Texas Seeks Death Penalty for Women Having Abortions. So Here’s Everything About Mine

The exhausting debate surrounding abortion has been ongoing for years, and sometimes I can’t help but feel as though the voices we so frequently hear speaking about abortion are those who have no experience with it. There seems to be this widely generalized, yet popular depiction of what abortion is like, with no thanks to animated adult television and its crude humor.

None of these things equipped me for the raw experience of having an abortion.

My goal is to be as upfront, honest, and gruesomely transparent about what I endured. I have been told multiple times that I should not talk about my experience because doing so assumes I am proud of it. To that, I will always say that I am not proud, nor do I refuse to hide my face in shame and not talk about it. If there is a possibility for me to help another individual feel secure in the decision to obtain a safe and legal abortion, I will happily share my knowledge.

Everything began, as it does, with the moment I suspected I was pregnant.

Around the third week of May 2017, I was visiting New Jersey and Philadelphia for the momentous occasion of meeting my older half-sister for the first time. I even packed a box of tampons with me, as someone with very heavy periods, and because I anticipated starting mine after missing it the previous month. Endometriosis and a fickle immune system made me no stranger to an irregular cycle. Sometimes, I bleed twice a month and other times I will skip a month for no reason whatsoever, only for my period to return with a vengeance. When my period was a no-show the month prior, I thought nothing of it.

Towards the end of my week-long visit, I noticed my breasts were increasingly tender, and perhaps even more odd, my toes were a little swollen! Something inside my head told me to take a pregnancy test, but to be honest, I was too scared to see the result! I convinced myself to wait several more days for my period, and on that fourth day of waiting, summoned up the will to purchase a Clearblue pregnancy test at Walgreens before work one morning. I convinced myself it would be for my own peace of mind and I could enjoy this Hershey’s Milk Chocolate bar I purchased with it to celebrate not being pregnant!

The drive to work felt like an absolute eternity knowing I’d be taking the pregnancy test there. Just to be secretive, I took the pregnancy test out of the box and tucked it away in my purse on the way in. I will never forget the anticipation I felt sitting on the toilet, peeing on the end of the stick, and watching it turn pink as my fate would be decided.

I set the stick on the edge of the sink and cleaned myself up, only to see the word, ‘Pregnant’ glaring back at me.

I was 21 years-old and pregnant.

Not just that — I was 21 years-old, a full-time college student, part-time employee, and pregnant.

The first thing I did was let my then-partner know, and although he was very supportive, our relationship ended very soon after the abortion for a variety of good reasons. Regardless, all of my relationships have been sexually active to an extent, and with all of those partners, even on birth control, we discussed what would happen if I became pregnant. It was always a very candid, yet important conversation I insisted on having at the beginning of the relationship to avoid anything complicated should the occasion arise. At the time I was dating him, I was between birth controls, so we used the pull-out method. By no means was this reliable or responsible, and if anything, it teaches us just how important birth control is.

The decision to have an abortion took me five minutes from the time I discovered I was pregnant. Do I realize how likely I am to get utterly shit on and deemed impulsive for saying this? Yes.

For the sake of context, I acknowledged when I first became sexually active that there is always a risk of pregnancy. Even with birth control, the risk is around 1% and with my bad luck, that would be me. I already decided, fifty times over, that if I there was a shred of doubt in my mind about whether I’d be able to provide for a child, I’d have an abortion. I already decided that if I were to somehow commit myself romantically to someone against abortions, and fell pregnant, I’d still have an abortion. My mind was made up already.

On my lunch break, I scheduled my appointment with Planned Parenthood for later in the following week on June 16. I also called my mom, breaking the news to her about my pregnancy and my scheduled appointment to have an abortion. I told her I had it taken care of, that she didn’t need to worry, and went back to work as though nothing happened. Holding back tears was difficult, because although I was confident in my decision, there was a voice in the back of my head screaming, “you fucked up”.

I never really knew prior to that conversation where my mom stood on the topic of abortion. Politics and anything related were forbidden in the household due to our conflicting viewpoints. She bought my favorite pizza that evening — a Classic Chicken from CiCi’s — and was gentle to me in every interaction during a time when I wasn’t being gentle with myself.

The worst part about waiting a week was the nausea I felt all day, constantly. There were very few foods I felt like stomaching. After my pregnancy test was positive, I stopped indulging in the occasional evening drink and marijuana. Even though I knew it wouldn’t make any difference, it felt like the right thing to do. I spent every night surfing the Planned Parenthood website, watching YouTube videos, and reading so many articles my eyes couldn’t focus. I wanted to know what to expect, but even as I write this, I don’t think any of those things prepared me for my experience.

My partner drove me to the Planned Parenthood an hour away in Tampa, FL. I felt as though him being there would be added stress so he waited nearby. There were no protestors outside that morning, which made it feel almost eerie in comparison to what I expected. I walked through the double doors and into a very tiny reception hall after being buzzed in. The woman behind the counter took my ID, provided me with a patient sticker, and ushered me into a more spacious waiting room. It smelled like disinfectant.

Another receptionist sat behind the desk in the waiting room, which was rather full, and I signed in with her. I signed several consent forms electronically, paid the $500 upfront (ouch!) and waited. It was surreal to sit in that waiting room with other women and families, sharing this experience with undoubtedly some who were visiting for the same reason. The walls were vibrant and full of posters with information on sexual health, birth control and STD testing. Televisions mounted on the walls were a welcome distraction, and so were the magazines.

It took about 15 minutes for them to call me back for my first appointment. The nurse was extremely kind and only asked me questions confirming that I was visiting there on my own free will, was not being coerced or threatened, and that my relationships with those involved — family included — were healthy. She confirmed that I do have support at home and provided me with a phone number if I needed someone to talk to. After this, I was placed again into the lobby.

Another 30 minutes went by before I heard my name called again. They were going to do a urine test to confirm the pregnancy, and once confirmed, I’d receive a sonogram to determine how far along in the pregnancy I was. It took 45 minutes from the time I urinated in the cup to when they called me back for the sonogram.

At this point, everything felt almost overwhelming, including the cold gel on my stomach. I did not look at the screen, but stared up at the ceiling with a few tears in my eyes instead. The nurse was so kind and handed me a tissue, gently telling me I was around 7 weeks pregnant. I declined to see the sonogram image, but asked to have a copy of the little black and white photograph instead, which she gave me.

Another nurse (there’s so many!) brought me to an adjacent room to discuss my abortion preference. I was early enough along to have a medical abortion, which consisted of taking pills to end the pregnancy and expel the fetus from home. Alternatively, I could have a surgical abortion at the facility, which felt rather invasive. I chose the medical abortion option, though if I could go back and change things, I’d have gone the surgical route just for the sake of having it over and done with quickly.

In order to have a medical abortion, they would need a blood sample to check my iron levels due to the bleeding involved. I had pretty severe iron-deficiency anemia for years as a pescatarian and heavy-bleeder, so I was rather skeptical as to whether I’d be allowed a medical abortion. She pricked my right middle finger twice, both times the number was lower than allowable. When she went for my left middle finger, however, it was right where it needed to be. I was given a packet to read in the waiting room about the medical abortion, what to expect, how to take the pills, etc., as I waited to see the doctor responsible for administering the medication.

I took a little extra time to text my best friends, my partner, and my mom some updates, as well as thank them all for being so supportive. The emotions were hitting me hard.

The doctor was a much older man, sitting across a large wooden desk in a white coat. He had a little paper container with the first pill I was going to take and explained the process to me. I had to reiterate my understanding to him that taking the pill — Mifepristone — would terminate the pregnancy and end the life of the fetus, and that it was highly irreversible. I could not change my mind after taking it. I agreed and downed the pill with some cold water in a plastic cup. He also handed me a brown paper bag with the remaining pills — Misoprostol. I was told to place all four of them on the insides of my cheeks in 24–48 hours. They would induce contractions to expel the fetus. Finally, I was handed a prescription for antibiotics to take during the abortion to reduce any chances of infection.

I would argue that my experience at Planned Parenthood was better than my experience at some doctor’s offices. The staff were kind, empathetic, and always asked if I had any questions. I left that day feeling confident in my decision.

About 40 minutes into the drive home, I began feeling incredibly nauseous and asked my partner to pull over, which was a grueling process on the interstate. I removed the Misoprostol from the brown bag and placed them in the zipper compartment of my purse, throwing up into the paper bag. I was terrified this would null the termination process and I’d need to make another appointment. Fortunately, I called Planned Parenthood and they reassured me I just needed to keep them down for twenty minutes.

We stopped on the way home to drop off my script for antibiotics and picked up some ginger ale, snacks, and heavy-duty maxi-pads for the next few days. Tampons could not be worn.

Aside from the earlier sickness, I felt nothing from the Mifepristone. I was able to work the following morning and it was around 4pm on June 17 when I felt comfortable enough to pop the Misoprostol on the insides of my cheeks and let them dissolve. They were pretty chalky and I had to swallow what was left after 20 minutes. I laid in my bed, watching The Office to lighten the mood, waiting. I knew from online research to expect some nausea and cramping, which sounded like a heavy period to me.

Within an hour, I was vomiting into a large bowl my mom brought me. The bleeding also began as a very light pink on the maxi-pad, quickly darkening to a bright red. Some cramping started after two hours, which quickly became heavy contractions. I took Tramadol, Ibuprofen 800mg, drank hot tea… and could barely handle the pain. Eventually, around sunset, I migrated into the bathroom with a pillow. I felt hot, dizzy, and needed to cool down. I didn’t want to stand up and shower, didn’t want a bath soaking in my own blood (ew), so I laid down on the bathroom floor with a pillow to wait it out.

Occasionally, I’d switch positions, sometimes feeling more comfortable on my back and other times more comfortable in a fetal-position. I’d rock side-to-side to soothe some of the pain, albeit that didn’t help much. My mom would come by, asking if I needed anything, to which I usually declined. The pain was so excruciating, I couldn’t just sleep through it.

Then, the clots began.

Aside from the typical flow of blood was the clots. Being pregnant, there’s mucus, the placenta, and a whole lot of protection forming around the fetus. It had to come out somehow, and it usually felt very uncomfortable. I’d rotate between the floor and the toilet. The little guidebook Planned Parenthood gave me confirmed the normalcy of “lemon-sized” clots, which didn’t feel very normal!

I absolutely could tell when I passed the pregnancy. There was an uncomfortable pressure in my lower abdomen, so I sat on the toilet and braced myself, then pushed. Most people describe it as looking “gray-ish”. I couldn’t tell you how mine looked because I didn’t look at all. Not out of regret or shame, but simply because I was in so much pain that my vision was spotting and all I wanted to do was lay back down.

Even after expelling the pregnancy, it didn’t magically end. I continued to bleed profusely the following six days; some points heavier than others. One particular afternoon I was showering and the clots just began to fall out of me freely into the water below, nonstop. I looked down in horror when I felt it, and did, in fact, nearly pass out as they were carried down the drain. That was the only scary moment I really had during the abortion. Everything else I was prepared for, or just in pain from rather than afraid.

In the days after expelling the pregnancy, my ravenous appetite returned and I no longer spent the entire day sick to my stomach. I took bubble baths, exercised, had a massage, and was genuinely kind to my body after the whole ordeal. I silently thanked it for being so strong and resilient. Although I continued going to work and participating and classes without a single break, I made a conscious effort to give myself time and space to acknowledge what happened, even admiring the sonogram photo I once refused to look at. I continued the regimen of antibiotics, and returned to Planned Parenthood two weeks later for a follow-up to make sure the process was done entirely, which it was.

I owe so much gratitude to Planned Parenthood. Not only did they assist me with receiving a safe abortion, but during my follow-up, they discovered a grapefruit-sized cyst on my ovary. I had been plagued for years with excruciating periods, seeing 7 doctors and OB-GYNS who did very little to help, even after I was rushed to the E.R from the mall once due to a ruptured cyst. I needed surgery several months later for that same cyst, and doctors were finally taking me seriously since Planned Parenthood discovered something they hadn’t. Thereafter is when I was diagnosed with Endometriosis — a leading cause of infertility. I became depressed for years at the aspect of having given up my only chance to have a family.

Many people ask why I didn’t adopt when I explain my reasoning for an abortion. During that time in my life, I simply was not ready for the childbearing process. I’d be unable to continue my studies or my part-time job pregnant, both would be incredibly difficult to resume later on. I would not know who to adopt out to, and the foster system is so saturated with children already looking for homes and families, I did not want to birth mine to uncertainty or be the reason a child just as deserving of a good life remained without one. There is always the emotional pain associated with nurturing a life for nine months and inevitably falling in love with it, then giving it away. I was not ready for that.

I viewed it as a fetus, living, but not sentient or aware. The decision to have the abortion knowing the fetus wasn’t possibly in pain compared to a more mature pregnancy also made it easier. I am very aware that not everybody will agree with this perspective, either.

Some days I think it was the best possible choice I could have made for my future, because I would not have travelled or began graduate school. I’d have sacrificed an entire career I’ve come to cherish. There are so many opportunities I’d never have taken. Some days, I wonder what life would be like if I went through with the pregnancy. I think about how my child would be turning four years old this year and I wonder what gender they’d be. I imagine how it would sound for me to scold them for making a mess out of the wall with crayons, or praise them for learning simple words.

Part of the grieving and healing process for me was opening up to others about my experience — someone who would understand. I learned the hard way that women who have had abortions are frowned upon most often when we try to sympathize with mothers who have lost pregnancies they intended to carry to term. When we are excluded from another group of individuals who understands the grief of pregnancy loss, and when we are frowned upon by much of society, it only fuels the depression and loneliness. How can we preach “female empowerment” as a whole, yet isolate someone because of a decision that doesn’t fit the beliefs of others? Is female empowerment only important when those women have our same beliefs? I am still trying to wrap my head around this. We all deserve love and support equally.

For anyone contemplating an abortion, I hope this helps you, regardless of the decision you make. Take the time to educate yourself properly, for as long as you need, until you feel confident in your choice. Prepare for some judgement but do not let it deter you from making the choice that is best for you or telling your story. You are allowed to grieve afterwards and you are allowed to mourn as any mother would. Do not hesitate to tell your story either.