Two years later, I was living back east and dating another man with whom I’d fallen deeply in love. We’d started seeing each other in May but by the time October came around, it was clear that he was not operating on all cylinders. He was controlling and extremely manipulative and refused to take any personal responsibility for his depression and emotional problems. His behavior preceding my pregnancy was extremely bizarre in convoluted ways. I’m having a very hard time explaining his idiosyncrasies in this essay without getting into a lengthy description without a lot of back-story. Suffice to say that I had doubts about his emotional stability long before I found I was pregnant and I did not want to raise a child who would probably suffer from our genetic predisposition to depression (and on his side, other more serious psychiatric disorders as yet undiagnosed). I also worried over the emotional repercussions a constant custody fight would have on a developing child.

The abortion this time was completely different, I was accosted by screaming pro-lifers outside, spent over five hours waiting in the clinic, and was extremely fearful that my boyfriend would drive by and see my car anywhere near the place. The technician had a difficult time visualizing the sac during the vaginal ultrasound. Making conversation with her, I discovered she was not a certified ultrasound tech or a nursing assistant and the ultrasound machine was extremely out of date and should have been dropped off at the nearest landfill. Because they had such trouble finding the pregnancy in my uterus, I was told to report to the ER for what was possibly an ectopic pregnancy. Returning the next day with lab results that proved it was just a very early pregnancy, they began with the RU (my choice). This time the procedure with the pill was different, also. The oral meds were taken in the clinic and the pills inserted vaginally at home the next day. I went through some of the worst cramping pain, hideous retching and diarrhea I’d ever experienced.

During my follow-up visit, two different techs could not determine whether the pregnancy was over, so they drew my blood to check pregnancy hormone levels and asked me to return the following day. The clinic doctor could not make sense out of the misfiled papers in my chart and because of the lab results, continued to suspect an ectopic and sent me to the ER. I returned to the same hospital, by this time accompanied by my boyfriend. The ER found that the lab had made an error and found that my “normal uterine pregnancy” was terminated. The ER doctor made eye contact and directed all his responses to my boyfriend. As my bright red bleeding had stopped abruptly that day, I requested that the doctor do a pelvic exam. He swabbed me with one of those large q-tip applicators, showed us the red blood and told my boyfriend I’d be discharged. My boyfriend, who up until that moment had been extremely loving and supportive, started ridiculing me for requesting the pelvic (as though I was some kind of pervert who wanted every man in a 20 mile radius to check my genitals) and he started pushing me to leave the ER without waiting for the paperwork and discharge. He then went over to the bio-hazard trash, fished out the bloody swab and put it into a plastic container saying he wasn’t leaving it behind. Considering certain personal details about his desire to hold on to people and animals he’d lost over the years, I didn’t have the energy to tell him I didn’t want him to keep the bloody swab.

After that ordeal, he began constantly reminding me about “the baby.” He put the swab in a rosewood box, we picked a name for “her,” and he found a picture of a little girl he thought looked like both of us. He soon began referring to “C” in all our fights, telling me that she came to him in dreams; he could feel her presence and saw symbols of her in every bird, feather and shell he saw. He wrote her letters and mentioned her constantly and it was only a matter of days before he began punishing me for the abortion saying I had murdered his child; that I had no reason to pray; that my name “Cristina” had absolutely nothing to do with “Christ” and “Christianity.” We started going to couples’ counseling and I moved in with him to try to work things out. I felt I had so many things to make up to him. Christmas arrived and although he wanted to buy and decorate a tree together, he lost interest and I ended up decorating the tree myself. His last touch was to put a picture of his dead dog, the casket with his dead cat and the rosewood box with the bloody swab symbolizing our baby under the tree.

I couldn’t take it anymore and moved out a few days later.

I wish I could say that our sick relationship ended there but it didn’t. It dragged on and got worse, if that can be believed. There were many times I feared for my life. He recently attempted suicide and was taken to the ER by police but I don’t believe he has begun or continued psychiatric treatment. He is now dating another co-worker of ours.

I thank God every day for that second abortion