Kids

Kids.

I don’t know how I feel about them 100% of the time. Sometimes I love them and I love being around them. And sometimes I think they’re minions of Satan. I'm on the fence and frankly, it’s hard to decide how I feel.

There are times where I’d think I’d like to be a mom. You know, that whole playing in the yard with them, or taking them trick-or-treating, cheering them on during a little league game; all that suburban, soccer-mom bullshit. But then this cold fear will grip me. That fear I have of settling and being stuck. The fear of my life ending and not having done everything I want to do.

I was always told that once you have kids, your life is over. It's been drilled into my head that from the moment you have them, it’s all about them. You'll always come second. Even when they're grown and have kids and a life of their own, they're still yours. You are still a parent.

So I have to ask myself, do I really want to make that kind of commitment? Something that's life long? Truly until death do us part?

There are so many factors that go into my hesitation. So much to consider from age (I'm over 30 now), to health concerns (and there are quite a lot of those in my family), plus all the horror stories I've heard about pregnancy and giving birth. It scares me knowing any and everything could go wrong. The cost, the time, and the emotional and physical labor would be too much for me.

I know this because I was pregnant once. I ended it. I had to… well, maybe not “had to” but I wanted to. I didn't want to be a mother. Not at 23 and in my final semester of college, with no jobs lined up and the possibility of having to move back home slowly becoming a reality. I didn't want to be a mother to that child either. Nothing against the “kid,” it was the father. The guy I had only slept with twice. The guy who had no job, no car, and lived in what could politely be called a shack. The guy who, when I told him I was pregnant, told me that it wasn’t his and to lose his number and never call him again. Yeah, that guy.

Once I was sure, after three positive tests and a lot of denial, my decision came almost a split second later. It had to go. I had to end it, I had to get rid of it.

I was in the university clinic when I got the third positive test. To the end I was sure the home pregnancy tests I took were wrong. That’s what you get for buying the cheap Walmart brand, I thought to myself. I told the clinic staff I wanted a test because I wasn’t sure. My period was always irregular, was my excuse. They took me back, and I did what they instructed: pee in the cup, place it in the door, go and wait. And I waited. I was sure it was going to come back negative. There was no way I was pregnant. That didn’t happen to me. Of course not.

The nurse came in and I still remember the look she had on her face, one of pity. I knew then those cheap Walmart brand tests were in fact accurate. She felt sorry for me and I saw it. And my heart dropped into my stomach. I swear to you, I felt it actually do that. Anyway, she asked what I wanted to do. It took me half a second: I didn’t want it. She gave me a number to call, a place right there in the city. I gave my thanks and I left. Shaking. I was in shock, I was disappointed. How could I have let this happen?

I called the clinic as soon as I got back to my car. I told the nurse what was going on and that I wanted to make the appointment as soon as possible. I just wanted it over with. I remember asking how much it was, I don’t remember what she said, but I know I couldn’t afford it. I started to tear up, and I think she could hear it in my voice (I’m sure she’s had her fair share of criers.) She then asked if I had insurance. I remembered the rarely used insurance card my mom gave me years ago that I kept in my wallet. “Yes,” I told her, digging it out. I gave her the name of the insurance company. And it brought the price down. A few hundred dollars, I could easily afford that. I had it in my savings account, I relaxed. The lie about where the money went already forming in my head.I made the appointment. Now I just had to go to the bank.

That turned out to be another problem.

Here I was thinking I could do this without letting anyone know. All I had to do was go to the bank, take out the money, go to the clinic, and no one would be the wiser. Since my account was still tied to my mom’s, I was going to tell her I took the money out because I needed something for school; college does have unexpected expenses.

So I went into the bank and told them I needed to make a withdrawal from my savings, and… nothing. So I tried again. All that would print out was a receipt telling me how much money I had in there. All I could do was an inquiry. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, had locked my savings account. That’s when I hit me, I was going to have to tell her. No one else I knew had the money.

I gave the clerk a choked up thanks, went and sat in my car, and cried.

Yes, I cried. But not for it. No. My tears were for myself. My stupidity, my recklessness, and of course fear. Fear of my mom finding out what I let happen, fear of her disappointment, anger, and shame. I felt no connection to the thing growing inside of me. As far as I was concerned, it was just something that had to be gone as fast as possible.

I went back to my dorm and I called her. To this date, that is still the worst phone call of my life. I had never been so afraid. When she answered, I could barely get it together.

“Please don’t hate me,” were the first words I said to her. She was confused.

“What?”

“Please don’t hate me,” I said again, and then I began to cry. I just knew I had disappointed her. I had let her down. I had let my family down. I had let myself down .

When I finally got out those words I’m pregnant, she became quiet for a few seconds. And then asked me what I wanted to do.

“I don’t want it!” I cried.

“Okay so we have to find you a doc--” she began.

I cut her off, “I already made an appointment at a clinic here. I just don’t have the money for it. I tried to get it out of the bank but…”

“I locked your account.” She finished.

“Yeah…”

“Okay, how much is it?”

I told her the price the nurse quoted to me.

“Calm yourself down, I’ll call you back,” She said, then hung up the phone.

That’s it, I thought. She’s going to disown me. Throw me to the dogs. What am I going to do?

Five minutes later she called me back.

“Are you calm now?” She asked. Her voice was neutral.

“Yes.”

“Okay, so what do you want to do? Because you know your father’s family health, and you don’t have any money or a job and--”

“I don’t want it,” I said again. “I know all that and I don’t want it.”

“Okay, well, I had to tell your aunt. She’s going to give me half of the money and I’ll pay the other half.” Her tone was businesslike now.

“Alright. Thank you,” I replied in a small voice.

“Also, I’m coming down there to stay with you. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Okay.” I didn’t know how to respond to that. I think I was in shock at the gesture.

“And before I go, I just want you to know that I could never hate you.”

She hung up the phone. I sat on my bed staring at mine in my hand for a while. And I started to cry again. My fear of doing the wrong thing had led me to believe that one slip up, even one as big as this, would cause me to lose my mother’s love forever.

Once I got up the courage to tell her, everything went by quickly. I had already made the appointment. The days passed by in a blur and I don’t remember much about them. I was a student teaching at a local high school, so my days were pretty busy. And luckily for me no one even noticed any changes. It was still early days, so there wasn’t much to notice.

My mom came down to stay with me the day before my appointment. She was calm, but I could tell she was holding something back. I don’t know if it was anger or disappointment, I didn’t ask, I was too afraid. Mom had slept on the floor of my dorm, I had offered her my bed, but she insisted.

I woke up after her and showered. The nurse at the clinic had specified that I wear loose, comfortable clothing, so I dressed in my school sweats and a t-shirt. Mom made me eat breakfast. So I had a bowl of Cheerios in a blue bowl, I wasn’t hungry but I wasn’t about to argue. Before we left she had us pray. I’m not much of a religious person, but that day, I prayed just as hard as she did, maybe harder.

Then we were off. While driving there I looked around at everything we passed by. It all seemed so normal, just another September day. The sun had just come up and the sky was still streaked pink and orange. It was going to be warm again. It was so hard to believe that everyone was going about their regular days and here I was about to go in for a life changing event.

Oddly, it's nothing painful to talk about. I'm not afraid to tell people. It was there, then it wasn't. I didn't grow attached or anything. I was amazed at how quickly it all happened. Maybe it was just me. I was there hours apparently, but it barely felt like 30 minutes.

I remember how cold the clinic was, even though it was a warm September day. It was so cold that mom had to go back to her car for a jacket. I remember her face as the nurse buzzed her back in. People (only two) had been shouting at her from the sidewalk. The nurse smiled at her confused face and told her they were protesters. Mom leaned over to me and whispered, not too quietly, that they needed something better to do with their lives.

I couldn’t tell you what the waiting room looked like, I don’t remember that, I spent the whole time shivering from the cold and staring at my hands. The nurse called me up to pay and mom handed me the cash my aunt had sent her and that she took out of the bank. I guess she didn’t want this on her credit card statement. Fair enough, I suppose.

After giving the nurse the money she had me take a seat and wait some more. Apparently most of my time there was going to be spent waiting. They finally called me back. There were so many steps leading up to the procedure, I just wanted it done. First, there was counseling from one nurse, she talked about what was going to happen and when I’d need to come back for a follow up. That went by pretty fast.

Then there was the ultrasound. Just to make sure that there was indeed something there. I remember the nurse asking me if I wanted to see it on the ultrasound. I shook my head no, but later I snuck a peek at the printout while I waited for the doctor. There was nothing there, well there was, but nothing I could discern from the black and grey photo of my womb. It was so small it barely existed. Something about that solidified the decision in my mind. Not that I was going to just get up and leave right in the middle and demand my mom’s money back. But knowing that whatever was there was so small that it couldn’t be seen, that it was so miniscule, so insignificant, made me feel better.

Then came the third nurse. This nurse was the one who gave you the Valium to make you relax. That was probably the best part. I took it eagerly. She then prescribed me the other drugs I would need. Doxycycline to ward off any infections and a small dosage pain killer. She then directed me to go back to the second waiting room and change.

They had me change into a hospital gown and wait some more. There was so much waiting. As I sat there, in the second waiting room, in my hospital gown, I began wishing of all things, that I had remembered to put some lotion on my legs. They were ashy and I felt embarrassed about the doctor seeing them. Silly thing to worry about in the grand scheme of things, but worry I did. I sat there watching all the women coming and going for a check up or procedure and all I could think was Why didn't I put any lotion on? and I hope they aren’t staring at my legs.

Finally, I was called back, I wasn't nervous, partly because I was relieved to finally have it done and partly because of the Valium. Of course that didn't really kick in until later. I think I was quite tense, but that's almost always.

I remember climbing up on the table and the old doctor (he had a cane) and his younger nurse came in. They did another ultrasound, “Ah, there it is.” He said. If anyone ever asked me what happened during the procedure, I couldn’t tell them. Not in medical terms at least. All I know is that there were some tubes and a suctioning sound. He told me not to tense up, so I relaxed. He put something in me, kind of like when you go for a pap smear. It hurt a bit, so I tensed up again. He then said to me, rudely (or so I thought. It felt like everyone was judging me) if I tensed up he couldn't do it. So I took a deep breath and tried to think happy thoughts. My mind landed on my grandmother. I don’t know why, but once I thought of her I was able to relax. She was always the kind of person that could make you calm. And so I was. The next thing I knew, it was over and the nurse was helping me off the table.

It took barely 15 minutes.

Then they sent me into the recovery room. For some reason I was shaking as if I had the flu and I couldn't make myself stop. I still don't know why I was shaking so badly. They had me sit in this recliner-type chair and gave me a hot water bottle to put on my abdomen. It was sore. Almost as if I had been doing sit ups or had really bad cramps. I was still shaking. There was another girl in the room with me. She was younger, maybe 18, blonde, sweet looking. She seemed fine. She smiled at me. She looked relieved, glad for it to be over. I felt the same. I wanted to talk to her. No, it’s not an appropriate time for small talk, I thought. Besides, what can you possibly say to someone in that situation?

As I was thinking this, I felt my stomach lurch. Then I threw up. The nurse, ever aware, was able to catch it in time in a small tub. I was rather embarrassed about that, but I guess it happened sometimes. She didn't seem bothered by it. I stopped shaking after that.

Soon after I was able to get dressed. I was given a paper with some instructions and a date to come back for a check up, and they sent me home.

On the ride home, my mom talked about the waiting room, she didn’t ask about what happened in the back. (I found out later that she asked the nurse and she told her everything, even about me throwing up.) After a bit of quiet, mom asked me something that I still think of: “Did you notice that there were no men in there?”

I thought about it and mostly I remembered all the women. There were so many of us there. It didn't register to me until after she asked that there were nothing but women there. The nurses, the patients, the family there for support… there was only one man, the doctor. Thinking back on it made me angry. Men were part of the reason we were all there and yet none of them were around, not even for support… not even to give a ride home. The women were left alone to handle it, while they waltzed away without a second thought.

While I was thinking about that, mom told me about another mother she met in the waiting room, the mother of the blonde girl I saw in the recovery room. While she and I didn’t make small talk, our mothers did. She had apparently just graduated from high school and was on her way to college. The boy who had gotten her pregnant had up and left her once he found out. Now here she was. The mother cried and mine comforted her telling her that her daughter was making a good decision for herself and for her life. Everything would be OK. I wonder how much of that she was saying to herself too.

Most people want to know what I felt after that. Honestly? I felt hungry.

It sounds a bit ridiculous, and most people I tell are shocked or laugh at that. But it's true. I hadn't been able to eat for days because the heartburn was so bad during and after every meal I tried to have. So once it was gone, no more heartburn, but a lot of hunger. We stopped at McDonald's and I got some chicken nuggets, funny I can remember that. But they were the best tasting nuggets I'd ever had in a long time. I think that was the realization that it was all over and done with kicking in.

I was exhausted. And I just wanted to sleep. Mom and I went back to my dorm and she told me to rest. I laid my head in her lap like I used to do when I was little and I drifted off to sleep as she made a few phone calls, the first to my aunt to let her know everything went well. Mom stayed with me the rest of that day and that night. Leaving the next day after telling me to be careful and that everything would be all right.

That was the end of it. We never spoke of it again. But from time to time, I think about it.

Sometimes I wonder if I had the choice would I do it again, and hot on the heels of that thought comes my answer.

I would, without a doubt.