I was raised by liberal parents in one of the reddest counties in the country.
I don’t remember discussing pro-choice values with my family, but I do remember when abortion would come up in my classes at school. Somewhere along the way, I developed my pro-choice beliefs and debated with my classmates about the true value of life, a woman’s rights and what a government can and cannot control about its citizens’ physical bodies. I can count on one hand the number of students who agreed with me.
When these pro-choice/pro-life conversations came up, I always added as a caveat or a conceit (to the pro-life students or to myself, I am now not sure): “But I could never do it myself.”
And that’s the line I’ve been towing—more or less—ever since.
Sex, the pill and staying"unpregnant"
When I became sexually active in college, my college boyfriend and I had many discussions about birth control and abortion. We both equated staying unpregnant with being responsible. I took oral birth control, riding a rocky hormonal road on triphasic pills until I settled into a monophasic pill that worked for me, albeit all while zapping my libido. That ex-boyfriend used condoms as an extra precaution, mainly because he didn’t trust my reliability with my pill or the pill itself.
We were responsible young adults, going to a top university, with stellar records behind us and bright futures ahead of us. Pregnancy in college and at the beginning of our professional careers was simply not an option. It didn’t exist as a possibility, as far as I was concerned, and thus, abortion didn’t exist as a difficult possibility either.
My current boyfriend is my second sexual partner. We have been together since December 2009. When we began dating we had the usual birth control discussion. We talked about our options and when he brought up his past experiences with abortion—two of his exes had terminations, I repeated my line to him: “You should know: I could never do that.”
I countinued taking my monophasic pill like normal until September 2010.
Horrible terrible no good very bad infections, lousy and lazy gynecologists, and changing my menstruation schedule
In the summer of 2010, I started to have almost monthly vaginal infections. I’ll spare you the details, but it was not pleasant for me, my body, my boyfriend or our sex life. I remember sobbing, frustrated and wondering what was wrong with me.
My instinct told me that these infections seemed to be related to stress, maybe diet and my period. In September, I made yet another appointment with my gynecologist, intending to truly tackle the problem this time instead of just getting another prescription to fix its symptoms.
When I visited my gynecologist, Dr. S, I asked her about diet and stress. She scrunched up her face and quickly said, ‘Oh no. Your diet would not affect this system,” which seemed strange to me. Really? What I put inside me doesn’t affect my body? Even this part of it? Dr. S didn’t address the stress issue.
After an examination, Dr. S decided that I might have herpes based on some scarring she saw around my vagina.
Dr. S is manic in her bedside nature, rattled through a couple options, and then said she wanted me to begin taking my monophasic pill for three months straight, skipping periods. The blood’s lower pH levels could be throwing my vagina out of whack, she explained. Eliminating the period might eliminate the problem.
My boyfriend was not comfortable with this decision. “It’s not natural,” he said. “You’re fighting with nature.” I pointed out that the pill itself fights with nature, and as I began the new schedule, I was relieved to find that the infections went away.
It did feel wrong to go without a period, but I wasn’t too worried. I took my birth control daily, though not as spot-on as to the same moment each day. Come three months later, I got my period in early December.
Following my period, I got another infection. Frustrated, I scheduled an appointment at the same office but with Dr. S's colleague, who had treated me once before in the summer of 2010, Dr. D.
Dr. D's bedside manner was calm, collected and reassuring. The antithesis, it turned out, to Dr. S. When I saw Dr. D in the past, she questioned the herpes diagnosis, said she wouldn't want to prescribe any herpes medications based only on a blood test, suggested scarring could be related to an intense sexual experience or two, and wanted to wait to treat me for anything until I had another infection and she could take a culture.
But when I saw her in December 2010, Dr. D suddenly said that she wanted me to take a herpes blood test to determine our next course of action. If the results were positive, then I would go on herpes medication. If they were negative, then I would begin using a topical cream for my vagina meant to thicken and toughen its skin. Problem with the cream is that it actually thins your vaginal skin before thickening it, and ultimately, you can't use it very long because it will eventually thin the skin again. Uh, what?
I reminded her that she once said that she didn't want to rely solely on herpes blood tests. (I have oral herpes/cold sores, and hence my blood test would come back positive.) She had wanted to take a culture (which she wasn't able to get that day) for positive results.
"I just don't want you to suffer anymore," she said. I took the paperwork for the blood tests and left, vowing to find a new gynecologist for the next time I might need one. I continued taking my birth control pills.
A new, shiny, better holistic gynecologist
In February 2011 I had another infection. This one seemed easier to track its causes, but I decided it was time to see a new doctor and at least get acquainted.
I found a holistic doctor who has integrative medicine training and an acupuncture license, in addition to her western medical degree. By the time I saw her, the infection had cleared up with the help of some Monistat, but I was still psyched to meet this doctor.
We first talked for almost a half hour about my diet, my life, my routines. I felt like I was talking with my therapist. Based on what I shared with her, she decided that stress (I hate my job, my finances are in terrible shape, and my parents have been living with me for six months) and diet (I eat fast, on the go, out a lot and lack nutrients) were probably seriously affecting my system. Infections could be related. We decided to do some tests.
First she did my annual pap smear (All normal, which in hindsight seems weird. Do pap smears not tell us we're preggers?) and some blood tests (Again, too bad we didn't test for hCG.). She was right about some nutrients and levels being seriously low, so I planned to make an appointment to discuss supplements with her.
A few days later on Sunday, February 27, I started my first placebo pill for my next menstruation. I waited until Wednesday for my period. It did not come.
Two pink lines
I've always been one of those girls who freaks regularly that she is pregnant. Like plenty of ladies out there, I've gone out and bought pregnancy tests, peed and stood shaking until a lovely single pink line appeared or the words "NOT PREGNANT." Sighing with relief, I'd tuck the stick back into its box, wrap it in tissues should anyone visit me and go back to life as normal. Pregnancy tests had become a way of reassuring myself that I was not, in fact, pregnant.
This time felt different even before I got the positive results.
It had been too many days waiting for my period, for one.
I had a pregnancy nightmare the night before I found out. Pregnancy nightmares aren't exactly unexpected for me, but this time, I woke up at 6:30 AM having to pee like the dickens. After running to the bathroom, I tossed and turned in bed with a knot in my stomach for two more hours.
While I hadn't had morning sickness, I hadn't been nauseous, I hadn't gained weight, various teensy-weensy physical things suddenly seemed to scream PREGNANT:
- Only a few weeks before, my boyfriend remarked that my boobs and nipples were looking bigger.
- I had also noticed that my breasts sometimes hurt when I showered and were more sensitive in general.
- I felt somewhat bloated. But I had recently made a big effort to start drinking tons of water and attributed bloating to suddenly drinking dozens more ounces of water each day.
- In early February, I had been hungry all the time. I felt a combination of hungry and full a lot of the time. But I have a shifting appetite anyway and it was the heart of a cold, snowy winter. I figured my body was doing its instinctive hibernate thing.
I couldn't relax, and by 4:00 PM I ran home (my office is close), greeted my parents and carried my purse into the bathroom with me, announcing that I wanted to take a quick shower. I turned on the water, did the test and waited for about 30 seconds. My heart pummeled my chest, so I decided I would jump in the shower for the rest of the 3 minute waiting period.
Standing in the shower, I counted the seconds. 120, 121, 122... and tried to ignore how much the water was hurting my breasts. When I got close enough to 3 minutes, I opened the shower curtain and stared at the test where I'd left it on the sink.
Two pink lines.
I don't remember much after this moment, but I do remember feeling like I might pass out, that my head was spinning and trying to think clearly about what to do. I don't remember exactly what I did do. I know I changed clothes and then, thinking it would be weird to go back to the office in different clothes, I changed back. Smiling, I told my parents I didn't need their car for the night anymore. I felt like I was outside of everything my body was doing. Even my voice sounded foreign. I called my girl friends and canceled our plans, claiming to feel like I was coming down with something. Then, I texted my boyfriend.
4:30: Hey. Where are you?
--no response--
4:37: I call, no answer.
4:38: I call, no answer.
4:45: I call, no answer.
4:55: Can you give me acall asap? xo
5:00: He calls and I say that I need to talk to him as soon as possible.
Twenty minutes later, he's getting inside my car. Because of our living situation--he has roommates and my parents have been living with me, we have very little privacy. It seems that talking in the car is the best solution.
When he sits down, I am trying to hold it together and trying to remember how I decided I would tell him. Before I say anything, he says, "It'll be okay."
It'll be okay.
These are the first words I am hearing about this pregnancy, and he doesn't even know it yet. I break down into tears. He pulls my head down and repeats, It'll be okay. I realize he assumes that I haven't gotten a job that I applied for and I need to tell him right this moment. "That's not it," I say. "I'm pregnant."
His grip on my hand loosened and his mouth dropped. He was quiet for a long time.
I wondered if he was thinking back to when I told him my line,“You should know: I could never do that.”
But things change drastically when you are faced with reality: a home pregnancy test sporting those two bright pink lines, a boyfriend who you adore but is not yet your partner, a financially-unstable job that pays you so little you can barely support yourself, no savings and plenty of debt, an emotionally-unstable and inconsistent home environment, living out of a bag and bouncing between your boyfriend's basement apartment and your parentally-occupied apartment.
Suddenly that line I was towing loses its weight in the reality of the moment.
Tomorrow I have my consultation to discuss abortion options and make sure this is what I want to do. Still can't quite wrap my head around the fact that this is happening.
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