafficking murderer. She was the hard-hearted mistress of a multimillionaire when I met her, with a new Mercedes in her garage and a closet full of hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of designer clothes, jewelry, and handbags. It started as a casual relationship and was never supposed to get serious between us. Somehow, we fell for each other. She left him, and moved in with me.
Problems eventually surfaced. Jealousy, insecurity, and a disparity in needs began to take their toll. She assured me she couldn’t get pregnant, but eventually she did, at a time when our relationship was in tatters. She’d take whatever course of action I wanted, and assured me that it wouldn’t be her first abortion if that’s what I preferred. I was pro-choice at the time, and was convinced the relationship was doomed. So we chose abortion. Although looking back, it seems more like I chose abortion, and she consented.
I had driven past the Chapel Hill Planned Parenthood a million times. I knew where it was because pro-life students would often stand on the sidewalk in front of it and pray, and I would snicker at how they chose to spend their free time. My girlfriend and I had to be buzzed in, as there was a reinforced entry room with a receptionist.
My girlfriend sat in the waiting room, and I filled out all the paperwork. The cost was based on whether or not you were employed. I had a job, so the abortion would cost me $500. No surcharges, no taxes, just $500 flat. I finished the forms, paid the fee, and sat down with my girlfriend in the waiting room. I can’t explain why, but a sense of unease was steadily growing inside me. I shoved the feelings down and stayed.
A brunette female doctor in her 40's eventually called us back. I’ll never forget that she was wearing a small rainbow-colored peace sign button on the lapel of her white coat. It’s strange what details have stuck with me from that day. She asked us some questions, and eventually performed an ultrasound. She told us how far along my girlfriend was, around 12 weeks if I recall correctly (one of the details I tried to forget). The sense of unease increased, but I shook it off. She asked us if we wanted to see the ultrasound, because the law required it. The sense of unease spiked into significant discomfort. We both answered quietly, “no”.
She explained the procedure. I heard her describe the mild anesthetic that would be administered, and then it becomes a blur. My sense of discomfort was now borderline panic, a desire to get out. I sat there stifling it, unable to comprehend what I was being told. Something about suction. She got my girlfriend changed into a hospital gown, and led us back to the room where the abortion would take place.
The room was small, and the only piece of furniture was the patient’s chair. The one with the stirrups. There were two or three Planned Parenthood workers with the doctor, I can’t remember. They asked if I would like to wait outside. I told them through gritted teeth that I was staying. My girlfriend climbed into the chair and I knelt beside her, holding her hand. Every muscle in my body had tensed up. The abortion was about to begin.
When they administered the sedative, my heart dropped. The moment my girlfriend moaned was the moment I knew what we were doing was wrong. I wanted to take her in my arms and carry her out. I wanted to shove the doctor against the wall. But I didn’t. I was paralyzed. I thought it was too late. I stayed kneeling beside that cold hard chair, holding her hand and stroking her arm. My breathing was labored. Her head was rolling around. I was watching her, but out of the corner of my eye I saw the doctor begin working her suction device in. I started shaking when I realized what it was. Every time my girlfriend moaned, a shock wave ripped through my body. I knew this was wrong. I wanted to stop it. I was a coward. I stayed paralyzed where I was.
Eventually one of the doctor’s helpers brought over a metal tray. Again, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something hastily placed into the tray and covered with a small green blanket. The tray was immediately whisked over to a small wooden door in the wall. The door was closed behind it. The child that had been growing inside my girlfriend — my child — our child — it was destroyed and it was gone, forever. A quiet scream erupted inside me, as if all of my nerve endings had exploded. I felt true loss, unlike the loss of loved ones who had passed away. This was something different. Something worse.
The job was done. The doctor was talking in a soothing voice, but I couldn’t register anything she was saying. I was gone. My soul had been ripped out of my body. They told me she had to go to a recovery room for a while before I could her home. I tried to follow, but was stopped. No one else was allowed in the recovery room. I would have to go to the waiting room.
The lowest moments of my entire life were spent sitting alone in that Planned Parenthood waiting room, while my girlfriend sat alone in a recovery room. In that moment of indescribable loss, the policy of Planned Parenthood is to isolate the people who have lost. I waited. I don’t know for how long. It was the first time in my life I felt truly and completely irredeemable.
We broke up not long after the abortion. Everything felt wrong afterwards. There was an unspoken guilt and sadness looming over us. It was ever-present and inescapable. We talked a few times after the breakup. The conversation always turned to the abortion. We were no longer together, but we still mourned together.
I feel as much guilt and shame today writing this as I did in that waiting room years ago. I feel condemned. I always will. Why couldn’t I summon the courage to say “stop”? What if I had just looked at that ultrasound? What if I had spoken with the people praying out on the sidewalk? These questions will haunt me for the rest of my life.
I can’t tell you how abortion affects everyone who has had one, and I’m not going to get into the politics of what laws I’d like to see enacted. All I can say is that abortion has filled me with pain and regret, and made me resolutely pro-life. I only hope that others might avoid the sorrow I have grown accustomed to.
“Safe, rare, and legal” used to be the mantra of abortion advocates for a reason. Abortion inflicts real pain and loss on both men and women. People deserve to be warned.
