A~ cried in front of me yesterday, telling me he feels bad, very bad, that he can't believe how badly he's treated me, that he's ashamed and embarrassed and he loves me and he's sorry. He's called my mother and apologized, and plans to call my father too, my brothers next. But the bottom line remains the same: he doesn't want me anymore. It's over. And it still hurts like a knife through the gut.
Today is "Blog for Choice Day" and I'm supposed to be writing something about abortion rights, so I'll start by saying this, though I've said it before in previous posts: Thank God for those miscarriages! What if I had been pregnant when A~ came to his conclusion that he didn't truly want to be with me, probably never had in all the twelve years we've been together?
Like many of the most militant pro-lifers, I am someone who had an abortion and regretted it. But my militancy was only with myself: I was determined that I would never do it again. Luckily, I didn't have the power or inclination to pass a law against it; luckily I didn't jump to the conclusion that what was wrong for me was wrong for everyone. Because if I could've passed a law against my own right to choice, I would've. I never expected this was something I'd have to rethink. Just like I never expected I'd have to rethink my marriage. Just like I never expected I'd drop more than ten pounds in a week because I was so busy digesting the biggest, most jagged, foul-tasting one-word truth I never thought I'd have to swallow: divorce.
It used to be that a divorce was difficult to come by. Consensus had it that it was wrong, but gradually we've found so many exceptions to the rule that the debate is moot. Half of the marriages in this country end in divorce. It happens. And still intelligent women like me enter into them thinking we're immune. (I thought a great friendship and an almost eleven-year courtship did the trick, but what did I know?)
All I'm saying is, the same is true for unintentional, unsupportable pregnancy. It happens to the most conscientious birth control user, to run-ragged new mothers, to busy professionals, to the clinically depressed and the flat-out insane, to the resignedly premenepausal, even to the supposedly infertile. ("I was told I couldn't get pregnant!" Believe me, I hear that one all the time) Make no mistake about it, it happens to everyone with a working womb, and that includes the staunchest pro-lifers. Clinics all over the country fill up on Saturday mornings and weekday evenings with women fighting to swallow their own biggest, most jagged, foul-tasting one-word truth. Abortion happens, is my point, and everyone who has one is bravely taking care of herself in the best way she knows how.
For more of my thinking on choice, see the following back-posts: Jimmy and Jesus Don't Get "It", The Orcharder, Regret and the Right to Choose, and From the Trenches: Why Women Have Abortions. To access the archives and read my blog from beginning to end (or end to beginning) start at the home page.