By The Tartis
Posted Thursday, June 23rd, 2016
“Fuck,” I swore softly to myself as I stood in the bathroom holding that fateful little stick. The one with the two little pink lines that meant “one and done” had turned into “oops.” I continued to swear, unable to pry my eyes away from the evidence of my mistake. I had been on birth control, but had missed a few pills the month prior. At 34 years old, with a 12 year old stepson and a 6 year old daughter, I had most decidedly passed my self-imposed “expiration date” for having more children. I guess missing those pills last month really was a big deal this time, I thought stupidly to myself. I had missed pills plenty of times before and it had always been fine, leading me into a false sense of security that we must not be very fertile. How could I have been so foolish?
Part of me had always wanted another child. It would be nice to have a sibling for my daughter that she didn’t have to share, and a second chance for me to be the mother I wished I was the first time around. I would be more patient this time, I would baby wear and cloth diaper and make my own baby food instead of relying on those little glass jars. I wouldn’t worry so much at every little thing. A squishy little creature full of light and warmth might be nice to have in the house again. On the other hand, a large part of me was Done, with a capital D. My daughter was finally at an age to do things for herself. I was no longer a slave to diapers and bottles and wiping of little butts. I was able to start really getting back into my hobbies that I had mistakenly let fall by the wayside when she was small.
I texted my husband at work. We work opposite shifts to save on childcare, so this is our main form of communication, and truthfully how we discuss the most important things in our lives. He responded that he did not want another child. Reading the words felt like a lead weight had landed on my chest. I had already terminated one pregnancy in my early 20’s, a decision that I had not previously thought I would ever make, and one that I have struggled with ever since in the face of my fundamentalist Christian upbringing. My view of God had changed drastically since I was a teen, no longer did I see him as the cold angry being in the sky just itching to smite us at the slightest provocation, but the fear that my soul would be eternally damned if I were to willfully have the procedure done a second time tormented me. How could I go through it again? Yet how could I force my husband to care for a child he did not want?
My options felt like a loaded gun pointed at my head on one side and a knife to my heart on the other. For the first time in my life I truly understood what it feels like to wish for death, and the thought of asteroids striking me down from the sky gave me a sick comfort. If I were dead I wouldn’t have to feel anything. I sobbed on the couch while my 6 year old petted my head. She had been given a burden that night bigger than she was, but she tried her best to give me solace in her own sweet little way.
The next day I dragged myself to work, my mind sick and numb. Halfway through the day after a long talk with my mom, I poured my heart out in another text message to my husband, telling him that I couldn’t bear to terminate another pregnancy but that the thought of ruining his life was just as awful. He replied that we are married and together until we die. I absolutely would not ruin his life, and if I wanted to go ahead with this pregnancy he would support me. The weight on my heart began to lift. I decided to keep the baby.
That peace was short lived, however, as first trimester depression set in. I found myself resentful of the baby and what was happening to my body. I felt invaded, taken over and used. The nausea and constant aching in my breasts only served to remind me of my violation. I did whatever I could to pretend it wasn’t happening, if only for a few moments. Weeks passed in a sort of fugue state of exhaustion and bitterness. Gradually these feelings began to ease, and now a month into my second trimester I feel almost my normal self, but I still lie awake some nights in fear of my impending labor and birth.
My experience leaves me with this question: what of the women for whom pregnancy is wholly unwelcome? If I can feel so tormented over a pregnancy I halfway desired, how much more horrific for them? Segments of society close their ears and hearts to these realities, decrying women like us as evil and uncaring, when that is very much not the case. The truth is the very people screaming at our supposed lack of compassion and respect for life are the very people who lack compassion the most. They berate women and girls at one of the most vulnerable and painful times of their lives, and have the audacity to say we are the hateful ones. They post pictures of dead babies in their news feeds, dismissing us as demonic, not stopping to think that maybe someone they love happens to be one of these women they have such contempt for. And they will never know, because they have proven themselves unworthy of our trust. In their eyes, we are the wicked. They have chosen hate, but that will not be my choice.
I, for one, choose compassion.
About the Author:
The TARTIS is a liberal feminist who believes that socialism is not a bad word. Collector of ALL the things, and member of too many fandoms to recall. Queen of the Plushies and the Pop Vinyls, Breaker of Electronics, Mother of Nerds.
