It all begins on the day of my appointment at Planned Parenthood. It's cold, December of 2008, and I am seventeen years old. It starts with my mother furiously signing paperwork, before she leaves in a bustle; though not before noting in amusement that my insurance would have paid for it. Meanwhile, my boyfriend takes out all his savings from his wallet, and I watch him with a a knot in my throat. It's ironic; my mother is the one forcing me to have this procedure, but she is the only one involved that isn't paying for it in any way. My boyfriend stays, and he holds my hand, his face drawn. After it's paid for and I can see the doctor and a few nurses, they explain that I'm going to get an ultrasound, I'm going to take some pills or maybe get the surgical procedure depending on how far along I am, and if I want to change my mind, this is the time. They tell me about the cramps, passing blood clots the size of golf balls or even lemons, the vomiting.
"Does it hurt?" I ask softly, and the doctor says, "A little, like cramps from your period." I feel like he's lying, like before stabbing someone in the butt with an especially long needle, "This is gonna sting a little."
My boyfriend waits in the lobby while I am led to an examining room for my ultrasound. The nurse is a sweet African American woman that is happy and smiling, exchanging banter with me to help me feel more at ease. She asks me what I am interested in, and I tell her I write short stories, "What kind?" she asks, probing my insides with a cold, latex covered stick, as she stares at a screen. I say, "Disturbing ones." She laughs and tells me she'd like to read them, and I say I'll bring her one to read, knowing I never will. After a few minutes she tells me I am indeed pregnant, and that I am not too far along to take the pills; something called a "chemical abortion." I choose that, because I am terrified of the idea of a vacuum of sorts between my legs sucking out the bloody tissue. They hand me a couple pills to take right then, my boyfriend at my side again; I have three more bottles, one set that will prevent nausea, another that will force the developing fetus from my body, and the last that will prevent infection. I take the first two with that knot in my throat again, and the finality makes my stomach churn. My hand never leaves my belly, and I swear I can feel the pills churning inside, while I wish futilely for my mother.
We leave in a gorgeous Mustang that my boyfriend's father has rented, as he's visiting his son from Virginia. He's raging over the various people that were rude to him at Planned Parenthood, obviously yearning to project his anger over something other than me or my mother. He drives erratically, and my stomach tosses due to the pills my body is currently processing-not really due to any medical effect they are having, but at the thought of what they (and the other pills) will do to what could have been my baby. Our baby. I do not let on, but I love him intensely for his anger; he is angry for me, and for what will happen to me, and it feels good that someone cares, even when my mother doesn't.
"Baby," I admonish, as he takes a turn especially fast, his expression dark, "You're making me nauseous." I know the only way to talk sense into him is if I act like he is putting me in danger, even though he is the best driver I know, angry or not, and a shadow crosses his face before his brow eases and he says, "Sorry, baby," and slows down. We pull in front of my mother's house, a house that probably would never be my home again for real after this entire situation is over.
Now that the pills are down, I know I should be relieved, know that I saved my life somehow, and I know later in a way that I did. I don't know that though, not at this moment. I just feel regret, even though it's too late to take it back, and hope that somewhere I will have the strength to take the rest of the pills the next morning.
