Censured
The nurse asked me if I wanted to look at the sonogram, as she moved the probe back and forth over my abdomen. I turned my face away from the screen and told her that I didn't. I could hear a heart beating. A tear silently rolled down my face.
This is the first part of the process that I have gone through alone. At 24 years old, I found out I was pregnant with my boyfriend of four months. I had been feeling off for a few weeks, feeling anxious and unsettled. I told myself it was homesickness. I had just moved out of my parent's house and into my own apartment. I often felt queasy and nauseous as a child when I was away from home. I developed an unhealthy attachment to my dirty old pillow, bringing it with me whenever I had to spend the night away. Even as a young adult, I would diligently stuff feathers escaped back into the four holes that had formed in the corners. The scent brought me instant relief. I felt the homesickness deep into my teens, which is why I didn't find it odd that I started to feel sick when I moved out.
I kept complaining of my illness to my boyfriend and my mother, until finally she suggested that I take a test. Despite not using any form of birth control, I was certain that I couldn't be pregnant. Almost certain?
Growing up, sex was always an awkward topic of conversation, if it was ever mentioned at all. It was clear that my family believed that the only virtuous sex was saved for marriage. And even in that case, how virtuous could it be if it was always censured and so embarrassing to mention? There was always a shadow of disapproval around dating, as if I should be married to my partner before we considered courting one another. On one occasion, I heard my dad call me a slut from the basement, when I brought a boy to hang out at my house when I was seventeen.
My boyfriend and I had already moved in to my apartment after a few months together, having met one day and not spent a day apart thereafter. Our first date lasted over twelve hours, enmeshing our lives forever. We knew suddenly and abruptly that our lives would be different going forward. We loved each other almost instantly.
We sat together in our tiny bathroom waiting for the result that we both predicted. And so it didn't come as a shock when we saw two pink lines appear. The conversation was brief. He would support me, whichever decision I chose. He would be there for me and our child if we let it live, and also for me alone if we chose to surgically end its little life. After a short deliberation, we both felt relieved when I pronounced that I wasn't ready to be a parent. I was still so young, my career so tiring and all-consuming. It wasn't the right time for us to bring a child into the world when we were still learning so much.
The days leading up to the appointment were acute and unusual, knowing that life was growing inside me. I felt hollow and yet filled up. I was more aware of the nausea, holding plastic bags to my mouth on car rides, something I didn't feel the need to do before. I never felt regret over the decision, but I couldn't help recall conversations that I had had with my mother when I was a teenager. Before I remember having any conversations about the mechanics of sex, consent, the emotional burden, respecting my body and boundaries, I was informed that abortion was murder. God formed thee in thy mother's womb, and whatnot. These conversations always took place in the car when we were alone, me sitting hunched over in the back seat as her eyes stared at me in the rearview mirror. She knew it was probably far too late to convince me to save myself for marriage, but she thought she might be able to prevent me from committing such an unforgivable act.
As an adult woman, the procedure didn't frighten me nearly as much as the thought of my mother finding out. I worried she would never look at me the saw way. She was a kind and good mother, but I didn't want her to be ashamed of my decision. Would she ever be able to forgive me? Would she understand that the shame her and my father instilled in me around my sexuality was one of the reasons I felt the need to hide this from her? I didn't want her daughter to be the one to bring shame to the family. I didn't want her to have to call her own mother and tell her the shameful thing her daughter had done.
The day of the appointment arrived. My boyfriend and I sat in the waiting room surrounded by women of all kinds. There were women completely alone, some weeping quietly. Others were clutching their husbands, partners or loved ones for support. I was surprised at the amount of women in the room and the diversity of people in need of this service. All ethnicities and backgrounds came together in the waiting room of the clinic.
We waited our turn to be called up to the front desk. The clerk checked us in and we waited once more for our turn to speak with a social worker. We were brought into a dimly lit room with a computer desk and comfortable chairs. In a discreet and sympathetic tone, a woman asked us questions about our decision. Were we sure it was the right choice? Did both parties agree? Did we want an IUD inserted after the procedure? These questions were asked in order for them to feel confident abortion was the right choice, that we wouldn't leave and live a life full of regret, seeing our unborn child's face in our dreams, staring longingly at baby carriages.
When she social worker was reasonably convinced that I was in my right mind, we signed some papers and waited once more. I was later brought into another waiting room alone, where I watched home renovation shows on the TV. I was oddly soothed by the hosts revealing newly decorated living rooms to excited couples. Colours and textures bringing balance and harmony to their homes.
A nurse came and brought me to a small yellow room in order to make sure I really was pregnant. I lay supine on the bed, wearing a hospital gown that opened at the front. She placed cold slime on my abdomen. She found the image she was looking for. I turned my head, because being confronted with it would have been too much for me to bear. She informed me I was around 8 weeks along. I was still, listening to the faint sound of the baby’s heart.
I was transferred to the room where the surgery would take place. My boyfriend was allowed to enter. He sat in a chair by my head as I lay down on the bed. He held my hand and smoothed my hair. Two female doctors entered the room and prompted me to put my legs on the stirrups. I did as they asked, exposing myself. They pulled on a device from above the bed and assured me it wouldn’t take long. They inserted the vacuum-like probe inside me and moved it around briefly. After a minute, it was over. The women wished me well, took off their gloves and left the room.
The nurses moved me to the recovery zone, which was nothing more than a series of stalls like a public washroom with curtains for doors. All the women sat with buckets on their laps, side by side in their respective cubbies. I threw up in my bucket and bled on the pad they had provided. After 30 minutes, I was allowed to leave.
I read the aftercare pamphlet on the way home. It detailed the amount of bleeding that was expected and how much might be cause for concern. I always had heavy periods, so the line felt ambiguous.
We went home and I laid in bed for days, familiarizing myself with my evacuated body. I bled heavily for over a week, flushing large, web-like clots down the toilet. New fears began to surface. What if I couldn't get pregnant again? What if this was my only chance to be a mom? And if my boyfriend dies, was this his only chance to have a living memory?
These fears still rise up on the occasion, albeit with less urgency, along with new fears. The recent death of my now fiancé’s mother, makes me wonder if our baby could have saved her. She had been collecting children’s books for when she became a grandmother. Titles like, “Grandma and Me,” sat on her shelf untouched.
I regret that she never got the chance to hold her grandchild and tell them how much she loved them, how they brought her more joy than she ever imagined. The best our child might get when we read them the books she collected is a recounting of the kind of woman she was, the kind of grandmother she would have been.