Today, on the 49th anniversary of Row V Wade we share a story of a young woman who had to make decisions that never felt like choice. Not everybody agrees on the subject of abortion and at the time of this writing this topic is again at the feet of our Supreme Court Justices. This difficult decision that women and girls make daily, for a multitude of reasons and that affect them for a lifetime, should be held in a place of compassion, with support and without judgement. These are our mothers, sisters, daughters and granddaughters.
Written by Lynn Chadwick
I stared down at my jeans. I still remember the color of those jeans, very pale blue denim. I said nothing. The year was 1978. I remember my mother’s words, the only words she said to me on the subject, then or since. “Now you should feel better”. I didn’t feel better. I felt everything and nothing. I just stared down at that pale blue denim. I felt shame, and confusion, pain and disappointment. I felt no sense of relief. It’s not as if I had a better solution. I was 16. I certainly was not ready to be a mother. And yet I felt robbed, robbed of agency and hopelessly confused. I felt small and powerless and broken. We said nothing else, on the way home from the abortion clinic. And there was not another word spoken about it again. My boyfriend had pressured me into sex. I didn’t want it. It was rushed, scary, kind of revolting. But I didn’t want him to leave me, so I relented. I was almost immediately pregnant. With no one to talk to, there were conflicting emotions. I thought of a sweet little baby. Michael or Lisa. This tiny wisp of a life had a name already, it’s frail little life barely begun and me a child myself. I knew that I was not prepared, but maybe Michael or Lisa could find a home with a family and live to be happy. Or maybe, somehow we could work it out. My boyfriend pledged to stay with me. He loved babies, he said. And then my mother found a note that my boyfriend had written. Her tone held no sign of compromise. You need an abortion, she told me, in no uncertain terms. I held out. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that. And then one night while driving home from a football game with friends, there was a car accident. A sudden explosion of brakes and glass and noise. There was an ambulance. Did I feel ok, they asked me? I told the ambulance man that I thought I might be pregnant. There was a hospital room. My father looking disappointed in me. I lay there, feeling even smaller and more powerless. I whispered to my mother, ok. I’ll do what you want. I sort of gave up. I remember lying on a bed with stirrups. I was weeping. A nurse asked me, do you want us to stop? I thought of my mother, out in the waiting room. I said in a very small voice, no. They gave me more drugs. I remember the whirring of a suction machine. The twinge of a speculum. It was over quickly. Time to get dressed. And then we were in the car, and I didn’t feel better. I went back to school. There was a debate in class one day about abortion. I went to the bathroom and threw up. One of the girls from choir class asked me how my abortion was, and whether I thought her friend should have one. I wasn’t sure how she knew about it. I had told only one person, who I thought was a trusted friend. Now apparently the whole school knew. I remember one night I was crying. Holding my stuffed dog that I won in third grade for guessing how many jelly beans were in a jar. It was a yellow dog with a white face. I told my doggy how I felt. I cried. I guess it must have been too loud, because my mother came in. She asked me what was wrong. I’m sad, I said. About the baby. Oh for God’s sake, she said, and walked out of the room. About two years later, I got pregnant again. This time, I didn’t name the baby. I didn’t think about it. I called and made an appointment for an abortion. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t tell my mother. I still haven’t told my mother, and it was 1980. I rode the bus to the appointment, alone. I rode home, alone. My main transportation in those days was my bicycle. One day, about a week after the abortion, I had severe pain, so bad that my boyfriend took me to the emergency room. They asked me lots of questions and I told them that I had an abortion a week ago. When I told them that I had been riding my bike they looked incredulous. That’s stupid, they said. Don’t you know better than to go bike riding, a week after an abortion? Actually no, I didn’t know better. I barely thought about it. I didn’t feel anything about it, and my bike was the only way I had to get around. I promised not to go bike riding for six weeks and they let me go home. The numbness around that event is profound. About a year later I got pregnant again. I remember the day we decided to keep the baby. We had gone to a play, and when we came out afterwards it was snowing. The soft flakes fell, covering the ground with a sanctified hush. Anything seemed possible. In my heart I said yes. We can do this. I was 19. We got married. I hired a midwife. She was kind. Her name was Cheryl. I felt like she cared about me. On the day my son was born, they put him in my arms. I felt nothing. No rush of joy, no bond of attachment. It didn’t occur to me that this was a strange thing. You can put him in the crib, I told them. I’m hungry. Is there anything around here to eat? It wasn’t that I didn’t care, or that I didn’t want to be a great mother. I bought books, studied about child care and babies. I dreamed about my little baby, sewed crib sheets and little clothes. I bought diapers. But I was completely unprepared for how difficult this little person would be. He cried a lot. I didn’t understand his needs. He had a knack for perceiving that moment when I would fall asleep, and that was the exact moment he would pick to wake up, wailing. I learned to breast feed and to hold him until he fell asleep, and then oh-so-carefully lay him down without waking him. It got a bit easier after the first six weeks. He was actually a pretty good little baby. But after six weeks I had to go back to work, and my husband took over a lot of the baby care. I remember one evening, he was about 5 months old. My husband went out somewhere and I was alone with the baby. I held him and realized that I still felt nothing. I also realized that it was the first time I had been alone with him, since he was born. Why did I feel nothing? Looking back, I weep for that 16 year old girl. I grieve for her, for how alone she was. I wish that I could sit with her, and listen as she told me about Michael and Lisa. I wish that I could tell her that she had choices, that she had options. I wish that I could tell her that no matter what she chose, I would be there for her. I weep for that 18 year old girl, hardened to her own pain. I see her heart, how it had grown a deep protective shell that would admit no emotion. And more than anything, I weep for that 20 year old woman, unable to feel for her newborn. She didn’t understand where the numbness came from. I weep for that little baby boy, who needed his mother to love him. He deserved so much more. I can’t go back and change it now. When I hear people talk about reproductive sovereignty, I understand the intent. And yet, for me, choice would not describe my abortion experience. Choice was the last thing I felt. My abortion was not an eraser. I was changed by it, in powerful and painful ways. The battle over abortion rights pits women against one another. We throw words like murder and nazi at each other. We dig our heels in the ideological sand, and lob stones at one another. We draft legislation, as if complex and painful life events could be solved by Senate committees. If only, we say, the right legislation could be drafted, in order to cement our side of this controversy. We talk of viability, of choice, of womens rights and the rights of the unborn. We act like we could solve all of this with a pen. But when I think of abortion, I see a pair of pale blue denim jeans, a child who had no choice, and a baby four years later with a mother who’s heart was so scarred that she didn’t know how to love him. I don’t think legislation would have helped her. I don’t think church shame would have helped her. And I don’t think feminism would have helped her. She needed care, safety, and someone to listen. She needed options and real support. Those things are organic and they are time consuming and they are costly, and government programs can’t provide them. Only people who care, genuinely care, about individual hurting women can heal these pains, calm these hearts, and soothe these fears. Debate doesn’t heal. It just sends hurting women to the bathroom, to hide their tears in silence.
Sister to Sister Birth 