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MY SECRET ABORTION
When I found myself – to my stunned surprise and dismay – up the stick for the fourth time, (from one single solitary shag in that lunar month with my sex-starved husband) there was no question in my mind what had to be done.
I could not have another baby, it would send me perfectly nuts. When I told my husband that I was, indeed, pregnant again there was a brief pause, a glimmer of hope in his eye that I might go through with it. But in that same pause he
I scurried off to the GP, expecting them – stupidly – to do it there and then, but I was simply given a list of helplines to ring. This was no good. I called the private obstetrician who had delivered my other babies.
He could do the deed, he said, though he sounded crushed and depressed at the idea. He has five children. He simply adores babies. But, he said, I would have to wait until I was at least seven weeks along. Or maybe eight. I can’t remember now. But I would have to
Three thousand pounds?! I couldn’t afford it and, more importantly, I couldn’t wait. At five weeks, I was already poleaxed by morning sickness, crawling around on the floor with exhaustion, unable to care for my other children – the youngest wasn’t even yet walking nor sleeping through the night. I was hysterical with hormones and fear. I was desperate for my husband to sort it out for me, he sorts out everything else for me. But in this particular circumstance, he literally
“Marie Stopes can perform a medical termination in earlier stages,” said my obstetrician, sadly. “But sometimes it’s not as effective as a surgical procedure.”
I called the Marie Stopes helpline, jumped through what seemed like endless hoops, sweating with anxiety. I made my appointment and went along, having secured for my brief absence, a mind-bending web of childcare.
Just like in the films, outside the clinic were a group of fundamental Christians. I thought they were going to have a go at
No I didn’t need any extra help, I just needed to have sorted out my contraception a bit more cleverly after the birth of my third and last child. Never, never, I thought furiously as I stamped up those wonky linoleum steps to the first floor, clutching my notes, not in all my years of being sexually active have I ever even had
The ladies at Marie Stopes processed me firmly and kindly. At the end of a series of visits with different nurses through a rabbit warren of rooms lay the inner sanctum. “Take this pill,” said the nurse. “This separates the pregnancy from the wall of the womb. You can’t go back after this. You have to be sure, now. Do you need more time to think?”
No, my mind was firmly made up. I didn’t pause, I took the pill, trying not to think about that scene in The Matrix – red
But I had to go back for the second pill 48 hours later. More lies to everyone, more patchworked childcare. More fundamentalist Christians. I had to stuff the pill up against my gums and massage it in, taking sips of drink to help it dissipate. Then I waited. Later, at home, there was more blood, then it trailed off and then nothing.
And I forgot about the whole sorry business. Until six weeks
While I was anxiously mulling over the meaning of this, I took my kids to a local cafe for an ice cream and on the way back had a huge haemorrhage. I ran the last few steps to my house, carrying the baby, shouting at a straggler to hurry up. The blood left a trail down the pavement. It wouldn’t stop. My trousers, once khaki, where red from crotch to ankle. There were clots. It was awful. I sincerely hope my children
Then as soon as it had started, it stopped. I recovered. There was no pain and I felt fine. I didn’t want to call anyone – I was fine! But my husband insisted I see my obstetrician as soon as possible.
A scan revealed a large, dark, sinister mass of matter. My obstetrician looked at the scan and told me that I needed an ERPC, which stands for Evacuation of the Retained Products of Conception, as soon as possible. “This has to come out right now,” he said.
Everyone at the hospital assumed that I
It was a terrible choice, a terrible act. Made worse by the fact that I had to lie to everyone but my husband about it. My childminder is married and a strict Catholic and has been trying to get pregnant for years with no success. She must never know about this. My parents and my siblings, though not at all
But I couldn’t take this baby and cherish it as a gift. Even before I was pregnant, my children stretched me to my limit. I hadn’t a hope of holding things together if I was pregnant and then – O God! – with yet another newborn?! It was impossible. The whole thing was impossible.
But, six months on I never thought I would mind so
I always thought that if I was pregnant accidentally I would just do it with a cold heart – it’s nothing, just a collection of cells! – and go out dancing afterwards. But it’s not that easy. I never wonder what it would have been, or what it would have become. It’s just too awful to consider it. I have purposefully forgotten when it would be due. My youngest child is now walking, things are a tiny bit easier at home, I am truly grateful to both science and the liberal laws in this country that there
But, even though I could not have had that child – there was no space in my life, in my family or in my house for another one – I will regret the abortion until I die.
I tell you one thing, though – I hug my surviving children tighter. I want most of all to protect them from the sinister shadow that stalks my inner-eye, the murderous mother capable of this act.
I look at them and think: “I’ll never let her get you.”
Motherhood is different for all of us… if you’d like to share your
