We Need to Tell All of the Abortion Stories
Photo by Tengberg Studio
BY EUNICE BROWNLEE
I never wanted to be a mother.
At twenty three years old, I tried to convince a doctor to let me have my tubes tied because I knew then I definitely did not want kids. I was told I was “too young to make that kind of decision” and “you’ll probably change your mind when you’re older.”
A few years later, I was at the doctor complaining of digestive issues that had bothered me for a couple of months. At best, I figured I’d leave with a suggestion to boost my probiotics and increase the fiber in my diet. At worst, I thought I was suffering from Crohn's Disease or Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
“Alas,” the doctor declared, “you’re just pregnant.”
Just pregnant.
Delivered in a this-should-be-a-massive-relief-and-you-should-be-extremely-grateful-to-be-with-child kind of tone.
Just pregnant . . . shit.
My doctor referred me to an OB/GYN for an ultrasound to find out just how far along I was. I tried doing the math in my head and I thought, there’s no way I could be that far along . . . I was thinking eight to ten weeks at most.
I was newly divorced and having regular sex with a guy I saw zero future with. With the doctor’s words still echoing in my ears, I was thinking, He was just supposed to be the rebound guy, and I was on the pill, how could I be pregnant? (Side note — that warning about the diminished efficacy of birth control when you’re on antibiotics is 100% true.)
I sat in the car, stunned that this was happening to me, at this point in my life, with this person. “I’m a statistic!” I screamed out loud and began to cry. Hard.
When I returned home, instead of making the appointment at the OB’s office, I flipped through the Yellow Pages (Gen X’s Google) in search of abortion services. As I talked to a kind woman on the other end of the line, she asked how far along I was and when I told her I wasn’t exactly sure, she told me that they’d need to do an ultrasound to confirm and that it was very likely that I was too far along to have an abortion.
I jumped on my computer to find out which states allowed abortions after ten weeks. I could travel to Nevada, which I certainly had the means to do, but who would go with me? I couldn’t think of anyone I knew that would support me in this decision.
I grew up uber-Christian and very pro-life. There was part of me that felt wrong for even considering terminating this pregnancy, but I knew that it wasn’t right for me. I was a twenty-five-year-old divorcée pregnant by a man I barely knew.
I made the OB appointment and learned that I was twenty three weeks pregnant. I could have still gotten an abortion if I really wanted to, but at that point, it didn’t feel right. The father told me flat out he wanted nothing to do with us. And he fiercely upheld his resolve for five years.
I was angry. I was mad. I was alone. I was “just pregnant.”
***
Over the past year, as laws prohibiting or limiting abortions have been passed, I found myself falling into my usual state of shock and despair at yet another attack on reproductive healthcare. I watched the song and dance — the choreography committed to memory at this point — the pro-birth movement rejoiced while the pro-choice side paraded out all the heart-breaking stories of pregnant people who were previously able to have an abortion and now, under the new law, would no longer be able to.
And I stayed quiet. I didn’t feel like I had the right to tell my abortion story because it wasn’t a horrible, awful decision that I regret every day. I didn’t share my story because my abortion wasn’t traumatic. I didn’t feel like my story was morally justified.
My abortion was still a secret that I withheld, not because I am ashamed for making the choice, but because we haven’t allowed room for abortion stories that aren’t tragic. This has made way for legislation that prohibits abortion . . . with exceptions.
. . . except in cases of rape or incest.
. . . except in cases where the mother’s life is at risk.
. . . except in cases where the pregnancy is not viable.
It is a slippery slope to say that some abortions are okay and others are not. This has led to more policy to limit or prohibit abortion. Failing to tell all our abortion stories will endanger our right to choose.
There are myriad reasons a woman chooses abortion. By continuing to tell only the stories of hard decisions filled with shame or trauma, we undermine the fact that abortion access should be available to all pregnant people, for any reason. We need to get out of the duality that abortion equals painful decision. It is painful for some, but not all.
My abortion was the best decision I could have made for my family.
***
I had an abortion in December of 2008.
My daughter was two years old. She and I were living in a shabby apartment, rented by the week, and I was working two jobs – one to pay for childcare and the other one to cover our basic needs, which were barely being met.
I had been dating a guy I met through work for just over a year. Although he helped if I asked, he was very clear that he was not signing up to be a father to my child.
Just prior to Thanksgiving, he noticed that I’d missed my period — which had never been regular until I had my daughter — and asked me to take a pregnancy test. It was positive. I took a second one to be sure. Positive. My heart sank. I couldn’t believe it. Not again.
My decision was easy. I did not want to put my body through a second pregnancy, and I did not want to raise another child. That’s it. That was the extent of my thought process.
After consulting with my partner, I called Planned Parenthood to schedule an abortion. Although my state does not have a mandatory waiting period, I still had to wait nearly two weeks for an appointment due to the holiday and other scheduling issues.
When the day finally came for my abortion, we arrived at the clinic. Despite its nondescript and somewhat hidden location, a band of protesters stood outside, which surprised me. Together, we went inside and took up our space in the waiting room. After what felt like an eternity, I was finally called back.
An ultrasound confirmed that I was seven weeks pregnant. Under the recent Texas law, the two-week wait between when I knew I was pregnant and when I could get in for the procedure would have forced me to go through with a pregnancy I didn’t want.
I was escorted to a smaller waiting area, this time without my partner. I was secure in my decision, so I was fine sitting alone. There were two other women waiting with me and I could tell that the three of us were sitting with our choice at varying degrees of resolve. One seemed indifferent while the other was clearly struggling.
I wasn’t exactly sure what abortion waiting room etiquette should look like. Looking back, I wish I had treated the struggling woman the same way I would have if we were in any other doctor’s office — tried to make a connection and reassure her that she wasn’t alone.
I interacted with four care providers throughout the day. Each one of them spent time thoroughly informing me of the process and the realities of my decision, then gathering my consent before sending me back to wait for the next step.
I was annoyed that the appointment was taking so long. I expected it to take about as long as a routine pap smear. If you took out the nearly four hours I spent waiting, it probably took less time. After I disappeared for the ultrasound, my partner got impatient and left. He texted me to “call when it’s done and I’ll come pick you up.” If I felt I needed to affirm my decision, that would have helped. I wasn’t about to have two kids with two fathers that couldn’t care less about them.
If I’m going to be honest, the most painful part of that day was the cold support I had from my partner. I’m not sure if he was so distant to show me that he respected my choice, or if it was because he really didn’t care as long as, at the end of the day, I wasn’t pregnant anymore.
I had a medical abortion, which means that I took one pill there at the clinic and was given a second one to take twelve hours later. I swallowed the pill, grabbed my brown bag, set an alarm in my phone, thanked the doctor, and headed to work.
I took the second pill in the wee hours of the morning and passed the pregnancy at home. I’ve had periods that were worse. My daughter slept soundly in the bedroom, and I slept on the couch.
It’s been just over thirteen years since the day I sat in that clinic and the only time I ever think about it is when legislation gets passed to prohibit our access to this vital piece of healthcare.
I am still confident I made the right choice and I have no regrets around my decision.
As we continue to fight for healthcare equity, we have been inadvertently advancing the pro-birth agenda. We have gotten lost in the philosophical arguments around the moment life begins, the moral judgment of unwed mothers, and pregnancies resulting from rape.
All abortion stories are important to share.
We need to begin talking about choosing an abortion in the same way we talk about getting a filling, having a broken bone set, or choosing to undergo cancer treatments. We make these medical decisions because they are what is best for us — no permission or justification needed. What if we stopped looking at abortion as this huge, painful moral dilemma, and simply the informed healthcare decision that it is?
To all the pregnant people who have made the choice to have an abortion, your stories deserve to be told — even those for whom the decision was easy, and the process was not filled with trauma and regret.
I’ve had two pregnancies and one child. I can confidently say that I am happy with the outcomes of both. Because I had a choice.
Writer’s Note: On June 24, 2022, the Supreme Court of the United States voted to overturn Roe v. Wade in the Dobbs v. Mississippi decision, saying that abortion access law should be left to the states. This removes equitable access to abortion healthcare across the nation.
While most Americans think that Roe was strictly about abortion rights, it was a decision that guaranteed our right to privacy. The long-tail effect of this decision will be felt for generations as privacy extends well beyond a conversation anyone has with their healthcare provider.
Please contact your state legislatures and urge them to codify abortion access into state and federal law. Find your legislators at openstates.org.
Bio: EUNICE BROWNLEE has spent her career finding the balance between her left and right brains. She is a writer, speaker, and activist who is passionate about educating the general population around mental health, trauma, and abuse. A solo mother to a teenage daughter, Eunice has entered the phase of really enjoying a close mother-daughter relationship. Eunice’s work has been published in The Kindred Voice, Motherscope and Spoken Black Girl. Eunice’s current project is a book about the trauma of navigating the justice system as a victim of a crime. When she’s not doing any of the above, she can be found seeking her next passport stamp and drinking wine. Eunice and her daughter currently reside in Denver, CO.