41 Years
41 Years
By Judy Saint
The law forced me to see a psychiatrist first, as if I had a mental disorder.
My doctor asked if I had let "the boy" know I was pregnant. "My husband?", I asked? "The boy.", replied the doctor.
"Are you referring to my husband?"
"Look, you know how it works. There was a boy involved."
How rude of the doctor to not acknowledge I became pregnant by my husband.
My doctor tried every way he could to get me to tell him the personal details behind my circumstance and decision, as if he was somehow authorized to pass judgment.
People used to spread the belief that every woman having an abortion would years later suffer horrific pain at what she had done. It’s been 41 years and I haven’t had that happen yet. I’d make the same decision today.
My aborting procedure took place with skilled personnel in a clean, modern hospital, with full staff to watch over me afterward. Not all women have that option. That’s sad. And deadly.
People telling me I murdered a person seems odd to me. I mean, little impregnated clumps are sloughed off by a woman’s body naturally all the time, and no one holds a funeral over the toilet bowl each month, just in case the egg was fertilized.
People tell me I’m going to hell for having an abortion. People tell me I’m going to hell for (years later) having artificial insemination from a donor. People tell me a lot of silly things. It seems more related to their need to control than caring about my life.
Oh, I didn’t tell more than a few people. I haven’t, to this day. Then, when asked on this request for stories I saw an option to keep my name anonymous – that did it. I’m out. I had an abortion. And I just changed my answer to that question.
I don’t feel shame, only pity that people can’t share more about their lives because of church biddies with waggling tongues.