In the spring of 1983, at the end of my sophomore year of college, I realized I was pregnant. I didn’t need an at-home test to tell me: no period for nearly 2 months and feeling that I was always hungry yet too nauseous to eat was enough to confirm my worst nightmare. (Apparently, the diaphragm was not as reliable as the college clinic made it out to be.) Rob, the guy I had been seeing, and I had broken it off on friendly terms at the end of the semester since we knew distance would prevent us from seeing each other over the summer. When I called him with the news, there was no question in either of our minds what I should do. Being from a wealthy family in Fairfax, VA, he offered to pay for it, and would try to make it to the clinic to be with me. Long story short, I made the appointment with Planned Parenthood, but the money never came and I never heard from him again. On the day of the appointment, I got up very early and told my parents I had plans with one of my college roommates, Myra, who lived in Baltimore City. She picked me up at my home in Sykesville, then drove us all the way back down to the city to the main office where my appointment was. Since I was working two summer jobs as both an accounts receivable clerk and a cashier, I was lucky to have saved enough money to cover the procedure, about $170. I will never forget having to cross the picket line in front of the building, but having been a Pro-Choice proponent for years, and being accustomed to the arguments from a friend’s mother who was decidedly Pro-Life, I was able to hurl some insults back on my own. Still, something so controversial does make you stop and think; plus, I had been raised in a Catholic family, with 9 years of Parochial school behind me. But I looked at the matter factually as a routine medical procedure millions of women go through every day. I was grateful that the laws were in my favor and I didn’t have to resort to some botched job with a coat hanger in a back alley. Inside, I was admitted, and everyone was very professional. Myra recognized one of her cousins, who said she was there with a friend. Once I was settled in the waiting room, Myra said she’d be back in a few hours and left. Her cousin sat down next to me and begged me not to tell Myra but that she was there for herself, not a friend. I was called into a private room. I remember the attendant describing the equipment and the process, then I laid back and let the humming and suctioning noises block the rest of the details from my memory. I was moved to a recovery room and given pain medication and a cookie (strange, I thought…just like giving blood). Shortly thereafter, Myra returned. First we went back to her house. Her mother, a nurse, gave me additional meds after the first round wore off. I slept for an hour or two, but didn’t have much pain when I woke up. Myra and I went to Harborplace, walked around the rest of the afternoon, and got ice cream at the kiosk where her sister worked before she took me back to my house. Even 20+ years later, I have never mentioned this to my parents.
I’m not sorry. I was an A student and very involved in academic organizations. Having a child to care for would have ruined any plans for the future, especially with a deadbeat guy who would not have stuck around. I made the best decision for me at the time and have never regretted it.
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