It was just about four years ago, just after the fourth of July, when I noticed that my period hadn’t shown up. I made that dreaded trip to the drugstore and slouched toward the checkout with a knock off brand knock up test. I paid for it and my hand shook. The sympathetic woman at the counter wished me luck. I couldn’t even say thanks.
I went back home and my parents had friends over. They were talking and laughing while I was upstairs peeing on the stick. They were still laughing when I looked at the stick that had neat little blue lines. Shit! I called my friend who was wonderful. She said—“don’t worry. We are going to take care of everything.” I called my boyfriend who asked me why I wouldn’t just have it. I told him that I didn’t want it. That wasn’t good enough for him but he was willing to keep quiet. I don’t think that I’ve mentioned that my parents are hard-core pro-lifers. There was no way that I could tell them—they still don’t know.
I made my appointment and for the next two weeks, I played the role of the normal early twenty something woman. I should have won an Oscar. I was exhausted. I felt sick and like I was being invaded. No maternal feelings here. Just let’s get this thing over with.
I also didn’t have a car and I had to get to Portsmouth to the Feminist Health Center. So, my friend came and picked me up and I stayed at a skanky little hotel with this fabulous 70’s décor. I stayed up all night watching TV and eating chocolate.
The next morning, she came and picked me up and I went to the Center. What a bunch of great people! They were sympathetic and kind—-and had enough of a sense of humor that I wasn’t as scared as I could have been. The women I waited with were an interesting bunch. We were in our twenties, our teens and our thirties. I didn’t feel the least bit guilty for being there so I told everyone that if this was what they wanted then they were doing the right thing by taking care of themselves.
I remember the procedure. Of course I do. It hurt like hell. But what I really remember is that a woman held my hand through the whole thing and told me that it was going to be all right. I will remember her face until the day I die. I will also remember the doctor. What a guy! He was brave to be there at all—there were plenty of people outside waving pictures of bloody fetuses and screaming obscenities. He was also kind. He finished, said “8 weeks. It’s done” and then I went into the room to feel crampy and wait. My friend picked me up and we had fun taunting the anti-choicers. One of them asked me what kind of lady I was. I answered, “a woman!”
We played loud music in her convertible. It was a hot July day. I raised my arms. I was free!
And, I have NEVER, EVER been sorry.
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