Bad Girl House 17.5

Years earlier, when driving from the university to John’s apartment, I had to pass an abortion clinic that sat on a nearby corner. There were often protestors circling the building, waving shockingly graphic signs high in the air. They screamed their ideals at anyone who quickly walked by or drove past with their windows down. Although I understood both sides of the issue, I never imagined actually walking through the doors of that clinic. Two times now, I had endured mental and physical torture to keep that from happening. Over two pregnancies, a pattern had been clearly established.

“There is no way you are keeping this one!” I had to tell myself that the pattern would continue. A pattern that I could deal with one more time, like I had for its two brothers before. A phone call was to be made, John would attempt to cause a miscarriage, and in nine months there would be a fourth baby. This time felt very different. I was now dealing with much more physical and mental abuse while needing to care for three young children. We still didn’t have health insurance, so I would be having another baby without a prenatal care. John’s irrational and erratic behavior meant that I was always in physical danger, and this unborn baby would be too. The house was still under construction. Any remodeling had slowed down considerably because there was very little money was coming in. It would not have been wise to bring another baby into all of this, but given the choice, I would have.

In an extra effort to allow this baby to live, I researched how I could put it up for adoption right after I gave birth. I started looking into it on the computer while John was at work, not even thinking that he would check the search history when he got home.

“Do you think I would let you just give away a child of mine?” This made no sense to me, considering what he actually wanted me to do. I couldn’t control my reaction.

“So it’s fine for you to make me kill it?” John hesitated. I thought that I might have called his bluff. “I would not have you carry a baby that long just to give it away.” I was told to call a clinic.

My next memory is of sitting next to John in a small office. We both had to sign papers agreeing to the treatment. The woman guiding us through the process asked me if I was comfortable with the decision I was making. I must have convinced her with my weak head nob, and my muffled yes. We were paying for the abortion with some of the money borrowed from my mom each month to help with bills. She was unknowingly watching her other three grandchildren, while I was being forced to do the unthinkable.

We scheduled my next appointment during which I’d have an exam, and be given the pills that would end the pregnancy. The procedure was explained to us, but I couldn’t pay attention. My stomach was churring, and my heart was breaking. I stared past the woman’s face at the large, leafy plant filing the corner of the office. I was trying to block out what was going on in that room. John and I each shook her hand and left her office. I continued trying to numb myself, but I quietly cried all the way home.

On the afternoon of my second appointment, all three kids were put in the backseat of the car. John planned to drop me off across the street, and I was to call him when I was finished. I rang the buzzer to what seemed like the back of the building. The door opened to a narrow staircase. The dark brown carpet and burgundy walls made the space feel even smaller. There was a poorly lit room where five women at a time sat having their vitals taken and their blood drawn. Then we each waited to be called for a physical exam and ultrasound. I knew that the ultrasound was necessary to see how far along I was, but it was emotionally agonizing. The cold jelly was spread over my belly with the wand. I couldn’t make anything out from the fuzz on the screen, but that fuzz was my baby. I can’t change my mind now, can I? Can I still say no? Could I just leave? Could I call my mom to come pick me up? I still look back and wish that I had. You don’t just lose an infant. You lose every milestone, and every age that child would have been.

The ultrasound determined that I was 9 weeks and 2 days pregnant. That just barely allowed me to end the pregnancy with the pills. Telling John that nothing had been accomplished at my appointment because I was too far along could have uncaged an anger I had not yet seen. Or maybe he would have allowed me to have the baby instead, but with new ammunition to hold over my head.

“If you would have gotten there just a week sooner, I wouldn’t be dealing with another screaming baby… with another bratty kid… with another disrespectful teenager.”

The nurse prepared me for the next steps. She asked me if I would prefer waiting to have the other procedure, but I had no choice but to continue with the pills. She walked me to a table in the hallway. It felt so impersonal and exposed. I was handed a small cup containing a pill and a glass of water. That pill ended the pregnancy. I closed my eyes as I swallowed both the pill and my feelings. The nurse told me to wait there for a few minutes to make sure that I felt alright. She came back with a bottle that held the second pill, along with instructions, information and phone numbers. I left the way I’d came in. The darkness of the stairway turned into bright, warm sunlight as I opened the door. I crossed the street, and sat down at a table outside of the restaurant where I’d been dropped off. I had waited to call John until I got there. I still thought about calling my mom instead. It didn’t matter that I had just begun the process of having an abortion. She would have understood. I could have walked somewhere else to wait for her before John arrived. Sitting alone at that table was the first moment I’d had completely to myself in years. The gravity of what was happening struck me. Alone in the middle of downtown Akron, I put my hands over my face and felt the tears flow from my eyes.

John honked at me to quickly get in the car while stopped at the light of the busy intersection. He didn’t want to bother with pulling in and out of the restaurant’s parking lot. As usual, Jessica was full of questions. She had been told that I was at a doctor’s appointment, but wasn’t used to me going anywhere on my own. I tried to tell her that I was fine, but it was difficult to talk without bursting into tears again. John kept telling me to answer her, instead of asking Jessica to stop.

The second pill would cause the fetus to leave my body. It was to be taken a few hours after we got home. John left me alone to lay on the bed while he kept the kids entertained in the living room. That was definitely for the best. I didn’t want to deal with him whether he was pretending to care about what I was going through or not. I didn’t feel much pain, only an upset stomach and some cramping. The doctor had told me that it would be easiest to sit on the toilet when I felt like it was time. She also warned me not to turn around to look. But I did. I couldn’t help it. I swear that I could make out a tiny hand and tiny fingers. Now I had to say goodbye. I had to flush my baby down the toilet. That was exactly what John thought of all of us. I stood in the bathroom sobbing. And then she was gone. I believe that it was little girl. Her name would have been Hannah Naomi. I often imagine who she would have been, since my other three children are each very different, wonderful people.

John never came to check on me. I was very thankful for that. I laid back down on the bed and tried to fall asleep.