Do Better Mama’s Story

Dear Amy,

I fully believe not sharing my abortion story almost killed me. Believing it was my shameful secret to keep was insidious and traumatic. It was like having a gangrenous limb. I fell deeper and deeper into depression. I began drinking too much. I told myself that I was okay, and I tried very, very hard to believe it.

The secrecy poisoned me. Not allowing myself to feel made me physically sick. It began stripping away everything I liked about myself.

I’m sharing now. I’m healing. Here’s what I know:

Having an abortion was absolutely, unequivocally the right decision for me. These days, I’m making great strides with my mental health. I’m sober. I’m creating a meaningful life. I’m a better partner, and I’m a mom to the most amazing little boy. I’m more present. I have more compassion and empathy and drive to be kind and help others than I’ve ever had before.

All of that is possible because I had an abortion. When I got pregnant the first time, I was in no condition to be a mother. I was physically, emotionally, and mentally unwell. I’m not perfect now, but I know that I have so much more to give than I did back then. I’ve had the opportunity to grow and mature, and I’m so thankful.

My husband describes me as an amazing mother. I think I’m all right, but I know the love I feel for my son is unlike anything else. It’s hugely vast. It’s like matter. It’s everywhere. I feel that way because I had room to grow. To embrace being a mom when the time was right.

What I couldn’t see then is that it wasn’t my abortion dragging me down. It was the stigma about abortion. It was the belief that having an abortion made me less loveable. It was the belief that I could never, ever talk about it. Even with the people I loved.

Abortion is common. About one in four women will have an abortion. The stigma exists because we’re not talking about it.

The stigma exists because there are women and folks out there who, like me, believe it’s their shameful secret to keep.

Fuck that.

I’m done with secrets. I’m done with unpublished posts. I’m done with half-finished blogs. I’m telling my story because it is my sincerest hope that, one day, the stigma won’t exist.

My Abortion Story

When I was 25 years old, I got a Paragard IUD. My obstetrician inserted the IUD with a device that looked like a straw, reaffirmed its placement with an ultrasound, and scheduled an appointment to see me in a few weeks for a recheck. I dutifully showed up for the recheck, and I went to my well-woman exam every year.

Four years later, just two months after my general practitioner performed an exam confirming my IUD strings were in place, I slumped to the bathroom floor holding a positive pregnancy test.

It had to be a mistake.

Over past week or so, I was nauseous. My breasts hurt. The garbage disposal smelled. The thought crossed my mind that I might be pregnant, but I didn’t believe it. I had a copper IUD. My chances of getting pregnant were less than 1 percent. No. My period was coming, and I needed to clean the damn sink.

To put my mind at ease, I bought a pregnancy test–the same one I held in my hand while sitting on the bathroom floor. Two lines stared back up at me.

I took another pregnancy test. False positives happen all the time.

The second pregnancy test said I was pregnant, too, so I went to the corner store and bought some more. This time, I bought a box of digital pregnancy tests. They didn’t have a control line and a test line. You pee on the stick. You wait. The digital window says “pregnant” or “not pregnant.”

When I was home, I followed the instructions and I peered over the counter at the screen. “Pregnant,” it confirmed. My stomach—my world—plummeted.

According to Paragard’s Full Prescribing Information, there will be “fewer than 1 pregnancy per 100 women in one year.” In other words, your chance of getting pregnant is less than 1 percent.

I told my husband, “I don’t think I can do this right now.”

My skin tingled. My heart thumped in my chest. I could feel my pulse near my temples. My experience of the world felt extra sharp. I felt sick to my stomach and hopeless and profoundly sad, but I knew it was true. I wasn’t ready to be a mom.

I didn’t wait. I couldn’t wait. I began making calls during business hours the next day. Most places didn’t have any appointments or sounded suspect, like one of those clinics masquerading as a legitimate healthcare center only to lecture and shame women seeking an abortion. Planned Parenthood was the only one that would see me as soon as possible.

Laughably, as if it were some grand cosmic joke, the first thing the nurses at Planned Parenthood asked me to do was take a run-of-the-mill pregnancy test. I peed on the test strip. This time, I wasn’t surprised to learn the results.

“You’re pregnant,” the nurse said. “We need to do an ultrasound to confirm it’s not ectopic. This could be very serious. If it’s ectopic, you need to leave and go to the emergency room. Women die from ectopic pregnancies.”

The words didn’t hit me like I thought they would. I put my feet in the stirrups hoping the pregnancy was ectopic. That way, I wouldn’t have to make any decisions. Ectopic pregnancies aren’t viable. I would get the treatment I needed, and that would be the end of it. But I could die. Did I really want to die? No, I didn’t want to die. I just desperately, desperately wanted not to be in my current situation.

The technician performed an ultrasound. I asked not to see the screen. “There’s your IUD,” she hesitated, “and there’s your pregnancy.” She stared at the screen. When she thought I wasn’t looking, the tech mouthed “wow.”

They ushered me into another room. There, a fit woman with pastel purple scrubs and kind eyes confirmed that I was consenting to an abortion.

She asked me a few more questions about my mental health and safety, and then began to make small talk. The nurse talked to me about her own abortion years ago and her college-age daughter. Her daughter would be traveling from New York to Florida soon. She was worried her daughter might not make it in the snowstorm.

It may sound mundane, and it was. But, when she talked about her daughter, her words spilled over with love. It was clear that, after her abortion, the nurse went on to have children when she was ready. And she was a kind, loving mom, just like I wanted to be. Someday. Just not right now.

I don’t know how she intuited exactly what I needed to hear then, but she did.

A doctor prescribed me pills to induce an abortion. I took the first pills in the clinic and left with instructions to take the remaining two pills at home.

There, I placed the pills in my cheeks and waited for them to dissolve. The moment felt enormous and anti-climactic.

My husband and I ate pizza. I retreated to the bathroom when the medical abortion began. My husband played his guitar on the other side of the door, asking if I needed him, asking if I wanted him to come in.

I sat there, sad and ashamed of feeling sad, and told him to stay out.

When it was over, I fell asleep in his arms on the couch, only in a little pain.

Not Talking About Abortion Hurts Women

In some ways, my abortion story is extraordinary. How many people do YOU know who got pregnant with an IUD? But, in many ways, it’s not. I needed healthcare. I got it.

It took me too long to realize I’m still me. I’m still lovable. I’m still worthy. To truly know it. To feel it and believe it.

I’m sad it took so long.

When I first got an abortion, I felt like I owed everyone an explanation. I felt like I owed them my story. And, yes, in some ways, I felt like I owed them an apology. I was desperate to say, “I got an abortion, but here’s why it’s different.”

I don’t believe that anymore. Time and self-reflection helped me see that my experience wasn’t that unique. To many of the people seeking an abortion, their circumstances may feel just as improbable, tragic, or otherwise out of the norm. The reality is we have much more in common than we think. And that’s a good thing. It means we’re not alone.

Not only do I feel closer to other people who have had abortions, I don’t feel the need to explain, justify, or apologize for my actions anymore.

The only person I owe an apology is me.

It would be immensely healing to go back in time and hug the twenty-something holding her knees and crying on the bathroom floor. To tell her that what she’s feeling right now is okay, that she is precisely where she needs to be. I would tell her that of course, it’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to grieve. It doesn’t make her any less pro-choice. It doesn’t put her at odds with other women or make her a bad feminist. It doesn’t make her broken, mentally ill, or in any way less than. I would tell her I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone says, she knows her convictions and she knows her heart and it’s okay.

I would tell her that it will work out. It will work out better than she ever imagined.

Years from now, she will have her son and her husband and her mental health. She will love herself—really, truly finally love herself.

If I haven’t made it perfectly clear, my story does NOT—by any stretch of the imagination—reaffirm the anti-choice or forced birth agenda. My abortion was NOT traumatic. My experience was straightforward, comfortable, and compassionate. I’m very grateful.

Getting pregnant while having an IUD was upsetting and emotionally complex. That’s true. It’s true that I fell into a depression after. I was depressed because my birth control FAILED. Getting an abortion afforded me the time and freedom to get my shit together—something I desperately needed to do for myself, my partner, and my family.

The stigma surrounding abortion hurt me. Not talking about it hurt me. I don’t want it to hurt others. I am always, always here to listen.

I do NOT condone anyone using my abortion story as an argument that abortion is traumatic. It’s not true. I do NOT condone anyone using my story to push the narrative that abortion hurts women. Not having the ability to make extraordinarily personal medical decisions hurts women. Not being able to talk candidly and openly about their health hurts women. In some cases, it may even endanger their lives.

I want to close with a love note:

A love note to ANYONE who has had or is seeking an abortion

Hey Gorgeous,

Years ago, when I began processing the stigma of having an abortion and talking about abortion with my therapist, he told me that the only thing that matters is what I think.

I wasn’t kind to myself then. I internalized some very toxic narratives and, for too long, I believed them. I didn’t have the words or the wisdom to say or trust the things I needed to hear then. I wish I had. Failing that, I wish there had been someone to lean on—or to lean into—until I believed those things for myself.

Let me be that person for you. No matter how you feel, it’s OKAY. Feel your feelings. Process them.

If you’re grieving or hurting, I’m so sorry. I’ve been there. If you’re relieved and at peace, I’m happy for you. If you feel content, hopeful, confident, thankful, secure, thoughtful, apathetic, sad, angry, numb, overwhelmed, anxious, lonely, scared, or depressed, it’s normal. Whatever you feel is normal.

Your feelings are valid. No matter what.

I wish I could be there to hold your hand and tell you I’m proud of you. You made the best decision for your physical and emotional health, your mental health, and your spiritual well-being. Maybe it was easy. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you wouldn’t describe it either way. It’s all good. Your response is perfect.