Sometimes I get into conversations with people and, ultimately, that question will come up.

I hate that question.

I hate it because I never know how to answer it. I feel like I have that one small thing in common with mothers/fathers who have lost children to adoption. I have only once answered that question honestly, and it only leads to more questions, even more difficult explanations, and awkwardness, so I normally just go with the easy answer, even if it feels wrong to do that.

The truth is… I should have a three year old child, a baby who’d be turning four around August, a baby who’d have a nearly-exactly-the-same-age playmate in my boss’s grandson. Assuming everything went okay with the pregnancy, of course. I became pregnant around December 2006 when I was nineteen years old. I never had any intention other than keeping my baby. When I found out in February that I was pregnant, after having and missing a ton of pregnancy symptoms, including morning sickness, I went straight to Google to look up the delivery unit at the local hospital, paediatricians, schools, daycares… I started thinking about how much money it was going to take to raise a child and how I could best start to prepare for that. I started thinking about applying for second jobs and thanking the stars that I was almost done with college.

Unfortunately for me, my nDad was the one to suggest to me that I might be pregnant and got me the tests. When I got the results back and told him about it, he wasn’t having any of it. He told me I needed to get an abortion. Me being the naive idiot I was back then, in the next couple days I went to my room and called Planned Parenthood, crying over the phone and telling them I wanted to schedule an abortion.


I went in for my appointment on a Monday. They had me fill out all the usual forms, then I had to have a sonogram and talk to a counsellor. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t look at the sonogram and wasn’t given a copy. If I’d seen that, I doubt I’d be making this post. The “counselling” session was crap. It was about ten minutes long, if that, and the lady asked me if I knew what was involved in an abortion, if I was certain I wanted one, and what kind of birth control I would like to be on. I do know what’s involved in an abortion, and no, I didn’t want one, thanks. Naturally, I just said ‘yeah’ to both. There was no actual counselling. If there had been, I probably wouldn’t be making this post. They never even asked me if I had considered any other option besides abortion (like, say, parenting). If they had, I probably wouldn’t be making this post.

When that was over, I was told to come back on Wednesday – their abortion day. They only did abortions on Wednesdays. I was about 10 or so weeks along (I don’t remember exactly, I wasn’t in the greatest state of mind during my appointment, and no written information was ever given to me – if it was, I probably wouldn’t be making this post), so I had to have the aspiration. When I was led back to the room with the nurse and the doctor, I changed into the gown and got up on the table. My legs were put in stirrups, and the (male, -_-) doctor got his tools ready. I started to cry. Did either of them, the female nurse whose hand I held or the male doctor, ever stop and ask what was wrong and why I was sobbing on their table? No. If they had, I probably wouldn’t be writing this post. They couldn’t take one minute out of their busy abortion-filled day just to ask why their patient was crying. Cunts.

So I had the procedure done and, after getting dressed, was led to the recovery room. It had a bunch of really nice reclining chairs. It was dark, and I was given a heating pad. I sat there and cried. One of the nurses there noticed and came over and asked if I was okay. I wasn’t, but said I was. Couldn’t fix it now, anyway. After they’d deemed me as having enough recovery time, I checked-out, paid, got my shiny new birth control, and left, driving myself home (tsk, tsk).

For at least the first year, I didn’t really think about it. I didn’t tell anyone. It was only after I wasn’t in survival-mode so much, when I started to gain some self-confidence and begin to heal a little, that I started to think about it. I finally told Dom about it last year, but I’m afraid to tell anyone else. I know what people who had abortions get told – they don’t have a right to be upset. The one time I answered that I had a child, I had to say that I lost him before birth. It’s not the whole truth. I got rid of my baby, when I never actually wanted to.

I named the baby. Obviously I didn’t yet know what sex the baby would have been, so I tried to pick a gender-neutral name. My baby Brennan. If only I’d had the tools necessary to stand up to abusive bullies back then, I wouldn’t be writing this post.

(Yes, I’m pissed off at Planned Parenthood. Frankly, I think I have a right to be.)