I knew, a little, before I got the test, what the result would be. And still, when the nurse came back in and asked my name, then consulted her paperwork and said simply “You’re pregnant”…all I could do was stare. For a long, horrible moment I waited for her to smile and tell me she was just joking to break the tension, and tell me I was fine and send me on my way. But those words never came. Instead, I heard myself say, “Are you sure?” She looked at me a little oddly; I don’t imagine many people second-guess their test results. She nodded, and I buried my face in my hands. Although I don’t remember crying, my friend later told me that I had tears streaming down my face when she saw me.

I walked out of the office in a daze, one half of my mind thrashing futilely against the notion of pregnancy, the other half already planning who I needed to call and how I would get the money for the abortion, and what day I could take off class for it. In the lobby, I ran into my best friend, at the Health Center to pick up a prescription. She took one look at my face, hurried over, and asked what was wrong. I looked at her blankly and said, “I’m pregnant.” She drew me into a hug and held me for a moment, saying “I’m so sorry” – until she abruptly pulled back, looked at me and said “Wait, is this a good thing or a bad thing?” The sudden backpedaling made me laugh; that she had known me well enough to assume my answer and yet wanted to be sure before she said something hurtful added to my tears. “It’s a bad thing,” I replied. She nodded, hugged me again, and told me to wait while she picked up her prescription. I started to tell her I had to go home, make calls…she wasn’t buying it. She knew me, and feared that in my vulnerable state I would just go home and brood and make myself feel worse. She took me to lunch and told me that if I wanted someone to accompany me to the clinic, she would be glad to take off from class and go with me. When we parted ways, I felt much more calm and in control of the situation.

The first phone call I made when I got home was to my boyfriend. “We need to talk,” I said to him. “I’m pregnant.” A long silence, then he very carefully asked “What do you want to do about it?” We had talked this over before, in hypothetical discussions, but I liked that he asked me anyway, in case I had changed my mind. “I’m getting an abortion. I’m going to call Planned Parenthood this afternoon.” I told him. I could hear the relief in his voice when he said, “I’m glad you’re still going to do this. If you wanted to keep it, I would support you as best I could, but I’ll be honest. I don’t want a kid, especially not right now, and I think an abortion is the right thing to do. Can you afford to pay for it?” I couldn’t. I was living off my parents’ money while I was in college, and while I knew I could trust my mother, she couldn’t afford it either. My dad’s money provided the bulk of my living expenses, and I was pretty sure he wouldn’t support my decision, considering that when I was 15 and had a pregnancy scare he threatened to lock me in my room for nine months to keep me from aborting if he had to. “No,” I said, “But there are programs in place. I can tell the people at Planned Parenthood that I don’t have insurance, and they will help me pay for it.” He told me that if that didn’t work, not to worry. He had some money in his savings account that he would gladly use for this.

The next phone call was to my mom. My boyfriend couldn’t come hold my hand and be there for me, but I knew my mom would. She reacted much the same way my boyfriend had – a very careful “What are you going to do?” and relief when I told her I wanted an abortion. “I didn’t want to influence your decision, but since you’ve decided to have the abortion, I will tell you that I really think this is the best option for you right now, and I’m glad you’re choosing it,” she said to me. I took a deep breath – I wasn’t guilty or ashamed, but I was a little afraid of the possibility of protestors at the clinic and honestly, I just wanted some moral support. Friends are great, but nothing beats having your mom there to give you a hug. – and asked her, “Mom, would you mind coming down to be here when I have my appointment?” She replied, “Of course, honey. Just tell me when it is, and I promise you I will be there.” Sure enough, when I’d made my appointment and called her back, she reiterated her promise to me, despite the fact that she would have to leave at 5 AM for a two hour drive in order to take me to my appointment at 8 AM, not to mention she would have to take a half-day off of work for it.

Tuesday rolled around, and my mom drove up to my apartment at 7 AM on the dot. She took me to breakfast at our favorite bagelry and bought me coffee at my favorite coffee shop, talking and bantering to ease my nerves. She joked with me about the amount of paperwork at the clinic, and sat with me in the waiting room while I fidgeted. I made arrangements at the clinic to come back on Thursday to get the first set of pills. On Thursday, they gave me the first pills, which I took there at the clinic, and they gave me the second set of pills to be taken Saturday morning. The doctor was patient and thorough in explaining the process, and gave me literature explaining what I was likely to experience over the weekend. I made arrangements with my mom to go home for the weekend, so she could keep an eye on me and make sure I wasn’t having excessive bleeding or reactions to the medication.

Come Saturday morning, I took four more pills, put a super-heavy-maxi pad on, and settled in on my mom’s couch to wait. I read books, kept ibuprofen to hand along with anti-nausea meds that the doctor at the clinic had given me, watched movies, and talked with my mom after she gently kicked my younger brother out of the house for the day. In all the process wasn’t too bad – there was some cramping, but not even as bad as my worst periods could be, and the bleeding, though heavy, was manageable.

As someone who has been an active debater and supporter of a woman’s right to choose, I know the anti-choice rhetoric very intimately, almost as well as I know my own side. But I suddenly, after my abortion, began listening more and more to what both sides claimed women felt after abortions. It was no longer an abstract question – these people were talking about ME and MY experiences. And I realized that BOTH sides were against me! The anti-choice side, of course, claims “studies” that “prove” women always have negative psychological consequences after abortions. But even my own side of the debate tried to tell me that abortion was “tragic” and a “gut-wrenching” decision! It was not tragic. My gut was never wrenched. I am not sorry, I am not guilty, I am not ashamed. The worst emotion I had after the abortion was that I felt guilty for not feeling guilty. Both sides of the debate kept telling me that I should feel bad, that it should have been a horrible experience, that I should be mourning “my lost child”. Suddenly they had me wondering, what was wrong with me? What was a missing in me that a “normal” woman has, that makes her feel bad about this kind of stuff?

I wrestled with the question for months, and I finally decided, no more. I will never feel guilty for not feeling guilty about this again. I will never tiptoe around supposed pro-choicers who like to tell me that I went through a tragic experience and made a gutwrenching decision that no woman should ever have to make. When they tell me this, I will ask them “What tragedy?” Because I do not feel guilty, I do not feel shame, and I am not sorry.

PS. Only once have I “looked back”, and that was around the time of year when the pregnancy would have come to term. I never bothered to calculate an exact date; I just didn’t, and still don’t, care. But I remember one day in winter, realizing “You know, I’d have a baby around now if I hadn’t gotten an abortion!” …and the only feeling in my heart when I thought about it was gratitude, that I live in a time and place where I could choose not to be pregnant, where I and not my biology could decide on issues of procreation. When the Religious Wrong comes for my right to choose, I’ll meet them head-on, and they will be sorry they chose to mess with the rights of this particular woman.