Fucking Pregnant
I was standing in the aisle of Rite Aid, checking the accuracy of one pregnancy test against another, when I suddenly realized how many times I’d actually been in that particular predicament. I have had the unfortunate luck of getting myself knocked up six times. Yup, you read that right, six times. And out of those six pregnancies, only two were carried to term, and only one of them was one of those “jump-up-and-down-yay-I’m-pregnant” moments. For those of you who have ever wondered why women terminate pregnancies, let us examine a few scenarios as they have happened in my life.
The first time I got pregnant, I was 19. I had only had sex with Bobby about three or four times, but one of those times was the right time (or, the wrong time, depending on your view of it). I didn’t actually find out I was pregnant so much as I was told I was pregnant. By my mother, of all people. My family contained within it three females, and any woman will tell you that when a group of women live together, their cycles will coincide over time. It usually went down that I got my period first, then my mother, then my younger sister. One month, they both got theirs and I didn’t. My mother, being the hyper-observant woman that she is, noticed this.
“You’re pregnant.” She said to me one morning as I came out of the bathroom.
My jaw dropped. My face drained of all color as I tried to feign ignorance of what she was talking about. My mother was a hell of a lot smarter than I was, and she didn’t believe me for a minute.
To say my entire world was turned upside down would be an understatement. The boy who was unfortunate enough to be the impregnator was a piece of crap and became a non-issue within days of our discovery of my condition. The most interesting thing about this was that the decision was never left up to me, it was never me against my parents having a “Papa Don’t Preach” moment. It became a war between my parents, as they were on opposing sides as to what should be done.
My mother, for reasons I’m still not clear on, felt I should have the baby. She knew damn right well that Bobby was not going to set up house and play family and that I would be alone in it, but she still felt I was ready for motherhood. She was the only one who thought so.
My father was foursquare against the idea, as one would think any father would be. “She’s too young, Linda! She’s only 19! She’s just a baby! She can’t have a baby!”
He would eventually win the argument when he informed both my mother and me that if I did not terminate the pregnancy, then I would have to move out, posthaste. I remember my mother holding me, both of us crying during this living room battle, and now that I think back on it, my father struggling not to break down as he made the only decision he knew to be right for me.
My termination was scheduled and as the dreaded day drew nearer and nearer, the pall hanging over my house grew thicker and thicker. I was the albatross around my parents’ marriage and the animosity between them was hard to witness. My mother was the one who took me, because Bobby had quickly removed himself from the picture. Saying she was angry that morning would be putting it mildly. We pulled up in front of the clinic and she didn’t even put the car in park.
“I don’t agree with this, so I’m not going to stay with you. You’re on your own.”
She pulled away, leaving me standing there, utterly and completely alone. It was the longest day of my life. I sat in that clinic, in their waiting rooms, for over 6 hours. It was as if they wanted to give me plenty of time to think about what I was doing, and to possibly change my mind. I don’t really even remember what I thought about that day. But I do remember lying on that table. For only the 3rd time in my life my feet were in stirrups, and I was shaking. God was I shaking. It was freezing cold. And the room was so white. It was so sterile. I remember asking if someone was going to hold my hand and admitting that I was scared.
No one held my hand.
My next encounter with pregnancy was just 2 years later and it, again, did not occur under optimal circumstances. The impregnator this time was the man who is now my husband. The problem was, at the time, he was someone else’s husband. There was no question what would be done, and very little discussion. I knew what had to be done. I didn’t think too much about it. I remember the two of us talking about it and him telling me, based on his ultra-Catholic upbringing, that he was going to be damned to hell for making me do what I had to do.
I will never know what excuse he gave his then-wife for where he went that morning. But again, because he was married, and these were not optimal circumstances, he couldn’t stay with me. Again, I was alone.
Fast forward a few years. I was a married woman, at the age of 28, with two more pregnancies under my belt, one of which resulted in a miscarriage, one of which resulted in a set of twins. The hubby and I were in the process of buying our house when I found out I was pregnant. AGAIN. How did this keep happening? How did I keep getting pregnant at all these horribly inconvenient times? We agreed, after much discussion that this was not a good time to bring another child into the world. Of course, that was more his view than mine, but I came around to his way of thinking.
This time was a little different. I was under the care of an ob/gyn and we had about a year and a half of history between us by this point. So instead of going to some clinic that had the possibility of being picketed by sign-wielding zealots, I would have this termination in a hospital operating room. I sat in an exam room with a young nurse who was conducting a pre-surgical questionnaire. Date of my last period? Height? Weight? Was I allergic to shellfish?
“Am I allergic to shellfish? Why? Are we having lobster when I come to? Cuz I gotta tell ya, I’m pretty frigging hungry…”
Yup. I actually said that. I managed to keep up this stream of patter and one night stand comedy routine all the way into the OR, and right up until I passed out, mid-sentence, when the happy juice kicked in. The last thing I remember hearing is the anesthesiologist, telling my OB/GYN “She won’t stop talking,” and hearing my doctor say “Give her the rest. She’ll shut up.”
I came to a while later in the post-op room and within a minute of coming to, my doctor was there. For all that comedy and banter before, I was now a mess.
She came in and said “So. How are you doing, Stephanie? You ok?”
I opened my mouth to answer her. I wanted to say “I’m fine.” Or, “I feel a little sick to my stomach.” But nothing came out. Instead, 2 big, fat tears of recrimination rolled down my cheeks. She didn’t even hesitate. She wrapped her arms around me, and rocked me back and forth, stroking my hair. And then I said it. I said what had been in my eyes all along, even as I strutted around, acting like I was so sure of what I was doing.
Through my tears I whispered “I didn’t want to do it.”
She nodded. “I know. I know you didn’t. But I understand why you did. But just so you know, I don’t think you can do this again. I don’t think your body could handle it again. So you might want to consider getting your tubes tied. We’ll discuss that some other time, though. Now’s not the time.”
I don’t think about that moment a lot. I can’t think about it without re-living it. Even as I typed it, I started crying all over again at the memory of that horrible afternoon.
Not all women are haunted by making this horrible decision, or having to make it, for that matter. I am not haunted by the 1st or 2nd one. I knew what I was doing was right for me at the time. On both of those occasions I knew that having a baby was a bad idea. And the possibility to alter my condition was available to me. I did what I knew was right for me at that time. That last one, though, haunted me. I had nightmares for weeks that I was either running from something, or trying to chase something down. I would wake up sweating and shaking, swearing I heard a baby crying. I started to drink. I drank as often as possible, trying to drown out the dreams. I did drugs whenever they were made available to me. I was on a severely fast-paced downward spiral, and it would be a year before I would forgive myself for what I’d done.
So, that brings us up to nearly 4 years ago. There I stood in Rite Aid. I bought my EPT and went home to take my test. As I stood in the bathroom, waiting for my results, I prayed to God that I wasn’t pregnant.
“Please, God, if you are listening to me, don’t let me be pregnant. I can’t have a baby right now. It’s really, just… It’s not a good time. I just started this job, we just got the older kids into school, and I swear, if you will make it so that I’m not pregnant right now, I will get my tubes tied right after my 30th birthday. I swear! It won’t happen again! I promise!”
I waited 5 minutes. I checked my little stick window. I walked out of the bathroom and into our bedroom. My husband looked up at me, standing in the doorway.
“What’s wrong?” he asked me.
I threw the stick at him. “I’m pregnant, you fucking asshole!”
