Twice I found myself unexpectedly pregnant. Twice I chose to end those pregnancies. Two hundred thousand times, I have found myself dwelling on those losses trying again to justify them. There are no support groups for women who have had abortions; there are only picket lines to cross and crosses to bear.
I have to somehow forgive myself the abortions I have endured. I have to believe that the beloveds who never lay in my arms had purpose just the same, had lives that counted no matter how short, and had teachings that were deep and meaningful. The concealment of this act is depleting and humiliating. The making of the choice itself has its own bottomless sadness and pain, but it is the silence and secrecy enveloping it that festers in one’s wounds. There is no healing in this injured void.
When did life enter my beloveds and when did life leave them? I know the little soul of my second abortion left my body before the procedure, I felt it flee and I know it was a girl. I also know that she has forgiven me even if I cannot forgive myself; she has told me as much in the maroon stillness of my mind. Forty-five and well past the time and vigor to expand our already grown family, the inconsistency of early menopause caused the “safe zone” to lack regularity. Still, a part of me wanted her. Extinguishing her potential was wretched, heartrending, yet her calling was not to tread this earth, but instead was to visit my body and mind for the briefest of moments and to clarify my future. Her spirit still comes to me when the world is muted and paused.
With my first beloved, there was a disconnect. Over a quarter century ago, a life brewed in my belly, unplanned. I was in a relationship of love and turmoil. I did not know if this partner was the “forever one” I sought, and I could not envision single parenthood. I took that beloved away from both of us with anger and uncertainty in my heart, causing no connection, no knowing of that spirit. It was a procedure of incomprehensible emptiness that left me weeping in a shrouded room with no frame of reference. I was young and alone and I stayed that way.
It’s the silence; it’s the way women don’t share these experiences that is excruciating. With all other things, so many other things, our sharing spills like spring water from old tin buckets on hot summer days. But this sharing of abortion stories seeps, crawls, creeps and hides in cracked crevices avoiding daylight. This sharing goes unshared, and it rots the bowels of good people.
If there were a support group, what would it look like? Would it be just women? Would it meet openly or in private obscurity? In my imagined world of mercy, I can envision meetings held on clear, bright days in rooms with windows, large from floor to ceiling and candles, hundreds of candles, some lit and others still waiting for their flame. We could either hold hands or simply nod. There wouldn'’t need to be words, just recognition and acknowledgement of impossible decisions made in despair and ultimately alone.
I can see a long line of us waiting silently to enter that sanctified room; the line would have to be long because if it were not, it would be unbearable. To be one of only a few would substantiate shame. The procession would move slowly, but as the wait had already been eternal, the painstaking, honey dripping pace would be disregarded, each woman honored with however much time she needed. One by one, we would enter this space of radiance and redemption and light a candle. Some of us would weep, others softly moan, many would just remain silent, their relief not yet revealed. Yet this small step, taken in the company of sisters who had made the same decision, done the same thing, would at last be enough.