A Lonely Ride

KRISTEN

If I had known then what I know now—the isolation and fear, the lack of support, both before and after the procedure—I might have a nine-year-old running around. But the abortion I had in 2006 left me with an irreplaceable experience and with knowledge about my rights as a woman and as a person.

My parents were the models for my initial decision. They had decided to have children together. But my partner and I disagreed. He stood his ground and said he’d leave me if I went through with the pregnancy, even if it ended in adoption. I was seventeen years old, suffering from chronic depression, and the thought of being alone was horrible, even life-ending. We had only been together for three months, but I loved him. I relented and made an appointment at a clinic in Toronto, which had been recommended to me by a local youth clinic.

I skipped school two weeks later, with the gracious help of my vice principal, to go to my appointment. It was a forty-five-minute drive to downtown Toronto. I knew the clinic was close when I saw two people standing on the sidewalk with pro-life signs. One showed a picture of a small, bloody fetus. I turned my head away, swearing at them in my mind for being so inconsiderate. I wasn’t having this abortion because I wanted to! This wasn’t exactly a date night! I didn’t want to have a baby on my own, I didn’t want to have to tell my parents I was pregnant, and I was only seventeen. Couldn’t these pro-life people understand that? Didn’t they know that I had agonized over this decision? They knew nothing about me!

We arrived at the clinic and I sat nervously on a couch and waited. My boyfriend whispered to me, “If they ask you if you’re sure you want to have an abortion, lie and say yes.” I nodded, pained that he would say such a thing to me. A nurse explained to me what would happen during the abortion procedure and handed me a form with a list of general health questions. I found myself asking her for the answers. “Why are you having an abortion?” the questionnaire asked. I asked the nurse if I could say “Because I’m too young to have a baby.” If that was my reason, she said, write it down. She proceeded to tell me that the youngest girl served by the clinic was twelve years old. That’s so young, I thought. If she can do this, then so can I. I was filled with a courage that wasn’t there before. I would be okay.

After speaking with the nurse, I met with Dr. X, the clinic’s founder. With a female nurse nearby, he performed my first ultrasound. I should have asked why I needed one; I assumed that it was just for visual confirmation of size or something medical like that. I didn’t see the picture. I wasn’t asked if I wanted to, and I didn’t ask to. We then had a great talk with some laughs about how I came to be at the clinic, and I felt even more courage. Dr. X was a good man.

While I had gone through the intake procedure, the waiting room had filled with more women and their male counterparts. I sat beside mine once again and, while waiting for my name to be called, discreetly checked out the newcomers. They were not all young like me. One woman was probably in her mid-twenties and another in her forties. It was becoming clear that an abortion wasn’t something that only “stupid teenagers” needed. It was a service that was required by a variety of women for a variety of reasons. None of us talked to each other. The atmosphere was sombre.

When it was my turn, I was given a local anaesthetic, and any remaining fear dissipated as the drug kicked in. There were two women in the procedure room along with Dr. X. One was the nurse I had spoken to earlier and the other was Dr. X’s medical assistant. The drug left me worry free, and we began talking about my pets, my Mormon upbringing, and the musical I had been in recently. The abortion was over in about ten minutes, and I was sent to a reclining chair to recover.

After approximately three hours, I was able to go home under strict instructions: do not use a tampon to collect the blood that would flow out, do not have vaginal sex, and take this pill to prevent infection from occurring in your wide open cervix. It would take two weeks for things down there to go back to normal. I was also sent home with a prescription for birth control pills. The whole ride home, I was quiet and listened to my boyfriend talk about how proud he was—not of me, but of his ability to navigate the city streets.

I didn’t do well after the abortion. I wouldn’t blame the actual abortion, not now. For a while, my depression and self-harming became worse, but I emphasize that I was subject to both of these prior to the abortion. I couldn’t handle the gravity of the decision I had made. My seventeen-year-old mind had to grapple with what an abortion meant. Before my pregnancy, I had said I would never have an abortion. Am I a murderer? Did I do the right thing? Will anyone be able to understand why I had an abortion? I felt tremendous guilt, and I felt it alone.

I’ve had nine years to think about it, and I now believe that it was the lack of support, not the abortion itself, that made this experience horrible. The religious beliefs of my parents created a fear in me that prevented me from telling them that I was pregnant or that I was having/had had an abortion. They could have been great supporters. To my knowledge, my parents still do not know about this event. If they do, they haven’t said anything to me about it.

My friends and partner presented me with no options. It was assumed that I would have an abortion. One friend told me that the abortion procedure was painful and that I would be out of school for a week. But she was wrong. I felt pain for a split second when my cervix was frozen open, and I was back at school the next day.

My partner would not let me grieve. Whenever I became upset, he would begin to cry, which would make me push aside what I was feeling to make sure he was okay. My inability to grieve had some painful results. I ignored my youngest cousin, born a few months after the abortion, for the first six months of his life; I spent a lot of my time blaming myself, and I still experience extreme jealousy and emotional pain when I find out that people I know are going to have children. It’s been a lonely ride.

Because of my experience, I feel we need aftercare for women who experience abortions, as well as for the men involved. The clinic knew about my mental health issues, yet there appeared to be no concern about how I might be affected by the abortion. There was no offer of post-abortion support. I have tried to find such support in Toronto, but it seems to be nonexistent. This can be an emotional journey, and the isolation can be a large contributing factor to the negative thoughts and emotions experienced by women and men after abortions.

Fear keeps me from starting my own support group, which friends have suggested I do. Fear keeps me from attending pro-choice events because of the pro-life individuals who may be in attendance. Fear keeps me from talking openly or in depth about the abortion.

I’m tired of the fear and I’m tired of doing this alone. I want to be able to openly share with people my experience. I want to support other women and men who have experienced abortion. I want to be a part of the pro-choice movement openly. I want to eradicate the stigma that surrounds abortion and that keeps some of us silent. But I will still write this without using my real name.

Do I regret the abortion? No. I regret putting myself in the situation, at such a young age, where the decision had to be made. I am lucky that abortion was even an option. I am lucky that the procedure was covered under my provincial health insurance. I am lucky that I lived close to an amazing clinic. Many Canadian women are not this lucky.

What does my abortion mean to me nine years later? It means that even if I didn’t know my rights, I had the choice. I didn’t have to think twice about where I would go or whether I could afford it. It means that I had an experience that gave me great personal knowledge on a complex moral and medical issue, which is more than a lot of people involved in the pro-life/anti-abortion movement can say. My abortion means that I learned how to be angry about injustice and how to stand up for myself, which is something I had previously found impossible to do. It means that I have given myself the chance to be the mother I want to be—a mother with a loving partner, a stable job, and an emotionally healthy self. It means that I can be a rare support to young women and couples who wish to pursue an abortion. I want to give what I never had.

My abortion was a pivotal experience in my life, but it was difficult. I have never been more aware of the hatred some people feel toward women who undergo the procedure than I have been over the past few years. Fortunately, they don’t get to choose what I do, and I firmly believe that I would not be where I am today if I had a child. I am happy with my life and excited to be a mother when I decide the time is right.