I chose not to have a baby. It’s a decision I’ve wrestled with most of my life. Having children is an expectation in my family. Fortunately, I recognize my own flaws and would never inflict my existence on a non-consenting child. Not to mention how much medication it takes to keep me sane. Most importantly though – I don’t want to continue the cycle of insecurity and emotional abuse I witnessed in my own upbringing. So when my loving, long-term boyfriend Tim impregnates me, I schedule the abortion exactly 8 weeks from the day of conception. I choose not to have the baby because of my gut.
The whole thing was my mistake. During a mid-20s holistic phase I stopped taking birth control pills. After 10 years of Ortho Tri-Cyclen I’m confident that is still the right decision. Settling for a diaphragm as my best non-hormonal contraceptive option, my first choice was (and is) an IUD. At the time, IUDs were only offered to post-natal uteri. The rubber hat method isn’t so bad on its own but cold spermicidal lube can kill an already tenuous mood in my monogamous relationship. In retrospect, the condom should have been considered more thoughtfully. There’s no rule against using two baby-blockers. As it is, we didn’t use the spermicide once. Once. I descend from a fertile lineage.
Without doubt, my blood family would love my child. In spite of my personal shortcomings as a mother, obviously. The only child still living in our hometown, I still manage to avoid my parents most of the time. Birthing a grandchild would evaporate the meager personal boundaries my mother maintains now. Instead of the often grateful babysitter my older sister knows, I would fear surprise visits and unsolicited advice showing up around any corner. The same disparity my mother exhibits when communicating with us in general is only amplified when she’s got ego at stake. My older sister makes life choices my mom ostensibly agrees with. I don’t think I’d be a bad mother, just different. Unfortunately, different is a sin in the deep South where tolerance and acceptance are polar opposites.
Ironic side note, my older sister was trying to get pregnant with her first child around the same time. She wasn’t successful until the next spring. I still fantasize how rankled she’d be if I’d had the firstborn child. She’s used to being the first for everything. She was the first child to see the new house my parents bought in Memphis. She claimed the master bedroom as her own and so it was. She lived in a princess suite for 12 years while my sister and I shared space. In hindsight I’m glad for it. If there’s anything I’m it it’s spoiled. At least I have that.
Hindsight 20/20, my gut instinct is a wonderful thing. I imagine the amount of attention my mother would have demanded for her first grandchild. My child would probably take my mom’s side half the time just to get on my nerves. Ideally I’ll instill my children with just enough cynicism to question my motives, which is the greatest gift I have to offer. Either way, she’d develop the same neuroses we all inherit and find a way to blame it on me. Just like I’ve done and my mother did before me. It’s an easy decision for me to break the cycle.
I can barely handle the attention my mom wants to give me now. Moving across the country to get away only piqued her interest. Living vicariously through her daughters, she mourns the independent life she never claimed. Raised during a time when Southern women were expected to find a good man to marry, she at least accomplished that. She found a man that puts up with her bullshit and only argues when it matters. Exactly the kind of man I married. Not the most comfortable arrangement at times, it’s better than others I’ve seen. I used to think my parents needed a divorce but these days I appreciate how delicate the balance is.
I chose to abort my baby based on my gut. It wasn’t easy. Or cheap. We took $300 to a midtown clinic set up in an old Victorian house near the interstate. I remember the yellow tile floor in the kitchen where they did preliminary labs to confirm pregnancy. That mustard yellow you only see in post-50s fashion crimes. Old wooden stairs leading to the upstairs procedure rooms creaked and moaned every time someone ascended, assuring everyone notices the movement. It feels like the house was used for this clandestine operation since before the civil war. There was only one protester outside. He ardently tried to offer me a brochure before I went inside but years of ignoring panhandlers prepared me for this very moment. Tim waved him away silently.
I’d gotten offers from two women to accompany me to my appointment. They only offered to be polite. And because they’re drama queens looking for front row seats to a macabre theater of my pain. Most people’s best stories don’t belong to them. For example, when you visit this clinic they make everyone watch a video explaining the procedure. That’s how I found myself in a tiny room with 5 other women of various socioeconomic backgrounds. Two white girls sitting silently in meek shame, 3 black girls and a Latino woman. Pretty much a demographic slice of the Memphis area.
The three black girls are high-school age but not much older than that. A tall dark girl with natural hair leans back with her arms crossed. Two less dark high school students share the silence with the other white girl, all texting frantically. A Latino girl next to me is also texting, using long fingernails that clack staccato against her oversized screen. The video, clearly made in the 80s, plays a series of informative slides interspersed with dramatic renditions of forthcoming events. One of the blue screens with yellow sans-serif text states pain as a side effect of the procedure. A younger girl looks up and repeats, “Pain?”
The tall girl in a yellow tube dress says, “It dun’t hurt that much.” Smacking her gum she recrosses her legs and offers, “I’ve had ‘un twice. First time wuz worst, so I’m not sweatin’ it.”
The younger girl doesn’t seem pleased with the response but the video is almost over so there’s no retort. We file out of that hellish conclave to the waiting room without making eye contact. I find Tim reading a crappy magazine about Parenthood and ask if he’s trying to imply something. “Like what?” he asks defensively.
I point to the magazine title and he laughs nervously, “Fuck no, they have my money.”
To his relief, I return the chuckle. I’m the darkest person I know so of course that’s funny. He’s here with me because he earned the spot. Literally. He covered the cost himself. I think that’s part of his absolution, in the end. A literal cost for a figurative penance. Tim is in the procedure room while the nurse looks for a heartbeat. In the state of Tennessee lawmakers want women to witness biological evidence that there’s a pulsating growth before they evacuate it. The nurse never found a heartbeat. Even with the inter-vaginal probe. (Yeah, baby.) I assure her it was exactly 8 weeks since probable conception. She grumbles something and keeps probing. I stare at the stained glass window arcing across the vaulted ceiling. This house was certainly built with a different purpose in mind.
The doctor comes in an sits down gruffly. He gives me a tertiary greeting before quickly placing the speculum and injecting a burning anesthetic into my cervix. I pleadingly look at Tim with pain and fear in my eyes. He watches helplessly and tells me to squeeze his hand. I clutch his palm and cry out involuntarily as the doctor roughly suctions my uterus with practiced efficiency. The whole thing takes less than 3 minutes. I have tears on my face but don’t remember crying. The nurse bundles me up and guides me to the recovery room. Archaically, men are not allowed in this room. I lay there alone and cramping while the nurse explained my prescription medicines to me. All I can think about is my blue Watson 540 painkillers stashed in the medicine cabinet at home.
Wandering out of the room full of cots and women with no ceremony, I turn toward the stairs without glancing at the other doors. Tim is at the base of the stairs waiting anxiously. I don’t say much and let him guide me home. The rest of the my night is spent on the couch wallowing in self pity. I often search my soul for a trace of sin. I believe in choice but it’s always different when it’s an actual decision. I don’t regret the path we chose. I do sometimes wonder what my daughter would be if she’d ever grown up.