A few days ago I had an abortion. I sadly dare to say that I had the privilege of having access to an abortion. As the stop falls Roe v. wade, ironically, my hormones are stabilizing. My breasts are deflating. I reintegrate my body before: the one I choose.
The walls of the Clinique L’Alternative are a soothing pink. The beds are covered with floral patterned blankets. Before the intervention, a worker asks questions “not to judge the reasons behind your decision, but to support you in your choice”, she told me. On a poster, I read: “An unexpected thing happens. That doesn’t make you irresponsible. Strangely, this message reassures me. It was only then that I put my finger on my condition. Shame. An insidious, intoxicating shame.
However, I am convinced of my choice. I am still studying. I live on loans and grants. My romantic relationship is new and fragile. My rent costs me $800 a month, and I almost consider myself lucky. I jump in amazement when I pay for my groceries. I would like to cool off in a lake when Montreal’s heat islands become intolerable, but a war is driving up the price of gas and, anyway, I grew up on the edge of a river in which it was forbidden to to bathe, because it was too polluted. I bathed anyway. I may have cancer soon, but for now, it’s not a tumor growing inside me, but an embryo that is inconceivable for me to keep.
My body, my choice. Our choice, yes. But sometimes it’s not so much. I did not choose the political, economic and climatic context in which I became pregnant. Others did not choose to have been impregnated by their abuser. Others do not recognize themselves so much in the role of mother that they have no choice but to remedy this incident if they do not want to die from within.
Where does shame come from?
It is our choice, yes, but — above all — it is our right. So where does the shame come from?
The shame may have been passed down from generation of women to generation of women hiding in their bathroom with a clothes hanger or castor oil. Shame may have seeped into us as we listened to men like Senator Ted Cruz proclaim victoriously that stopping Roe v. wade “will save the lives of millions of babies”. Those who knocked down Roe v. wade do not tolerate female killers: they want them to be nurturers. Yet there is nothing to kill, and we no longer have the energy to provide milk.
Lying on the table, legs in stirrups, my shame fades. A doctor accompanies me. I can ask him any questions that come to mind. An attendant gently searches for my vein to inject a dose of fentanyl into it to ease the pain. I fall into a gray area, but I have confidence in them and in this professional and legal space.
How shameful would I be if I had to resort to a clandestine abortion? What if I got pregnant in a state that invalidated my reasons, my emotions and my doubts? If I had to drive fifteen hours to get to the nearest clinic? How would I justify this absence to my loved ones? How would I take time off from my job?
After two short minutes, the manipulation ends. A nurse leads my numbed body back to a bed with two other sleeping women. She puts a small heating pad on my belly, telling me “in fifteen minutes, you can be home”. My shame has completely dissipated. Everything that happens here is legitimate, legitimized. We are not at fault. We are not hiding. We are not alone. We are not putting our lives at risk. We are not insensitive to life, on the contrary:
This is the life we choose, our life.
And this situation is already so, so sensitive.
Please don’t make it harder than it is.
Please don’t add to our shame.