If I hadn't done what I did, I'd have a 16-year-old child right now. That's how I serve out my long-term penance, by marking the years that would have been.
My short-term penance was to hurt in an entirely different way.
I'd been on vacation in the Cayman Islands, staying with a good friend whose grandparents owned a beach house there. It was my last night, and I had to stay in a nearby hotel because more company was coming. Grandparent company.
We went out that night to celebrate what had been a relaxing, indulgent ten days. We went to a crowded beach bar, and for whatever reason, decided to pretend I was visiting from Ireland (What can I say? My accent is very convincing, provided you're not Irish). I drank too much and started flirting with a tall, good-looking boy from the East Coast (his name was either Chip or Skip ... I can't for the life of me remember which, so let's just go with "Ip").
I'm fuzzy on the inbetween, but I clearly remember the hotel a few hours later. Like every one-night stand I've ever had, I have a mental polaroid of the experience, as if I'd left my body to snap the one shot that would capture the essence of what I'd done.
When I woke up, Ip was gone. I flew home later that morning.
Six weeks later, I knew. I didn't even bother getting a pregnancy test ... I just knew. And, similarly, I didn't think much about what I was going to do - I was going to get rid of it. And not just because I was young and single and just starting my career. Shame stepped in. I couldn't bear anyone knowing I'd been knocked up by a one-night stand. A guy whose name I couldn't even remember. In my mind, only girls with boyfriends were allowed to get pregnant. Period. I told one person: Samantha. She was living in Chicago at the time and wanted to fly home and be with me. I said no. I wasn't kidding.
I called the place to get it done, and the receptionist asked who would be driving me home from "the procedure."
"No one."
Pause.
"Hon," she finally said, "Are you sure?"
Silence.
"Alright." Then, more softly: "But at least take a cab."
"No. I'll drive myself."
After a sigh: "You do realize that if no one drives you home, we can't give you any painkillers. None."
"Fine."
Maybe I did it that way because I knew I deserved it - because I wanted the pain to be so all-consuming that I'd never let it happen again (I haven't). Maybe I was just being proud. Maybe my shame was more important to me than my well-being. I'm not sure. But I'm here to tell you it was no fun. I just laid there, trying not to scream, trying not to stare at the machine that was literally sucking the life out of me. I swear I could feel it deep inside, clinging to the walls before finally giving in and letting go. I focused on a framed museum print hanging on the wall: a ballerina. The image seemed so wrong somehow.
I drove myself home an hour later and went to work later that afternoon. I was a journalist at the time, and had to visit a new photography exhibit and write an article. The exhibit? A new collection of mother and daughter prints for a Mother's Day show. (Seriously. I could make this stuff up, but I'm not. Anyone who says fate doesn't have a sense of humor really isn't paying attention.)
That was 17 years ago today - the Monday before Mother's Day.
I'll always be fiercely pro-choice. But I would never look a pregnant woman in the eye and tell her an abortion is the easy way out.
No, it sticks with you, as if there were some tiny part of the experience the machine couldn't quite reach.
3 comments:
it makes me feel bad that you chose to punish yourself so much for your mistake. no pain killers, driving yourself to and from, going back to work that day -- these are all actions that did not have to be a part of the process.
you are correct in saying that abortion is not an easy way out. every reproductive choice comes with a set of consequences; each is rife with difficulties. but, by denying yourself any support or relief at a time that you really could have used it, you chose a path to martyrdom that unjustly meted out punishment you don't deserve.
i am not proud to say that i have terminated two pregnancies. the youthful indiscretion at age 19 was a hard lesson, but a simple choice. my unexpected pregnancy at age 37, however, was a much more difficult experience.
what bothers me the most about your post is that you sound as if you believe you deserved to have a terrible experience, in order to somehow atone for having a random, one night stand.
it is more troubling that you continue to feel as if you need to pay a penance for the rest of your life.
you made the choice you needed to make and, based upon what i know of you in this blog, i have to imagine a lot of thought went into that decision. don't punish yourself for it anymore.
that 16 year old child could be hanging out with my 18 year old, had we both made different decisions. but we didn't. i'm not saying forget it, but you should let it go. there is no need to mark an anniversary of something that no longer exists.
please know that i have nothing but understanding and empathy with you on this and i hope i have managed to convey that. you chose pain and have suffered long enough for it. let it go.
- molly
Hi Karen
This post brought me closer to my best friend yesterday. She also had an abortion when she was younger and she also has been carrying her pain and guilt ever since.
In fact, she's so used to carrying it, that it feels like it has become a permanent part of her.
I'm an optimist though. I think that we can let go of bad experiences with time -- when we are really ready. We just have to be patient and aware that this is luggage we are carrying; it's not us. Someday we'll just put it down and walk away from it.
Hang in there Karen. I think you are doing a fantastic job.
Thank you so much for this post. However much shame you felt, bless you for not letting it stop you from being honest about your experience. If only everyone could be as honest about it, perhaps we could move away from the false dichotomies that define the debates about abortion. We could start to understand the complexities, compassion, and struggle that characterize every choice that we make. You have so much to be proud of.
Molly's right, you didn't deserve to have a terrible experience. I hope that your telling of this story will offer people who love you the opportunity to give you support, even in retrospect, and that it won't be another way for you to flog yourself.
love,
ESM
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