Maggie’s Story

During the 30 years that I was sexually active and fertile, I screwed up three times. Not a bad average, I should think. So 3 times I felt it necessary to terminate the pregnancy. The first one, I didn’t even tell the dad. It was New Years Eve, he was an old friend, I took a chance and lost. The other two times it was with a long-time lover but the time wasn’t right. Both times the dad accompanied me to the clinic and stayed with me throughout. In fact, these two men are the fathers of my son and daughter.

I think I was lucky because I had already had children, so I knew what it felt like to be up in the stirrups and have somebody shoving stuff in me and all that. My heart goes out to the young women who’ve never even had a pelvic and have to go through this experience at an emotionally traumatic time.

Regrets? No fucking way. Here’s how I understand it: about 30% of pregnancies end in “spontaneous abortion” (the number varies according to local conditions and a bunch of other stuff) — this is nature’s way of saying “this ain’t gonna work, it’s not meant to be, let’s scrap this one and start over.” In fact, some of the hard periods you’ve had might have been a spontaneous abortion for all you know. Just as nature makes the decision when physical conditions are wrong, so *I* get to make that decision when social conditions are wrong. Wrong time, wrong daddy, wrong place, whatever. My choice. I chose “no” three times, and “yes” twice. Never regretted any of those choices. (By the way, single moms can accomplish plenty if they choose to — but again, it’s all a matter of choice.)

I give tons of money to Planned Parenthood through payroll deduction in the hope that my daughter and my granddaughter will never be slaves to their reproductive systems and will enjoy the freedom to choose to be mothers or not. Their choice.