I was nineteen and in college. He was my first serious boyfriend, the one who first brings up marriage and children and all those things. Our relationship had actually started to wane a bit, but I stayed in it for two reasons, neither one of which I think I could have articulated at the time. The first reason: it seemed polite. If someone has started talking about marriage and children and a future, especially when other men seem to shun such topics, then it seems terribly rude to end the relationship, even if those things aren’t really what you want at the time. The second reason: frankly, I had no other options. It was my sophomore year, and I was enduring the sophomore slump after an exhiliratingly social freshman year – I had never been without a date for any weekend or event. Ennui and complacency had set in, and I drifted along.
Three weeks before fall finals, I realized that I hadn’t had a period in some time. Hardly rare, as I was very thin and had never been regular. But I was experiencing extreme nausea in the mornings which would miraculously disappear by early afternoon. I went to Planned Parenthood clinic downtown and learned the awful truth. It took quite a bit of courage to tell my boyfriend, but he only said that I was not to worry, that he would take care of it. To him, abortion was the only option. I was angry by what I perceived as callousness, but later I came to agree with him.
Our relationship did not survive such a test. I’ve never been sorry that I did what I did, but I can say that I regret having to make the choice. No matter what, I believe that what I did was the best thing for me at that time in my life, and thank God the choice existed and was mine to make.
