do you want to keep it or not?
this one is very personal and comes with a trigger warning
A slightly different, personal piece this week. It feels fitting to send this on the eve of my 29th birthday. 28 has been a year of transformation; this is my last momentous moment.
Please be aware as you keep reading it does come with a trigger warning surrounding pregnancy and abortion.
Both in academia and professionally, I’ve always felt a strong gravitational pull to work within the field of women’s health. Having written dissertations and researched topics like the menopause and PCOS, I feel in order to fully advocate for equality in healthcare for those with a womb, abortion literature cannot be left behind. Challenging abortion stigma can only be tackled by having open and honest conversations. So here is mine.
do you want to keep it or not?
Aged 18 when asked at the abortion clinic “how do you feel about your pregnancy?” I took this as a gentle opener to allow me to explore what was happening or at least a moment to digest - a small therapeutic breather. After timidly opening up about how I’d not been able to tune in to how I was feeling or process what was happening, and despite my strong ‘maternal instincts’, I wasn’t sure now was the time. Before I could finish, she shut down me with “No, but do you want to keep it or not?”.
…
It has taken me a very long time (10 years) to start to feel ok vocalising what I went through. What really started the conversation was Grace Campbell’s recent article (and comedy show Grace Campbell is on heat). The first time I’ve ever seen something that pinpoints the unique nuance of abortion grief and trauma, whilst advocating for being very much prochoice. I was alarmed the narrative remains the same all these years on. Strongly resonating with her ideas that challenge the norm, I feel empowered to share my story.
Even using the word abortion felt and feels too painful. Actually, only very recently, and scarcely, will I use it. Even writing this, I notice I wince and avoid it. I think my age at the time of it plays a large part in this. Besides hearing stories, I was unable to seek comfort from anyone who shared a lived experience. The societal stigma surrounding this topic made it harder to express what I was going through. I simply couldn’t bear the thought of anyone talking about it. Looking back, I realise conversations during that time might have been pivotal in shaping and understanding my shame and grief.
I had A-level exams, one just days after. I remember staggering up to my sixth-form college, still wearing a thick period pad (pretty much a nappy), and I was just expected to act normal. I had to share my exposing medical proof to sit this exam in a smaller room, a few days later. I was met with silence. Nobody even reached out. Not a word.
While time has been a massive healer, 10 years on I still remember the three significant dates – the aforementioned first appointment 10th of March, the 17th of March and the 18th of March. I’d also like to add here that it is a strange feeling being knowingly pregnant for two weeks knowing it’s coming to an end.
How should I be moving in yoga postures? My dad asked “are you ok to do this?” during a shoulder stand sequence. Brushing it off, I don’t think I’d humanised it. What do I say to my friends when I’ve simply no energy or taste for 2-4-1 cocktails at our favourite tiki bar? I remember just wishing it would solve itself. Was there any chance of a spontaneous miscarriage?
Having a fear of general anaesthetic and hearing stories of chicken run-like conveyor belt scenes waiting nervously in surgical gowns, I opted for medical. I thought it would be the easier option to be at home.
Arriving for the 18th March in spotty leggings with (accidentally) matching spotty socks - I remember just how young I felt. Almost silly as I pulled them off - all in one go. Rather than doing the misoprostol insertion myself at the clinic, I decided I would feel safer with a nurse (my mum nervously on the other side of the curtain). Another cutting interaction. Her bright pink painted talons were extremely painful and definitely did not make me feel safe. Sharp scratches and four times over. I also wonder here about the necessity of four pessaries. I was then shunted out with a throwaway comment ‘at least you’ve not far to get home’.
Whilst being mindful and sensitive with my sharing (and appreciating that no two experiences will be the same), nothing prepared me for what followed. Nobody tells you you’ll feel your waters break, to play an active role as if you’re in labour, and that resisting the pain lying frozen on your mum’s bed will simply make it worse. Throwing up the codeine didn’t help. I know this physical trauma played a massive part in hindering my recovery and accentuating my grief. I have delicately shared my ‘tips’ with others since. I say tips, knowing full well the iceberg that waits beneath.
Even the most sensitive and well-informed of us can still be restricted by our society’s lack of abortion education. None of us had any idea how it was going to play out. How painful it would be, the long-lasting cramps, the heaving bleeding and that it would go on for weeks. Despite having a unique openness and support from my family, I still felt a sense of resistance around me.
“you just take a pill and it's over right?” “you can’t still be in pain?”
This kind of naivety is again the more reason for advocating for this conversation and education with everybody. My boyfriend at the time couldn’t connect to my emotional response. Click of a finger and it’s done? right? I think partly I tried to shield and protect him from the worst of the experience, and we never really spoke about it. I do wonder, had I let him in or had society guided his response, would I have felt less alone in my grief?
Reverberating with this idea of grief, I felt:
Grief for the physical trauma
Grief for the loss itself
Grief for how it could have been had I kept it
Grief for being adultised (while most of my peers were enjoying the delights of turning 18)
Grief for the trauma of people around me, my sister was only 15 and played witness to its entirety
My pivotal moment, only a couple of years ago, came in challenging my internalised shame to aid a friend suffering a similar story. Something so traumatic can also deeply connect you to another. Finding a crack to squeeze my way through my stigma has made space for me to start to heal. I’ve realised being explicit and honest about my experience, while terrifying, is my only way to find solace and ultimately promote change around the current abortion dialogue.
bpas “most women feel relieved, but some also feel sad or guilty. Occasionally… perhaps it’s a bit of a struggle emotionally”
perhaps… WTF? this is direct from the ‘feelings’ aftercare section of British Pregnancy Advice Service (bpas) website!
Coming forward with complaints surrounding abortion feels conflicting in a world where only 57% of women can make informed decisions on sex and reproductive health. The demand for abortion access doesn’t mean people (with the privilege) do it for convenience or without significant distress. Despite having ease of access and feeling gratitude for that, the reality is that it is still a traumatic and heartbreaking part of routine life for people with wombs. Echoing Grace’s words, it is very nuanced.
Female reproductive healthcare needs to be taken more seriously, with as much respect as any other, and lived experiences must be listened to. Only in this way can we challenge the stigma around abortion and fight this culture of silence.
Everything said- my mum, my sisters and two of my friends were my absolute rocks at the time of my deeply isolating abortion experience. I am forever grateful for them and the power of female connection.
Thank you for reading my piece, while very cathartic, I have found writing this hugely challenging. I would love to hear from you.
thank you to all those who helped me get this piece out there. images from my mum’s allotment