My Abortion Story

Trigger Warning: Abortion 

I’m a person with a heart condition and chronic kidney and liver issues. Ironically, my reproductive system is superb - but no matter how much I want a baby, my essential organs just cannot withstand it. By some miracle, I was able to survive one pregnancy, and that’s how we have my incredible daughter, but it almost killed me. Literally: I was on bedrest for 6 months due to my heart’s right ventricle being inefficient, high creatinine levels, and poor liver function. I had preeclampsia very early on in my pregnancy.

I got pregnant a second time late last year, and, somehow we made it to my second trimester. I was shocked that I’d been able to get that far, but I also could feel the toll it was taking on my body. My legs were getting swollen, my abdominals were cramping, I could barely breathe, and the tension in my chest was almost unbearable. I didn’t want it to be true, but I just knew: That baby was killing me from the inside. My doctors told me I had a 50/50 chance of surviving the pregnancy. 

I’ll never forget the last ultrasound I had before the abortion. The image showed a healthy baby, its heartbeat strong, fingers moving and head tilted. I remember thinking, “There’s really someone alive in there.” As a healthcare professional myself, I knew the risk I would be taking if I continued with this pregnancy. I thought of my daughter, and the responsibility I had to be around to care for her too. Academically, getting an abortion just made sense. But that didn’t make this decision any easier. 

I can remember searching for abortion clinics shortly after that appointment with tears in my eyes, a million thoughts running through my head as I googled. Is this my fault? Am I killing a human being? Am I a terrible person for choosing my life over this pregnancy? Were there no other options available to me? Was I really in the right mental headspace to be making this kind of decision? I knew that once I’d made this decision, there would be going back. I also knew that, no matter how medically justified it was, making this choice would be a traumatic experience I’d be healing from for the rest of my life. I’ll always carry the memory of standing alone in a washroom, looking at my gently-curved belly with awe and wonder, but also holding that crushing pain of knowing I was saying goodbye to someone I had not met, but already had bonded with. 

When the time came for the abortion, I entered the clinic with my hands shaking, my legs aching, and tears running down my face. I had a playlist in my ears of calming music, songs that brought me back to the good memories of carrying my second child inside of me, the sweet time we did have together. I remember the coldness of the chair I sat on, the person sitting in front of me, playing with their phone, hands moving rapidly across the screen. I remember thinking, “I never thought I’d be here, like this.” When the social worker called my name, it startled me. It was my turn. 

I walked very slowly toward the therapy room. I answered all the usual questions - what’s your name, how old are you, how do you feel. The social worker told me how many abortions happen in Canada each year, and the age range they happen in. They told me having an abortion is a part of life that sometimes happens to people, and that they were there to support me. I remember thinking, “For real? I don’t know this person, so how do I know if I want their help? They don’t know me, my past, my plans, my future. Nothing!” 

Finally, I was asked if I had any questions, and I only had one. “How big is my baby now?” I said, and they hesitated, and then stared into my eyes and sighed. I asked them why. They said they tend not to share information like that because research has shown that people feel more grief or mourn longer when they know more about the baby. I told them I wasn’t a research participant. I was a person, and I needed that closure. I needed to know. I wanted to feel what I was feeling, give those emotions a name, and express them. 

“More than two inches in length,” they eventually told me. Yes, they had all their fingers and toes. 

After this, I was sent back to the waiting room, and then got sent to change into a gown, only my bottoms off. As I lay down on the table, I begged to be able to listen to my own playlist while the surgery was happening. I put my Airpods in, and I cried, tears rolling down my cheeks. I felt drowsy. After that, I don’t remember any more. 

When I woke up, however, I will never forget the nurse waking me up and saying to me, “You did a great job.” I know she meant well, but for me, it was the worst thing she could have said at that time. I did not do “a great job.” I had just aborted a child I had wanted. I was torn into pieces. I was unhappy, I was depressed, I was angry, I was empty. Most of all, I had not just ticked something off my to-do list or completed some task. I’d made the hardest, most painful decision of my life, and I wasn’t ready to be congratulated for it. 

This is just my experience, of course. I know that for some people, there’s a feeling of relief, maybe with grief, but perhaps not either. The mourning process looks different for everyone: Some people it lasts a second, for others like me it’s a lifelong healing journey. If you encounter someone who’s had an abortion, I would plead with you to respect their individual process with it. Don’t assume that they’re okay. Use sensitive language, and ask them about it. Give them a chance to talk, and tell you how they are doing. Ask again, and again, for as long as they need the space to share what they’re walking through with you.