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Abortion Story: Bradenton, FL

Submitted to Abort73 by a 38-year-old woman on July 5, 2013


I had [an abortion] when I was 17, and let me tell you, IT IS NOT JUST A PIECE OF TISSUE!

It all started when I became sexually active and began thinking about having a baby—so I would have someone to love. I slept with three different guys in a one month period. One month later, I found out I was pregnant. I was scared beyond description. I had been taking pills and drinking, so I was fearful that the baby would be deformed. One of the guys I had been with was of a different race, so i didn't know if the baby would look like me. And my mother was extremely overbearing, thus making the situation even more stressful. I don't remember how, but I told my mother and she began to give me options:

Option 1: Have and keep the baby, but do EVERYTHING EXACTLY the way mom says. 

Option 2: Have and give the baby to my mom, thereby having to face this "mistake" for the rest of my life.

Option 3: Have an abortion. 

Option three was given much support from my stepmother who had, unbeknownst to me, had several of these little "procedures." 
My mother was doing the best she knew how. She educated me and took me to a counselor who had previously been counseling me for bulimia. We went over the options together, (but) we didn't discuss the morality of them to any great degree. Eventually, I made the CHOICE to have an Abortion, a simple end to my problem, right? WRONG!

The day came. It was early in the morning. We drove to the abortion clinic, passing billboards of fetuses in the womb. We arrived at the driveway. My mom told me to cover my eyes and lay the seat back. I still could see the picketers outside of the brick building. I could hear their shouts. They just seemed like obstacles to me, fanatics even. I saw their signs—more PICTURES OF fetuses—in the air. I could see the door of the building. A very pregnant, Spanish woman was going in, but, wait, wasn't this just for people like me—barely pregnant people?! The next memory I have is being at the front desk, signing in and looking at pictures on the walls. There was Oprah's smiling sweet face. If Oprah endorsed abortion, it has to be OK, right? There was a letter from her under her photo. Then, it was time for me to go into room number one. In room one, all the women who were there for abortions waited, took a Valium, and basically mingled and got to know each other. I remember a few of the women there with me—another teen girl. She looked to me for comfort. Her boyfriend and mother were pushing her to have an abortion, but she didn't want to. I comforted her, and told her it'd be okay. It wouldn't be that bad. The next girl said she had been there a year ago for the same procedure and she swore up and down she'd never do it again. This supports the fact that most women who have abortions end up pregnant again within a year—trying to replace the loss of their baby. The last woman I remember was in her 40's and had 4 or 5 kids already. She said she just couldn't handle another one.

The nurse came in and called the 40-year-old lady in. A few minutes went by, and the door opened again. My turn. I went to room number two, lay down with my feet in the stirrups, and tried to relax. The nurse held my hand. Madonna's song, "This used to be my playground," came on. I still remember the doctor feeling my pelvis. "She's 10 weeks." I thought I was only 8. Then came the vacuum—the awful vacuum. They dilated my cervix with a clamp or two and then came the vacuum. I heard my baby's life end. I felt cold and nauseated. I teared up—immediately realizing what I had CHOSEN to do—murder. 
The nurse helped me off of the table and showed me where room number three was—the bathroom, to get my clothes back on and put on a pad. I shook all over, shook so hard I could hardly get dressed. Then I opened the door. There was the teenaged girl I had previously been trying to console. She said, smiling, "it wasn't so bad, was it?" And I fell to freaking pieces! A look of shock now resided on her face. I started crying loudly, and the nurse came, whooshing me away from her into room number four—a room full of recliners and hot tea, soft music, low lighting. The 40-year-old was already there, vomiting in a waste basket, seated on the recliner next to mine, her knees covered in a blanket.


I WAS TOLD NOT TO MOURN—IT WAS JUST TISSUE. She wasn't. She was my daughter.

Age: 38
Location: Bradenton, FL
Date: July 5, 2013

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