I Wanted an Abortion, So Why Wasn’t I Relieved When I Had A Miscarriage
The emotional and mental trauma that came with my pregnancy was nothing I could ever have prepared for
December 14–16, 2015.
It is not something that I talk about. I don’t share it with family, I seldom share it with my closest friends, and until a few days ago, I didn’t even share it with my child’s father. There is something hollow and abysmally painful about miscarriages that make the reuttering of the experience make a woman feel like she is reliving the moments over again. For me, I have been reliving the trauma of that miscarriage for five years and am just beginning to heal.
For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to start a family in the traditional sense. Boy and girl meet, boy and girl fall in love, realize that life is not a fairytale, get married, and have kids: nothing super dramatic but something real and grounding. So when I ended up pregnant by my high school boyfriend and long-time friend, I immediately knew what needed to happen. He was a great guy, to an extent. I saw him as an excellent friend, a good father, but when it came to how easy it was for him to treat me like an option, I knew we should not have the baby. Growing up in the spotlight of being the family bastard, I did not want that for my child. Any being I push from my limbs deserved better than to live in the residue of my trauma. My convictions were clear; they were logical and well thought out. When the doctor started giving options for moving forward or termination, I all but filled out the appointment calendar myself.
Abortion was the right and necessary decision.
It was my body and my choice.
Yet, that didn’t happen.
The day I scheduled my D & C, he looked at me and said the words that would make any person doubt themselves, “why does this feel wrong?”
A few days later, the doctor’s office called and rescheduled the procedure by two weeks, which changed the window of time I had. I know what you’re thinking, divine intervention, right?
Either way, it was a combination of the right coincidences that led to the worst six weeks of my life.
From the beginning of the pregnancy, I suffered from depression. This wasn’t the depression I was used to, the atypical type that I normally compartmentalized and worked through. This depression was long and lingering, and I was in a mental daze all the time. It affected my job. It affected my outlook on things. I wanted to be happy, but I just couldn’t. The depression consumed me. But I couldn’t tell anyone. The first trimester is touch and go, so we decided to tell only a few people that needed to know. Well, that added to the hell that my mind was already trying not to drown in.
I wasn’t showing, nor was it obvious around Thanksgiving when I decided to tell some of my family. I figured, hey, this should be a happy piece of news, right? I was wrong. I told my alleged father (another story), and the sound of disappointment seeped off his words as he asked, “you kidding, right?” That feeling as the words sunk and the disappointment swirled around me is something I never forget.
That feeling of disappointment sat in my spirit like a rusted anchor.
On top of being depressed, I now had to carry disappointment with a pregnancy that I didn’t want. I was in a bad place and didn’t have anyone to share this burden with.
I heard that it would get better.
You wouldn’t feel this way the entire time.
You’ll be alright.
Hmph, the furthest thing from the truth.
Somewhere in week seven, I began spotting, common but not necessarily a problem. I had an ultrasound appointment in the middle of week eight. Nurses met me with smiles and congratulations, except one misogynistic hen who demanded to know if a father was in the picture.
With every personality that came at me, I had to fake my happiness for this pregnancy. I had to put on the smile when I just wanted to cry and ball up somewhere until it was all over.
That ultrasound appointment was the start of the end. There, the nurse’s face went blank, and she couldn’t find the right words. I knew what was coming but wasn’t prepared for the actual words. Five days later, I would hear the exact words when I go to the ER, “your pregnancy is not viable.” I mean, what does that even mean!? For me, it meant the end, or what should have been the end.
December 14th was my first ER trip; the next night, I was admitted because of labor. My body was expelling the non-viable pregnancy, and it came with indescribable pain. I was stuck between wanting to rip every shred of clothing and my skin off and wanting to take an icy shower. I make it to the hospital, and this is when the shit show of people letting me down in the most vulnerable point of my life begins.
Aside from the friends who brought me to the hospital and stayed until I was seen, no one was there with me. The child’s father wasn’t present. My family couldn’t be bothered to show up. Imagine you’re in the hospital, and people who are supposed to love you decided you are not worth the wait. Imagine the one person who knew what you were going through, not being bothered enough to keep a promise to show up. I had absolutely no one with me as I cried through the most unimaginable pain I could experience. On December 16th, I had no one there when I woke up from the D & C that I wanted eight weeks prior. I had no one to ask me, “Am I okay?”
For five years, I have been waiting for the people who are supposed to give a shit about me to ask me if I am okay. They asked about the child’s father, who treated me like less than nothing and ghosted me for months after the miscarriage. I have been waiting for people to have just a small amount of decency and compassion to care enough and see about me. This overwhelming score of pain and anguish for five years just festered because of the pregnancy’s depression and emotional trauma. And while I am relieved that I did not bring a child into the world with this amount of trauma residue, I am also aware that I have much more healing to do before I should.
I never thought I would go through something so life-changing. As trivial as it may seem to some, this event changed my life. The lessons I learned from this are timeless, so I hope I don’t have to write about them in another five years. Take from this, follow your heart no matter where it leads you and what others may think. Secondly, when people show you who they are, believe them.
