I had an abortion in 1979. I didn't think about it much at the time. I was twenty years old, unmarried and totally unprepared to raise a child. I was a child myself.
I knew I was pregnant almost immediately. It happened on a vacation to San Francisco, my first trip west of the Mississippi. A girlfriend and I had come to spend a week in the city. The first thing we did after we checked into our hotel was to head outside to do a little exploring. We walked for a while and finally stopped at a lively bar that caught our eye. The place was packed and everyone seemed to be having a good time.
It took all of about ten minutes to meet him. He was bearded and handsome, and wore snug-fitting Levis with a heavy cotton shirt and tweed blazer. We started chatting. Soon he bought me a drink and then another and we talked about nothing and everything. I was mesmerized. He was an architect and had lived in the city for several years. He was bright, witty and sweet. And he was talking to me! As the hours passed, I grew more fascinated with this stranger. It seemed mutual. By the time last call was announced, it was obvious. I found my girlfriend and let her know that our hotel room would be hers for the evening.
We went to his apartment, a wonderful place in North Beach. His creative touches were everywhere. He showed me around and explained several things he had done to the apartment with great delight. When we got to his bedroom and I laid down on the soft, warm waterbed, the realities of my life were a million miles away. I was about to make love to a sensitive and sensual man. Nothing else mattered.
We spent the rest of the week together. My girlfriend had met someone as well that very first night in San Francisco, and the four of us spent a lot of time together. It was almost perfect. Except that I knew. I must have gotten pregnant right away. I had travelled to San Francisco without my birth control pills and we were not particularly careful. I had been careless before and it had never been a problem. Until now. My lower back ached. My whole body felt different. I was worried, almost sick with worry. But I said nothing.
Within weeks of my return home, my breasts were swollen and painful to the touch. I gained weight, primarily in my stomach. My roommate and I had a Fourth of July party and most of our friends came. Some asked me if I had gained weight while others simply whispered it to each other. My roommate was tactful as always and said nothing. Then I started eating saltines at seven in the morning as I sat on the toilet, stunned that this was happening to me. I went to the doctor and he confirmed what I already knew. I was seven weeks pregnant.
A good friend gave me the name of a gynecologist she knew who performed abortions in his office as part of his practice. I didn't have the nerve to discuss this with the father since I was afraid he would want me to keep the child. After I returned home from San Francisco, we had stayed in close contact over the phone. I had even flown back to see him on the spur of the moment one evening. I had driven myself to the airport, bought a ticket on the next flight and was gone. I knocked on his door later that night and it was magical. But difficult. We lived so far apart from each other. We had our own lives, our own worlds. Neither one of us knew what to do. So I told the nurse at the doctor's office to schedule me for an abortion as soon as possible. I didn't want time to think about it. I was scared to death.
The abortion was performed on a Friday afternoon in the doctor's office. I was ushered into a small room and given a mild sedative. There were several other women in the room. They all looked anxious, which is exactly how I felt. It was dead silent. My name was finally called and the nurse took me into the room where the procedure would be performed.
The doctor was a handsome young man and seemed very nice. As I lay on the table, I started to cry. I'm not sure why. I didn't want to cause a fuss, so I said that I was fine, just a little tense. I wept quietly throughout the procedure. It was quicker than I expected and not really painful, just strange. I was then moved to another room where I was to stay for a while to be sure I was all right. When it was okay for me to leave, I went to the reception area and paid the bill. As I reviewed it, I noticed that my procedure was referred to as an "aspiration curettage." Was this to make me feel better? Oddly enough, it did.
The doctor had given me some pills in case of pain and advised me to take it easy for a couple of days. It was important that I not hemorrhage. I took no chances at all and stayed in bed for two days, curled up in the fetal position. My roommate never asked any questions, although I was sure she knew. She must have noticed the changes in my body and my behavior since my return from San Francisco. But she said nothing. On Monday I went back to work. I felt fine and was glad that there had been no complications. I was in no physical pain. My other pain was just beginning.
I told virtually no one about my experience at the time, or for years later. I was always afraid of being judged. The abortion might have been the wrong thing to do. If it was, I certainly didn't need anyone telling me so. Ultimately, I came to realize that most of my friends had had a similar experience. No one ever said anything directly about their experience, it just seemed to slip out in conversation. At which time I would say "yeah, me too." I learned that some of my friends had dealt with abortion more than once. One had five abortions and another had six. At least I now knew that I wasn't alone. I just seemed to feel worse about it than everyone else. It's not as if the realization of what had happened to me was with me every day. It was more of an occasional sadness, a dull ache that would not go away. And it only got worse. I knew that I had to come to terms with what I had done in order to put it behind me. I decided I would go to confession and tell God that I was sorry, and hopefully, He would listen.
Although I wasn't much of a churchgoer, I managed to find a church near my house that looked suitable. It was big, modern and impersonal. Unusual, I thought, for a Catholic church. I figured I could be pretty anonymous in there -- stop in, say my piece, be absolved and move on. Sounded easy enough. Until I tried to go. I kicked around in my head what I would say to the priest: that I was young at the time, scared, didn't think. I hadn't really done anything wrong, I'd tell him, it was simply that fear had taken over and acted on my behalf. Some other part of my person, but not the real me. I was innocent. Even though I felt guilty. I wasn't sure why I felt guilty. Probably because I had been brought up to feel guilty, about sex and so many other things. Some times I couldn't distinguish good from bad, right from wrong. So I was probably wrong, wrong, wrong.
One afternoon I decided I would go to the church. I drove over and lost my nerve as I was about to enter the parking lot. This happened to me several times. Every time I tried to go I would wind up further and further from the church. Some days I couldn't even get into the car, although I had been convinced moments earlier in my house that this would be the day. It was as if some supernatural force was raising its mighty hand and blocking my path. I thought it was hopeless. Yet I knew how very much I needed to do this, because I felt progressively worse. I decided to tell a good friend about the difficulty I was having in the hopes that he could provide some words of encouragement. To my surprise, he had been involved in two abortions himself, by former girlfriends carrying his child. We talked about our shared pain. He also realized just how much I needed to come to terms with my actions and was willing to help.
"Don't worry, if you can't get there yourself, I'll take you there," he said. "Just let me know when you want to go."
Those words were exactly what I needed to hear. My struggle would soon be over. All I had to do was say when.
The next day, I got into my car, drove to the church, entered the parking lot and got out of the car. By myself. It was three o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. I didn't think I would find a priest at the church in mid-afternoon, so I walked over to the rectory and rang the doorbell. A middle-aged woman answered the door. I stared at her and said in a low, shaky voice "I need to see a priest." The look on my face must have said it all. She asked no questions. She told me to come in and wait in a room off to the left. There was a desk in the room as well as a sofa and chair. A box of kleenex sat on the desk. A large photograph of the Pope look down from the wall. The room was cold. I hunched over in the chair and waited.
After several minutes the door opened and a man walked in. He was older, with gray hair and rosy cheeks. A small, kind-looking man. He sat on the couch across from me, which was close to the chair I had chosen.
"I'm Father O'Reilly," he said in a heavy Irish brogue. "What can I help you with?"
I think I started with how I had gotten pregnant and what had led me to the abortion. How I had never meant to hurt anyone or to do anything wrong. But I'm not really sure. All I remember is sitting there and words flooding out of my mouth, faster and faster. Tears starting to trickle, and then flowing, down my cheeks. I must have talked and sobbed for about fifteen minutes. I could not stop. Finally he reached over and took my hand and held it very hard.
"My child, you have suffered enough!" he said. "You have more than paid for your sin."
His words stunned me. Was it possible that I had suffered enough? The priest told me that I was forgiven and that I needed to move on with my life. He said some other things, which I didn't hear. I was too busy looking at this sweet, wise man who knew that it was time for my ordeal to be over.
Elaine Sosa
San Francisco, California