I Have Never Regretted My Abortion

But I’m afraid I’ll never be able to talk about it openly

photo by Jackson Simmer ((@simmerdownjpg))

I sat down at the kitchen table of the house my friend was subletting for the summer, the four of us gathered around over Chinese takeout. I shoved a giant bite of vegetable lo mein down my throat while they exchanged a nervous glance. In the bathroom down the hall, a pregnancy test sat developing on the counter. 

It was the summer of 2016. I’d graduated from Ohio University that spring and had just accepted my dream job. Starting in August, I’d be working at an elementary school as their wellness coordinator—helping out in the clinic, teaching health classes, and growing a garden, with the goal of improving health outcomes in Appalachian Ohio. I was more excited about this job than I’ve ever been about anything in my entire life. I use the term “job” loosely though. I had signed on to serve with AmeriCorps, which is considered volunteering. In lieu of hourly wages, you receive a meager living stipend and an education award at the end of your term. There is no health insurance, and no maternity leave. 

I laughed out loud when the fifteen minutes was up and the test officially confirmed that I was pregnant, sending my friends into a fit of laughter as well. I wasn’t struck with a sense of fear or panic because I knew that I could (and would) get an abortion. Maybe because I was young (twenty-two) and naive, or maybe because abortion still seemed acceptable and accessible at the time. This was just a neutral inconvenience that popped up as I attempted to navigate adulthood (poorly). I simply couldn’t entertain any fantasies of being a mother when I could barely figure out how to take care of myself.

I don’t remember how I told the guy—if it was a text or a phone call or in person. He’d moved back to his hometown but visited me a lot that summer. We had only just begun our romance spring semester and decided it wasn’t serious enough to pursue a long-distance relationship post-graduation, but we still communicated frequently. Once he found out I was pregnant, he dutifully Venmoed me for his half of the abortion, then became distant. Every few years he texts me on my birthday. I imagine that's the type of father he would’ve been too. 

I don’t remember how I told the guy, but I vividly remember my phone call to Planned Parenthood. Stepping out of the air-conditioned library and into the muggy summer heat, I stood in the grassy courtyard with my cell phone in hand, cicadas buzzing at full volume in the background. It was a historic summer: a mass emergence of a seventeen-year brood; it was difficult to hear over their incessant whir. I was nervous as I dialed, but did my best to sound very nonchalant and self-assured as I told the receptionist I’d like to schedule an abortion. The call was quick and the woman I spoke to was kind and helpful. We scheduled my first appointment for two weeks out. 

Abortion clinics are sparse in Ohio. According to the ACLU, in 1992 (the year I was conceived), Ohio had forty-five abortion clinics. Today, in 2023, there are only six Ohio clinics that will perform an abortion procedure, plus three additional clinics that can administer a medication abortion. With clinics already concentrated in the major cities, closures throughout the state over time has made care even more inaccessible.

Living in Southeastern Ohio at the time, the closet clinic was in Columbus, over an hour away. I called the clinic in my hometown of Cleveland, because even though it was much farther away, I could at least stay with my parents following the procedure.

My first appointment consisted of an interview where a nurse asked me a bunch of questions about whether anyone was forcing me to do this. She showed me pictures, talked about all of my options, and explained our state abortion laws. Ohio has a twenty-four-hour waiting period to get an abortion, so after this initial “education” appointment, I’d have to schedule another appointment that was at least twenty-four hours later. The nurse sighed after explaining all of this and I wondered if she was attempting to signal to me that she thought this process was absurd. Or maybe she was disappointed I still wanted to go through with it after her required talk, another carefully constructed roadblock designed by lawmakers to make accessing abortion more difficult than it already is.

Then the nurse did an ultrasound to see how far along I was. When we were finished, she handed me the photo and left the room. I swear I saw her shake her head as she exited. Maybe she really was mad at me for getting an abortion. But wait, why would she work at an abortion clinic? Maybe she thought it was ridiculous that she had to give me the ultrasound photo. I certainly thought so. I looked at it briefly out of curiosity. I felt a fleeting pang of sadness, and then tossed it in the trash. What was I supposed to do with it? Keep it? I imagine pasting it into a scrapbook and looking at it later. Awww! Remember that time you had unprotected sex?

After our education session, I was under the impression my abortion would be the following day, but the next available appointment wasn’t for another five days. Another frustrating barrier, as pregnancy and abortion are time sensitive. I’d be ten weeks along at that point, so the abortion pill was no longer an option. I’d have to have the procedure. But I planned to go alone, which meant I couldn’t be heavily sedated since I had to drive myself home afterward. 

When I got to the clinic for my abortion, I was given a strong dose of ibuprofen. Then I was ushered back into a room to change. It all happened very quickly. I placed my feet in the stirrups and held a nurse’s hand while the doctor vacuumed out my uterus. I closed my eyes and covered my face so they wouldn’t see me cry. My nurse gave my hand a gentle squeeze and reassured me that I was doing great.

It was incredibly painful for about five minutes, and I got all hot and sweaty and nauseous. Then it was over. I dressed myself and was escorted to a row of comfortable chairs where they gave me a heating pad, ginger ale, and crackers. I rested for maybe fifteen minutes, and then drove myself home. I was in and out in less than an hour.

I often think about how my perception of this whole situation has morphed over time. Leading up to my abortion, I was filled with fear and doubt about whether I was doing the “right” thing. Feeling confident in my decision didn’t necessarily make it any easier. But those uncomfortable feelings subsided once the procedure was complete. Afterward, I felt relieved. Empowered, even. I was able to do something that is notoriously hard to do, to make a decision for my future and feel confident about that choice. I have never once regretted it.

I spent a lot of time loudly advocating for reproductive justice after my abortion, but over time I got increasingly quiet. The world has been changing. It doesn’t feel safe to admit you support abortion, let alone admit that you’ve had one. This poisonous perception and rejection of abortion is contaminating our collective consciousness, creeping into our individual psyches.

Looking back at old journal entries detailing my abortion, I had nothing bad to say. I reflected positively on the whole experience. I wrote about how all of the staff at Planned Parenthood were welcoming, friendly and supportive. It’s only now that I wonder if that nurse actually hated me, or if she thought that I was a horrible person. Was she really even sighing or shaking her head? I realize that as time has gone on, my memories have been polluted with false projections born of shame.

People should be able to access abortion without fear or shame. Abortion providers and receivers—past, present, and future—deserve to be protected and supported, to have our stories lifted up, to shine a light on this current narrative that abortion is dark, shameful, or scary. Not to expose, but to illuminate. Someone you know has had an abortion; they’re just too afraid to tell you.

I fear that I will never be able to speak openly about my abortion, not because of judgment from my social circle, but because of literal judgment from the state. Will abortion one day be criminalized? What if things get so bad that women who have had abortions in the past are prosecuted and punished for it? It sounds dystopian, but it’s become a real fear for me. If I admit that I’ve had an abortion to the wrong person, could it come back to haunt me? Working in a rural area, will my career be jeopardized if I speak up for what I believe in?

But I have never regretted my abortion, and I hope to one day be able to share my story with more people in my life, in a society where abortion is normalized rather than stigmatized. With the passage of Issue 1 in Ohio this past November, I’m feeling optimistic.

Marissa G. is a licensed independent social worker who is passionate about advocating for social and environmental justice. She lives in Ohio where she enjoys reading, writing, hiking, and calling her local politicians. This is her first published piece.