** In light of the draconian events taking place in Texas and the rumblings of anti abortion movements here in AB, I am republishing this essay.

The province where I live has elected a Premiere that is allowing a space for the vocal pro- life people (I detest this term, but more on that later) to start to demand a re-examining of the abortion laws and availability here. At the moment he has said it is not on the table, others in his cabinet have stated otherwise. I find this current head of government as truthful as a sighted man at a blind nudist colony and this has me worried. I see what is happening south of the border from here and it makes my blood run cold.

Abortion is a very uncomfortable conversation. It is a very personal conversation. It is a conversation that needs to be publicly addressed, but not publicly decided, other than safety. It is a topic that everyone seems to have an opinion on. It is a topic few want to take real responsibility for.

Pro-Life. This is such a crock. I detest this term. Why? This is an unfair representation. When these groups step up to claim that abortion is murder, that they are saving lives, they lie. These same handwringing do gooders that profess to care oh so much, where are they once that child is born? Where is the unconditional love for the child, now in poverty? now in a familial dysfunction/addiction/poverty cycle? Where are the easy access programs, understanding and support for the grieving parents, having been forced to carry a life they knew would not be viable? The young woman/girl who has to reconcile the life inside her was put there by violence, a permanent (yet innocent) reminder of cruel violation, how does she navigate the system once it fails her? Once these groups have forced the pregnancy and shamed the woman, they are all but gone. And often times negative cycles begin with another generation. They make it sound like abortion is an easy choice, a throw away choice. They put shame and guilt on even considering it an option. Somehow, some of us have appointed ourselves gate keepers for other’s reproductive rights. Just because you may not understand someone else’s choice, does not mean you can or should choose for them. The argument of how selfish it is to just end a pregnancy like that when so many couples are trying to get pregnant. My heart goes out to all the women out their hoping to conceive, and facing a barren womb. I can not imagine the pain. But someone’s choice to end their pregnancy does not in any way affect someone else getting pregnant. I understand that for those truly trying it must be heartbreaking and the unfairness of it all, but it is not a slight to them. It’s has nothing to do with them at all.

In my life I have been pregnant four times that I know of. (A woman can miscarry before she even knows she is pregnant). One ended abortion, one in a miscarry, one a full term beautiful boy, lovingly surrendered in adoption, and one now thriving 10 year old at home with her Mom (me) and Dad. None of these events hold any regret for me. Sadness? Some, yes. Each holds it’s own space in my heart. Three were loving decisions made. All have a profound effect on my life. I am going to discus my abortion. Not to change anyone’s ideas or thoughts on what their personal choice would be. But to tell my story, to impart the thought, the love, the grief and what I will always carry from that.

I was 16. Living on my own. I had been motherless for four years at this point. Same boyfriend off and on for the last three years. I remember not having the money for a pregnancy test. There was this place advertised on the buses, I think it was called birth choices or something friendly like that. I went, it was on the third floor of a cold cement building. I had a friend with me- it’s funny, I can’t really remember who. I can however remember all the bright and sunny posters of smiling pregnant women, families and babies that papered the walls. I remember feeling sick as I shamefully asked for the test. My hands trembling as I tried not to pee on myself in the stall. Washing my hands and then handing the capped stick to the woman with the tight practiced compassionate smile. She left the room for a moment. I could feel the bright smiles from the posters pushing up against me. I know when the lady came back in with my test results, sunnily informing me that I was pregnant, I began to cry. Someone hugged me. I remember saying over and over that I could not do this. And the, I am sure, well meaning woman, kept encouraging me to talk to a counsellor right then about pregnancy. That they could help me get a prenatal doctor, and all the things I would need. The more I said no, the more I protested, that this could not happen, the more she pushed. I knew in the back of my head that this place was not actually offering much in the way of choice, at least not all the choices. I needed time to absorb what I had been told and knew to be true.

With fearful tears blurring my eyes I made my way to the elevator, shakily reaching for the cigarettes in my coat pocket. It was the last week of November. It’s funny the things that stick. The elevator ride down. Trying to do up my coat. My shaking hands. I don’t remember getting home. I remember telling my boyfriend. His similar instant reaction of ‘absolutely not’. His anger, breaking down into protesting that it was not his (thankfully that was short lived) How did this happen?!- I was on the pill, isn’t that supposed to be safe? No we didn’t always use a condom, but really…. I was on the fucking pill. We can’t… Could we? Discussing the maybes, the maybe nots….. The tears. Getting sick. Wanting my mom so badly. The fleeting moments of what ifs…. More tears. Fear. The resolve that this would not be. More moments of what ifs….. More tears. Anger that I was the one that had to take care of this. But grateful that in the end my boyfriend supported my decision to terminate the pregnancy.

I could not bring a child into that life, my life. I was 16, I was still in high school. I lived in a room in my boyfriends house. My mother dead. My alcoholic abusive father was held back by a restraining order. I had no family support. I had no idea how to navigate my own life, let alone be responsible for another. I knew that my family had issues. I knew that I was in a very dark place, struggling with loss, grief, (later to learn) an anxiety disorder. A child deserves better than what I could offer. I drank, I smoked, I did drugs to escape, I cut, periodically hoped to die, what life was this for a baby?

I was still considered a minor, and even though I was not living with her at that time, one of my older sisters was considered my legal guardian. I needed her permission to get an abortion. I was terrified. Terrified to be judged, that I had screwed up, that she would say no, I must suffer the consequences for my stupidity. That a child must suffer the consequences of my life. The fear of knowing decisions about my body were in someone else hands and I could not really control what happened. I remember in the days leading up to me having to talk to my sister, imagining all sorts of alternatives, most based on grisly old wives tales.

If she said no, I could: throw myself down a set of stairs, in front of a car, both dramatic, and the risk of greater injury and no guarantee of ending the pregnancy. I could overdose on drugs? I had read things about coat hangers, using drain cleaner…… They all were stupidly risky. At the time some felt like realistic options to me. However, compassionately she listened to me, she was sympathetic, she agreed, having a baby then was a very bad idea. Not only for me, but what life would the child have.

You may think, what about adoption? It is a completely viable option. I whole heartedly agree, in the right circumstance. However I had so badly abused my body by the drugs and my general lifestyle, it was also the pregnancy I did not want to go through with. How could I escape from the pain I was in if I had to be clean to grow a proper life inside of me? I could not face that. I could not allow myself to be raw, my existence depended on escape and numbness. What kind of life would that be for a child?

I remember the doctor consultation. Yes, I understood what it meant. Yes, I understood the procedure. Yes, this was my decision. I was offered counselling for both before and after. I was asked if I had any questions. My appointment was to come within a couple of days. I felt relief and grief, both in alternating waves. I was angry, angry that I did not do this alone, yet it was my body that had to go through with this. Afraid of the pain.

I remember sitting in the waiting room with my sister. Looking around at all the different kinds of women there. Young, older, some obviously financially better off than others. Each with their own story. I remember how sombre everyone was, it was obvious it is not joyous, it is not easy. My sister held my hand, I asked her if Mom would have been disappointed in me. She said no, she would have supported me. I went into the procedure room.

Cold, white, sterile. The nurse kindly directed me to change. I remember laying back on the table, she held my hand hand and told me it would be ok. At that moment I had never been so grateful for human contact. I don’t remember much of the actual procedure or what immediately followed.

I remember lying in bed, alone, sore, relieved, sad. I cried. I cried for what could have been as I said goodbye. I cried for myself. I cried for the pain. I was cramping, sore, bloated and hormonal. I cried because no one could share in this hurt. I cried for relief.

And as it does, life goes on. I will forever know the date. I feel it when it passes. It is not regret. It is not sadness. But my body and heart will forever recognize what changed that day.

This could have been a very ugly tale if I had not had access to a safe and clean medical procedure. This is my story. This is my life. My choice did not impact your life until I chose to tell you. It may impact mine that you chose to read. Will you like me less now? Does it change who you think I am? I don’t think so. I really hope it doesn’t.

Choice, my body, my choice. Your body, your choice. Keep it safe, keep it legal.