My choice was pro-me - abortion - Column

I stood in panic waiting for my name to be called, bumming a cigarette to still my jittery nerves. At least now it would soon be over. I was down to the last part: the test to determine if I was definitely pregnant.

"Just put your clothes over there on that chair and hop right on top that table," the nurse said, clucking behind me like an efficient mother. She hadn't noticed the expression that betrayed my unasked questions: Was I pregnant? If I had an abortion, would I still be able to conceive? Would I be judged harshly by myself and others?

When I imagined my life as a single mother, I envisioned a personification of that 1970's Helen Reddy song: "I am strong, I am invincible, I am woman." I, by myself, would tote my baby to poetry readings and workshops. She would be the inspiration for my writing.

During these fantasies, I shut out my thoughts about the one-bedroom apartment that I paid for by bargaining with the landlord each month. I shut out the graveyard shift I worked to secure the benefits that would be needed to pay hospital and general health bills once the baby was born. I shut out morning feedings that no one would help me with, not even the friends who promised to be there for me. I shut out the inevitable loneliness I would feel being pregnant alone. The truth was, I could not realistically take care of a child. The fact that I was forced to go to this particular clinic was an indication of my financial situation: They offered free pregnancy testing and counseling.

The counseling was something I could do without. I'd tried to get out of it at first, but I was told by a tall, blonde, very pregnant woman that it was a "must." So I remembered my ultimate purpose and decided I could handle an thin she said. I let her show me into a plush box of a room for "counseling," while I awaited the results of my test.

It was their policy, she said, to show me an "objective" film about abortion. The film was anything but. Pictures of botched abortions and trash bags filled with dead fetuses were interspersed with pictures of White teenage mothers glad they'd had their babies.

After it was over, she asked me what I thought. I was so angry that it took time for me to gather my words. I felt insulted and tricked. I don't think her script prepared her for me. Undaunted, Mrs. Happy and Pregnant went on to explain Christianity to me.

Finally she returned with the results of my tests, which were positive. I felt as if I'd been given a jail sentence. Ignoring my discomfort, Mrs. Happy and Pregnant congratulated me, hugged me and told me I could sign up for a crib and look through their giveaways for things for my first-born.

I guess the hug was something they taught her at pro-life training camp because it wasn't authentic; it was a way to make me feel that all the stuff she'd thrown at me for the past 30 minutes had been real. I shook her away and said I was going home. But before I could escape, she handed me a "gift." Out of nowhere she produced a tiny pink rubber fetus so I would know what my baby would look like when I had progressed to 12 weeks. I finally left. I didn't know then that pictures of dead fetuses would play havoc with my mind during and after my abortion.

After I had my abortion, I clutched my abdomen. I'm not a churchgoing woman, but I visualized the crucifix and shuddered thinking of my soul's final resting place. Curled up with the heating pad, I prayed that everything would go well and I could get pregnant again when I was ready.

I was haunted by this "counseling" session. The lifeboat I grabbed to retain my sanity was the reason that brought me to my irrevocable decision: At that point in my life, there was no room for a baby.

I see motherhood as a privilege. Not every woman is able to conceive, so it is a privilege that should not be taken lightly, regardless of the outcome. I imagine it as a celebration equal to none.

My abortion was the right thing for me to do at that time. However, a better time came for me to have a baby, and I gave birth to a daughter. And I finally had the opportunity "to turn around," as poet Hasna Muhammad puts it, "and bump into myself."

COPYRIGHT 1994 Essence Communications, Inc.
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