It’s been three years and I still haven’t written this post. It’s not because of shame, it’s not because I’ve been afraid of what people would think of me – well, maybe a little bit.
I am an advocate for women’s rights and I’m stoically pro choice, but always from the other side of the window pane. Until it wasn’t from the other side of the window pane and it became my reality. Until I had an abortion myself.
I have written before about abortion but never from a personal perspective which in a way makes me feel a bit of a fraud. I’ve sat for three years and defended the right to have a termination – for whatever reason – but never actually felt like I could declare I had been through it myself. I remember writing about abortion being a women’s rights issue after Donald Trump was voted into power and some crazies in ‘Murica decided to take their country back a hundred years and my friend Mia from Cigarettes and Calpol tweeted me to say that she had seen my post and couldn’t believe the response – she wanted to publish something similar but found it hard because her experience was personal. I couldn’t find the words to tell her that mine was too. I had been there, she wasn’t alone. I couldn’t do it through a fear of being judged and because everything was so damn raw at the time. Termination is so shrouded in guilt and shame – frequently perpetuated by men (cough, patriarchy – GTFO my womb dudes) that even when we so firmly believe, as I do, that it is a woman’s right not to have to continue with a pregnancy, we struggle to make peace with it ourselves. That is society’s fault. That is not on us.
This is my story.
The pill and the coil had had really negative impacts on my health in the past and I was still breastfeeding so I was incredibly limited as to what contraception I could take, so Adam and I decided to use family planning. It had worked for us in the past, only falling pregnant when we weren’t really trying to prevent and were happy to go with the flow. This time however, we had a pregnancy scare and I was mortified. We both were. Edith was 8 months old, we had 3 children 4 and under and there was no way, not a chance, that we were ready to welcome another life. Not for my mental or physical health with a tenuous section scar or Adam’s. No.
So onto the pill I went. Turns out that pregnancy scare? We will never know if it was a scare or just missed because I was so early, but 6 weeks later, a completely normal period and 6 weeks of taking the progesterone only pill, I was pregnant. Shit.
We made the decision that I would visit the doctor and take what is affectionately termed the “abortion pill”. Nice. At the time I was showing as only 2-4 weeks pregnant so in theory we had caught this early enough, despite the failed pill and there would be no heartbeat and the tablets would be the simplest and most effective way to end a pregnancy without too much trauma. A scan would determine it to figure out whether or not I could have these tablets – which I would later find out have varying levels of effectiveness from 20% to 80% depending on which ones you wanted to take, which is a testament to how very shit our system is in supporting the women that need this: it ain’t very effective, love, but it’s your fault you’re pregnant so you should suffer through this first is the undeniable subtext here and no one will ever convince me otherwise.
I wasn’t only 2-4 weeks, I was 6 weeks. I sat, alone because Adam didn’t take time off work for the appointment – didn’t want to explain what was going on in order to ask for time off… after all, it wasn’t really his problem now was it? That is how it felt at the time – perhaps that wasn’t fair, distancing yourself is a good tool of self preservation, but at the time the toll it took on our relationship was huge. I took the tablets, first one and then after 6 hours another. I drove home alone, despite a warning on the tablets to have someone with you – there was no one, Adam went to football because he didn’t want to think about what I was doing, needed a bit of space. It’s one thing in our marriage that I don’t think I will ever forgive him for, but it’s a shining example of how men view abortion and why the laws in some countries are the way they are: it’s not my problem. Even when they love you. It’s just not their problem. You are the one who is pregnant now, despite their involvement.
The tablets, which should have stopped the pregnancy and made me bleed so heavily that I felt sluggish and ill for days, failed. They failed. At 13 weeks and 2 days I went for a scan to ensure that the tablets had worked but they hadn’t, there was a foetus – a baby that had a heart beat and a 98% chance of having some kind of life limiting birth defect, that couldn’t possibly be discovered until 20 weeks, even with all the tests in the world. A combination of taking these tablets to end pregnancy and continuing with the progesterone only pill meant that the chances that this baby could survive and be born healthy were nill and if they did survive? The impact that would have on our family was not something that I was willing to place on my living children when the decision had been made weeks before, not something I intended to spend my life beating myself over for choosing to end a pregnancy and it failing so bringing a life I had damaged into the world. No way.
I had to go through it all again, but this time an invasive operation that I had taken the tablets to avoid. The first time I thought I had grieved for what we both felt we couldn’t keep, but this time was different. Again, Adam didn’t get the time off work, he says he asked but I will be blunt, I never believed that he did and I don’t think that is unfair. It’s a self protective mechanism isn’t it? To distance yourself, to walk away. I try hard not to blame him for that, not to resent the fact that I felt so alone because, realistically, if he had been there I would have felt so alone anyway. You are alone in that decision. You don’t get that luxury of walking away from it or separating yourself when it’s in your body which is why the choice should always, unequivocally, be yours.
At this point the pregnancy was too far along to perform the D&C without a general aesthetic, so that is what happened, I remember such kindness and compassion from the staff – they didn’t judge, they were probably the only ones – as much as my mum said she didn’t, I always felt she did deep down and friends didn’t know. I didn’t tell anyone until months after. I remember waking up and I had been crying in my sleep, the nurse who handed me a glass was the same one who gave me the tablets in the previous clinic and told me that they were ineffective but they weren’t really allowed to tell women that. Great stuff.
I came home and Adam came back from work, he tried so so hard to be there, to make up for NOT being there when I really needed him but it was a bit little too late. At 13 weeks, I didn’t really want to end that pregnancy at all. That’s the truth. That’s what stings. I did what was right at the time, I know that, it was right for my mental and physical health, right for my husband and right for my children, but it was not something I wanted to do. It was something I thought I was preventing, something I took steps to prevent.
For weeks afterwards I would cry, sporadically. It damaged my relationship for a time and it damaged me in more ways than I care to admit.
Abortion is not the kind of thing that a woman (or most women) do flippantly. The other 5 women in the room with me post D&C were all being collected by husbands or long term partners and every single one already had children but had made this decision for all the reasons that they felt were right. In fact, statistically, more than half of women who have abortions already have children and the majority of abortions carried out in the UK are on women in their thirties who have made a conscious and well-balanced decision.
Abortion clinics aren’t like you see on the TV, they are filled with women who are having this procedure for a number of reasons – they have no other options because the foetus isn’t viable, there is an issue with their health or mental health, they don’t have the house space for another child… so many reasons, but these are not teenagers who just couldn’t be arsed to get themselves on the pill – that is not the case. For some, it’s just not the right time for a plethora of reasons and surely, surely that is better than birthing an unwanted child and placing it in a system that just doesn’t care. I remember saying to a friend that I had been for a D&C and instantly her response was to assume that I’d had another miscarriage and it was something that I would be sad about, struggling with. It was, but for very different reasons, which only made me feel more alone and more ashamed.
I wanted to share my story, my personal experience for a few reasons – it’s cathartic to write about it is certainly one reason to write about it, but more than that, I wanted women who had been through the experience that they aren’t alone. Statistically, one in three women will have a termination at some point in their lives but it is so rare that we talk about it. They aren’t the only ones who have been there, who have found themselves in the position of not wanting to have a termination but feeling that there are no other options. Of choosing their living family, the ones that need them now over the potential life. I wanted to share this because it’s an experience that so many women, far more than I ever would have expected, have been in these shoes but feel so very alone. The fear, the guilt and the self judgement are far worse than anything religious nuts or crazy pro-life activist can throw at you. Talk about your experience and DON’T judge yourself.
You did what was right for your family, just like I did what was right for mine.