Powdered Ham

When I worked at the abortion clinic, people asked me if I ever felt angry or jealous, seeing all those fertile women giving up their pregnancies. I didn't. After all, if you're pregnant and you don't want to be, it sucks.

Before I'd call a client in for counseling, I reviewed her file, always glancing at the glossy little black and white ultrasound print-outs. Every now and then, I would see the ragged image of a miscarriage in the works. Once, the static starry-sky pattern of a molar pregnancy. In these cases, I'd read the nurse's notes and prepare to discuss them with the client. But usually, I found myself looking at the white shrimp-like blob of a growing fetus inside the dark abyss of an amniotic sac -- A healthy pregnancy. And that's when I'd feel it: a dull pang of longing.

I never got around to ultrasound with my second miscarriage, but I had two with the first. All you could see in the first was the little black hole, the sac in which a pregnancy would, presumably, grow. But it never happened. Several weeks later, the second confirmed what, by that time, I suspected, dreaded, knew: miscarriage was imminent.

Yesterday afternoon, I met J~ at the obstetrician's office. We sat holding hands in the waiting room, taking deep breaths, thumbing through a cooking magazine together. One of the recipes called for, of all things, "powdered ham." I wanted to throw up. Nerves? Pregnancy? I didn't know.

A nurse led us to the couch in the doctor's office. Assuming we wanted to check them out, she offered to tell us about the practice. "Actually," I told her, "the main reason we're here is to get the results from hCG tests." Surprised, she admitted the reports were not in my file. She left to call the lab about a fax. More deep breaths for J~ and I. She returned, reporting results were on the way. In the meantime, she launched into an introduction to the practice. beginning by listing numbers of doctors, midwives--

"I'm sorry," I interrupted, "I'm not able to concentrate on what you're saying." I briefly explained my history, my fears, my desire to hear the lab results first.

Finally, Dr. A~ appeared, and introduced himself. He sat, opened my file, clicked his pen to the ready position. "Let's see," he drawled, flipping pages, "I've got just a few questions for you."

"Can't you tell us the numbers first?" Meekly, I said this. Shaking.

"Well, okay," he shrugged, surprised, but, thankfully, understanding. He shuffled his papers, and then, before telling us, held up a warning hand and said, "I don't know."

Monday: 22153
Wednesday: 29156

My heart sank. I wasn't shaking anymore. I was numb. I looked at J~ and shook my head. Not good. Everything I'd read indicated that hCG levels should be doubling at least every three days. But at this rate, mine would take five.

The doctor was quick to say this doesn't mean much. Doubling rates slow, eventually. An ultrasound would give far more accurate information. "Your numbers are high enough that we should see a heartbeat."

"Can we do one today?" I was literally at the edge of my seat.

"Yes," Dr. A~ smiled. I sighed, relieved. He laughed. "Now can I ask you some questions?"

He clicked his pen again, collected some medical history, and then he, the nurse, J~, and I, trundled off down the hall.

There was a monitor mounted to the ceiling. In the dimly lit room, our eyes were glued to it well before the ultrasound wand was near my vagina. After some initial fumbling something came into view (Dr. A~ was like a nervous teenager with that thing, poking further and further from the mark -- I finally offered to put it in myself). Finally we saw it: the white shrimp-like blob of a fetus inside the dark abyss of an amniotic sac. A rapid flicker. "See that?" the doctor exclaimed. "Can't ask for better than that!" The nurse gasped (she later told us she'd had goosebumps, a chill up her spine). J~ drew in his breath, squeezed my hand. I corralled my tears, holding out for measurements. "How far along are you," Dr. A~ asked, clicking his mouse over the image, "six weeks, four days?"

I nodded.

"It measures exactly six weeks, four days."

Hello, waterworks.

I am sitting at the computer this morning in my bathrobe, with my Chinese herb tea and toasted rice bread, prepared by J~, and my very own collection of glossy black and white ultrasound print-outs, all contained in a cheesy little folder labeled, Baby's First Pictures.

Baby?

J~ and I went out to dinner to celebrate, couldn't stop smiling, laughing, shaking our heads, incredulous.

Baby??

I didn't sleep well last night, worrying over the hCG readings. But I found an article by Dr. Robert Warnock this morning that put me at ease, suggesting that once levels get beyond 6,000, it can take more than four days for them to double. "Once fetal activity has been detected by ultrasound," Warnock goes on to say, "the chance of miscarriage is usually less than 10%."



Holy powdered ham, people, I may be having a baby after all!

On the Radio

Here's your big chance to hear me talk on the radio. You can tune in online (click on "Listen Live") or, if you're within range, you can listen directly to WRNI, Rhode Island's NPR station, at 1290 AM (Providence) or 1230 AM (Westerly). My essay (which, mind you, was written shortly before I began this blog) will be aired three times on May 2nd (that's this coming Wednesday). Here are the times:

6:35 am
8:35 am
between 5:45 and 5:55 pm

If you miss the broadcast, you can still hear the essay, but without the intro or outro, as it were. It will be posted here, eventually.

My Abortion, part 3

I'm a merciful blogger. I can't keep you in suspense for long. Here's where I left you hanging: I'd had a miscarriage, and I was grieving. On top of that, I was feeling all my unresolved guilt and confusion over the abortion I'd had as a teenager.

Basically, my primary activity at that time was wallowing in regret, and hoping desperately that I would get pregnant again, so that I could move on. But month after month, cycle after cycle, it just wasn't happening. (See for yourself, BBT chart enthusiasts, here are mine.) I was sinking.

Then, out of the blue, my very first boyfriend, father of my first pregnancy, called to catch up.

Last time I saw him, he had just purchased a house, moved in with his two sons (twins from a previous marriage) and his girlfriend and her two kids. "We're the Brady Bunch," he had said then, grinning. "It's great."

On the phone ten years later, E~ reported that he was in the same Brady Bunch house, married now, financially successful, and hap-hap-happy as ever. He said that he thought of me frequently, wondered what I was doing, how my life was going. "I want you to know, you will always have a place in my heart." Of course I burst into tears, hearing this. And told him about the miscarriage, and how it brought back feelings about you know what.

He knew what, and didn't hesitate to say so. "I always thought you made the right decision," he stated. "I would've been fine if you had decided to keep it. It's what I wanted. But I would have worried for your happiness. More than anything, I wanted you to be happy." I cried again, hearing this, feeling absolved but also sadder than ever, all the more convinced that E~ would've been a good father, that our child would've been well loved, and that I was living the wrong life. That teenaged me seemed like such a coward.

E~ called me several more times, expressing keen interest in resurrecting a friendship. Maybe it's the spirit of our unborn child bringing us back together, I mused. For healing.

Or else to give us another chance to bring her forth. This thought caught me off guard.

Though E~ was never inappropriate, and though I wouldn't seriously consider cheating, there was a certain vibe between us that was hard to deny (though I did my best). It made my husband uncomfortable, that's for sure. But hadn't I promised that child that I'd give her another chance to come through? I don't make vows like that lightly.

But as I listened to E~ talk about himself, (on one occasion he went on for a solid ten minutes about his very long hair and how all the women at work admire it) I started thinking that the teenaged me wasn't so off base after all. Perhaps actually, she was brave, knowing I would have to slog through these regrets, but that the alternative would have been at least equally fraught. E~ was a good man, a perfect, doting, sensitive first boyfriend. But as a husband, or even a co-parent, he would've driven me up the wall. And besides, I didn't make wedding vows lightly either. (My husband, on the other hand, broke his vow without a thought of me, I later learned, but that's another story.)

The fact that E~ later got a divorce too is also a moot point. because I began to understand that I would never keep my promise to my unborn child. If I ever had a baby, it would be another being altogether, with another partner. My first pregnancy, my first child, was gone for ever.

I began to accept it.

That's when I had the dream where I found the dead baby. That's when I really started to grieve and heal from the abortion. And that's when I began to entertain the idea of becoming an abortion counselor.

To be continued, of course.

My Abortion, part 2

When I was seventeen and staring at those two pink lines on my home pregnancy test, I already knew what I was going to do. "It's your decision," E~ had said, "I'll support whatever you decide."

I knew he wanted to marry me, that he fantasized about having children with me. I also knew that we loved each other, that he would be a decent provider and father. But I wanted desperately to get out of my small town, to go to college, to experience some independence. I didn't expect to be with him forever. And my decision was already made. "If I'm pregnant," I told him, "I'll have an abortion."

I never wavered from this, but in quiet moments alone, I marveled at the miracle happening inside me. I imagined a dark-eyed daughter I would never know. I knew I could continue the pregnancy if I really wanted to, but as far as I could tell, I didn't really want to. I felt sad, and guilty, and vowed to the spirit of that imagined girl that if she was willing and able, I would invite her back one day.

It wasn't until I'd lived another seventeen years, in December of 2004, that I saw two lines on a pregnancy test again. I was thrilled. My heart leapt at the thought of finally knowing the girl I had imagined and fallen in love with so many years before. But quickly, my heart sank again. I was with a different man now. Of course this would not be the same child.

After I miscarried, there were many empty months, and many negative pregnancy tests. My husband was often away on business, and ambivalent about having children in the first place. I felt very alone. I began to wonder if I had made a terrible mistake as a teenager, if my entire pathetic-seeming life from that point was an illustration of that fact.

It was at this time, while wallowing in confusion and isolation, that the phone rang and it was E~. We hadn't spoken in well over a decade. Through several conversations over the course of the month, something subtle and significant shifted for me.

I'll tell you all about it, I promise.

Tune in next time for My Abortion, part 3.

The Dilemma

My thought process about whether or not I ever truly wanted to have kids was somewhat stunted with my first pregnancy. I just wasn’t able to think about it clearly (I want to say “until now” but I’m not sure that’s true).

When I was seventeen, I made an unrealistic promise to an aborted soul that I would give her another chance to return. Soon after, because of emerging disillusionment about the mothering I had received, I had new doubts as to my own ability to properly mother. On one hand, I had already comitted to trying again one day, but I didn’t have a willing partner, so the point was moot. On the other, I didn’t think myself worthy of a child.

So now that I’m no longer questioning my worthiness and ability (I have a willing partner, and done some healing), now that I have two failed attempts under my belt and the ol’ clock a-winding down, I’m finally looking at the whole issue straight-on(ish), and boy, it’s still not an easy question.

A friend (J.) with a child via an unplanned pregnancy told me that, in a way, she's glad she avoided the whole family planning issue, because she expects she and her husband would have "talked ourselves in circles and would have never known the right answer." I can relate. I really don't know if I'll ever be sure. I don't want to enter into parenthood half-hearted, but I hate the thought of missing my chance. It's a real conundrum.

My husband is no help on this at all, by the way – he continues to say he could happily go either way. If only he desperately wanted a child, maybe then I’d ride his enthusiasm over my own ambivalence. Kids, after all, are so much work. And money. Don’t get me started on money. But on the other hand, I’m kind of glad he isn’t desperate for a kid, because that would freak me out.

As things stand, though, I can’t imagine us getting to the point of ever knowing for sure what we want. Just closing our eyes and playing pin the tail on the donkey, so to speak, may just be what we do, in the end.

One new development: I talked to my husband about taking on foster kids. It's something I've always wanted to do, babies or not, but he resisted the idea. Turns out, he didn't really understand how fostering differs from adoption. I explained, and now he’s kind of into it, actually. Surprise, surprise.

The Backstory

The somewhat condensed version:

At seventeen and a half years old, I discovered, unhappily, that I was pregnant. On one hand, the decision was easy: I was pro-choice, college-bound, and desperate to get away from my small-town upbringing and unhappy family of origin. On the other hand, the decision was not easy at all: I already loved the growing life within me, and my boyfriend would have been thrilled to marry and have kids. Everyone in our lives would have supported us, though at first there'd be a major scandal to live down. A very major scandal. I couldn't face it. Bottom line, I felt like I was doing the wrong thing, but couldn't consider the alternative.

I went to college, my boyfriend and I broke up, and then I dropped out and in and out of college, depressed. I did a lot of wandering around the country, supporting myself as an artist, craftsperson, musician, peer counselor, migrant farm worker, and all around odd-jobber. And finally, I went back to college at 31, to complete a degree in art.

Exactly seventeen and a half years after my first pregnancy, I found myself pregnant again. This time I was extremely happy about it. I had just married my love of ten years, and this was our first attempt at conception. But two months later, I miscarried. We tried again, but conception didn't come so easily this time, and I fell into depression. I regretted my teenage abortion, and everything else that had taken place in my life as a result of that decision. In the process of working my way out of that depression, I took a job as an abortion counselor.

And then I found out I was pregnant again. This one lasted one week longer than the previous pregnancy. I miscarried at eleven weeks, on Wednesday, November 9th, 2005, less than two weeks ago.

There you have it, the backstory in a nutshell.

Why?

I'll tell you why: Because the clock is ticking down. Because I've had two miscarriages this year. Because I'm still not done processing the abortion I had at seventeen. And because I still can't decide, though I desperately fear missing my chance: Babies or not?

Also, because two nights after my last miscarriage (on Wednesday, November 9 — ten days ago) I sat up writing until four in the morning, and then got up and wrote some more. The result: a 9,500 word essay covering every facet of my dilemma. Apparently I have a lot to say.

The fact is, just about half (49%) of all pregnancies in this country are unplanned, and about half of those (24%) are aborted. (As soon as I figure out how, I'll put a link to the source of those statistics here.) What with so many of us warming up to motherhood later in our reproductive years, I must not be the only one rethinking the choices I made way back when. And I know for a fact that some of you contemplating abortion are worried about finding yourself in my position.

I hope that by sharing my experience both at home and at work (while guarding the privacy of those I counsel, of course), I can be of some use to other women struggling with their fertility, or lack thereof. And frankly, I also hope that some of you reading this — and I do hope there are some of you reading this — will share your thoughts and stories as well. I look forward to hearing from you.

So so so SO much more to come....