I had an abortion this year. I did it in the summer, just after the first night-long downpour that started to turn the grass more gold-moss than sand-beige. It coincided with the extra day off. How lucky.
By the second night-long downpour – the one that restored the grass from gold-moss to something way closer to its former self – my womb had emptied. Two uncontrollable cascades of red and dark red – one as I stood on the doorstep, the other as I crumpled into my knees over bright white porcelain.
I thought a lot about my abortion. When the line showed up, bold and instant, I thought about the practicalities. When I went incognito to find services near me, I thought about whether my name and address were safe. When the first telephone call didn’t come until a week later, I spent 7 days and nights thinking about whether minds might be unmade. When the call eventually came, I thought about how many people answer “yes” when the nurse asks if they’d be in grave danger if their community found out about their intention.
“My womb emptied. Two uncontrollable cascades of red and dark red – one as I stood on the doorstep, the other as I crumpled into my knees over bright white porcelain.”
When the pills didn’t arrive the next day, I thought about the Royal Mail and how much we rely on it. When they still hadn’t arrived 6 days after that I thought about the Royal Mail and wondered why there was no tracking on a package like this. More recently, I’ve thought about how Marie Stopes is coping with the autumn postal strikes.
Every part of my body reminded me that it was growing something. My bladder was never not full. Walking up the hill made me breathless. My boobs ached. My face was slick and spotty from the rush of hormones. Google told me that the cramping I’d mistaken for routine pains was a ‘blastocyst’ attaching itself to the lining of my uterine wall.
Google searches about symptoms returned unintended results about its size and growth too. It confirmed that a single sesame seed was wreaking utter havoc on my body. The next week, a lentil. Then a blueberry. I should have learnt not to Google at this point. Search results seemed to be skewed towards a pro-life agenda and I thought about how someone should fix that.
“I couldn’t see how to get into the clinic at first and when I could, there were people outside the gates shouting at me that they could help me. They were all women and that felt treacherous. I told them to fuck off because it was either that, or cry.”
The package never arrived and I’ve thought often about where it is. Does a neighbour have it? Have they opened it? Are they aware of what I did? In rushed morning pleasantries I look out for indications that say they do, they have, they are.
I travelled the 7 miles to pick up the 2 sets of pills, alone. It was baking and I felt faint on the train and sick on the bus. Perspective though: 7 miles across a city, not 700 across state lines. I couldn’t see how to get into the clinic at first and when I could, there were people outside the gates shouting at me that they could help me. These strangers insisted I had options. They were all women and that felt treacherous. I told them to fuck off because it was either that, or cry.
Seventeen days passed between the blue line and the mifepristone. It was too much time. A cruel amount. Two lives hung in the balance.
For every one of the 400 hours that passed before I got the pills, I thought a lot about how hard it was to untangle the confusion and agony of a personal decision from my unflinching and dogged belief that everyone should be entitled to a safe termination.
When I started to write this essay I thought fleetingly about whether I should include the reason we chose to abort the pregnancy. But I'm not going to. Abortion is healthcare and access to it is my right.
This is the first one!
Thank you for reading! Merry Christmas! 🎄