- A woman that had the opportunity to take control of her life and her body, when scores of other women worldwide are lacking safe options and the simple, sanitary tools and conditions to exercise that essential right. That I had even the option to make that choice is an exception to the norm, when you take a look at women's circumstances from an international perspective.

- A woman who made her decision with a sound mind and with the support and respect of the other individual responsible for the situation. I had a hand to hold, a friend who showed deep respect for me during what proved to be a sobering yet empowering, certainly life-changing experience. I was lucky enough to be surrounded by friends who believed in my ability to make the best decision possible for my life, and that of my 2 children.

...I sat in the waiting room, quietly joking and laughing at the morning talk shows showing on the television...But still, the women around me, the looks on some of their faces, their posture...Weighed as heavily on me as my own situation. These women were gravity for me.

That waiting room had a way of equalizing us - We're here because of mistakes. It didn't matter how or why or how many times or how far along - We're here because somehow, something went wrong, and now we've got some extra DNA implanted into our uteruses. We all said the same thing when that 2nd line appeared: “Oh, shit.” Situations like this inspire wanderlust in my brain, nothing recreational, but...In these rich circumstances, here I am surrounded by women who are as real as I am, each of us moments away from the tangibility of our own “Oh, shit”.

I wondered how many of the women around me were battered. I wondered if any were forced into making this decision by someone else. I wondered if any of them had to make deals they didn't want to keep in order to get the money...I wondered if they felt guilty, if they were intending to keep this as a secret.

So, I walked up to the window to give Planned Parenthood a donation, rather than run the risk of being some sort of personal-space-invader...With the understanding that no matter how much someone looked like they needed a hug, I needed to keep my distance just out of respect. Some of these women sitting around me, the ones looking so tortured...Maybe their bodies had been pushed and maybe punched and fucked and hurt so much that I should err on the side of caution and not be one more person to touch them without their permission.

Oh, I don't know.

So, then it was me. No distractions. Me and the white room, and the undressing from the waist-down, covering myself with paper, looking at my weird white sweat socks and the 2-day old stubble covering my legs. Hard to feel empowerment when your cooch is hanging out in harsh sterile light, your piercings now feel utterly ridiculous, and you know the doctor is going to tell you that you need to scoot your ass about 2 feet more to the edge of the table...AND RELAX (because if you don't, it will hurt more) into the most awkward spread-eagle of your life, while your ankles tremble in stirrups.

Enter nice-looking bearded man, eyes a little too closely spaced for comfort. I wondered how many death threats he's gotten so far, I wanted to thank him, then I remembered the slick Z3 parked outside and I shut my mouth. He tried to take an obligatory listen to my heart, and all of the sudden my arms had no idea where to go - The only logical place was for them to be locked around me. He makes small talk about awkward arms, I make even more awkward small talk about cutting them off or something, realize the awkwardness of the entire situation (even though I SO don't want it to be that way, this...This should be like a pap smear, but we both know that right now my whole life lies in his expertise with a vacuum), and shut up.

The ugliness of awkward.

Enter shot into my cervix, blunt pinching, warmth. Not so bad. A prayer of thanks to my pharmie hookup.

Enter first cervix dilator. Nothing. Enter second, maybe third, and then humbling pain, the sort of pain that I'm sure most mainstream pro-life pundits would say that I deserve...Pain that turns me into a little girl, my little insides hurting from...Oh, who knows what...Pain that is humbling because what's inside of me, what has been so private and so much of my own quiet and sometimes epic fail, is being drawn out. Maybe this is what an exorcism feels like. Maybe this is punishment, maybe this is what will stay with me...The plunging pain, the way I can't control it and gasp and grab for the nurse's hand, this delicate sweet girl who says I dress like her friend from Toronto.

Then it's over. A smile from the doctor, I did fine.

Legs still trembling in stirrups, brain not sure if movement is possible, cooch out in all its misery, all its abortion glory. Um...Dignity?

Certainly lost in the way she had to put my underwear back on for me. Certainly lost in the way my vagina was elevated practically 2 feet from the ceiling on the special moving exam table, dripping who knows what possibly all over everything.

I felt like my pussy was using me. I'd forgotten the countless times I've used it...For the regretful experience of having power over someone, for my own selfish pleasure...Seventy times seven...The white room rendered it certainly a cold and raging, merciless bitch. I'm sorry. I should have loved you more, maybe.

But, as soon as my feet hit the shiny floor, I realize that I can walk. As soon as I realize I can walk, I want to keep walking straight out to my car.

I'm led to a waiting area, Enya playing somewhere in the background, obligatory dim lighting. More hobble in after me, the nurses act different levels of gently concerned as the women get seated.

I dissolve into the book I brought, a biography of Anais Nin, I read about her incestuous relations with her father, I take my birth control care package with me, I walk out into harsh light, then into cold, then into car, then into home and some warm, acrid, cottony 30 year old Jim Beam.

And that's it.
That is it.