“Residency is finally over, life is supposed to be easy now!” I thought, frustrated, confused, and crying (again) after another ferocious fight with my husband.
I had just made it through 9 years of hell - a post-bacc pre-med program, medical school — I graduated with a medical degree and a baby — then residency — I graduated with board certification and a second baby. Now I had a job and life was supposed to feel more “normal.” But my marriage was worse, not better, and establishing myself at a new job while trying to adequately mother two small children didn't feel like much less of a balancing act than it had a few months prior, when I was still in training. Reflecting on all this, I stifled my sniffles, covered my tear-stained eyes with concealer and mascara, and made my way to my office holiday party, where I barely knew anyone since I had just started two weeks before. After the party, my husband and I had cocktail-infused “make-up sex,” momentarily ignoring the fact that most of our conversations that week had involved beginning to plan our divorce. The divorce discussion resumed the following day, and continued into the next day, and the day after that. Lawyers were hired, and I put on the best face that I could for my two little daughters and my new work colleagues.
At first, I didn't think much of my late period - stress. As a Women's Health provider, I routinely reassured patients that skipping a period every now and then during a time of increased stress was totally normal and nothing to worry about. Though for them, I always did a pregnancy test, just in case. It took me a week or so for that thought to cross my mind - maybe I should do one of those for myself, just in case. “What a disaster that would be!” I laughed to myself as I borrowed a pregnancy test from work. “No rush,” I thought, since I could barely comprehend that possibility, and put the test in my bag for later. A few days passed and when there was still no sign of my period, I decided I should probably take that pregnancy test. Suddenly there they were - those two little lines staring me in the face like warped, wicked eyes, closed in contempt - “I told you so.” I slumped down on my bathroom floor. It was my birthday and my family was upstairs, waiting to go out to dinner. Why I chose that moment to reveal my pregnancy to myself, I still don't know. Maybe it was because I was so falsely confident that I wasn't pregnant, I didn't think the timing would matter. Or because I was planning to celebrate the confirmation of my non-pregnant status that night with a silent toast to myself. Or perhaps I thought that a birthday dinner was security against a test result not going my way - fate would never do that to me. Whatever the reason, I walked upstairs in shock, again stifling emotion, putting on a happy face, “I'll think about it tomorrow,” Scarlett O'Hara style.
Tomorrow came, and that was ALL I could think about. I felt so ashamed. At work, I counseled patients about birth control all day long. How could I have been so stupid? My only comfort was in knowing how easy it would be for me to end this undesired pregnancy and move on. I called my mentor from residency, a well-known reproductive rights activist, who taught me everything I knew about Women's Health. She knew my marriage was tenuous, and as soon as I told her I was pregnant, she knew exactly why I was calling. No questions asked, she told me to meet her at the clinic and she would give me the medication. She made it so easy for me. My shame quickly dissolved and deep gratitude took its place.
A few days later, I sat on my bedroom floor, the pill in one hand, and a very large glass of Cabernet in the other. I sobbed in between sips of wine, poured myself another glass, and held on tight to that pill. We sat on the floor, the pill and me, for almost an hour. I struggled and sobbed, sipped and sniffled, and then, slowly, I released the pill and put it back in its little envelope.
Five years later, I have three children, a recently finalized divorce, and an amazing job as a Women's Health practitioner and abortion care provider. Although I decided that night not to terminate my pregnancy, I can't imagine what my pregnancy would have felt like had I not been able to make a choice. Had I not been able to choose, on my own, to continue it.
“Choice is not a gift, it's not a privilege, it's a right. We may be facing a battle to keep it this way, which to me, seems beyond ludicrous, but is worthy of any and every effort.”
I'm reminded of that each time I diagnose an unplanned pregnancy, each time I talk a terrified woman through her options, and each time a patient comes to me after a completed termination to tell me how indebted she is for my help. How relieved she is that she can continue her life as she wants to live it, how grateful she is to have had a choice.
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Nora Lansen
January 2017