I Have Endometriosis, I Had an Abortion, and I Am Not Alone.
So why did it feel like I was? Where is this conversation?
Content Warning: abortion, miscarriage, unplanned pregnancy, profanity
Most people who know me would say that I’m an over-sharer.
I talk very openly about my struggles with endometriosis, chronic pain, mental health, and body shit that no one wants to hear. Or at least that we’re taught that no one wants to hear.
So when I sat on the toilet one Sunday morning, frozen in shock, I didn’t know what to do.
There they were, lined up on the windowsill beside the toilet, Barbie Bright Pink like the plastic convertible I’d always wanted as a kid: three white sticks; six pink lines; one monumental choice.
The six days between that moment and my abortion were the longest, loneliest, and least-shared of my entire life.
Abortion is a hot topic (arguably one of the hottest) for a million reasons, a topic mired in shame, secrets, stigma, that often lurks in the shadows because when it’s brought to light, sparks ignite.
When you’re part of a community like People With Endometriosis, where fertility is a major topic of conversation, it’s even more terrifying to bring this one into the light.
I recognize the risks I’m taking in sharing this story. My experience is mine and mine alone, but I share it in the hopes that at least one person who felt like I did, might feel a little lighter.
I immediately threw up.
It’s not possible … is it? My mind wandered as I stared at the dust in the corner behind the toilet.
My tits had been on fire for days, like, more than just the regular period boobs.
My PMDD mood swings had been lasting longer than usual, and my period was on the late side, but it’s so irregular that I hadn’t worried. Until today.
My regular Morning Endo Nausea had been replaced by Morning Sickness That Seeks To Destroy My Will To Live.
I had been sleeping a ridiculous amount, but I’d blamed that on the stress of a recent breakup, a move, missing my family, losing two dream jobs, two potential new mental health diagnoses, and repeated angry outbursts at people I love, sandwiched among the general stress and existential dread of living in a global pandemic and 2020.
Holy shit.
I was fucking pregnant.
How. the FUCK. did this happen?
I mean, I know how this happened.
I read the books. I watched the video in Mrs. Joseph’s grade nine science class.
I just didn’t think my body could do it.
(There was that one time in the shower when I was 20 — there was so much blood, it hurt so badly.
Sometimes I wonder if it was even real, like when a tree falls in the forest; if a young woman miscarries in the shower and never says anything, did it ever really happen?
I’ll never know).
After many years, two surgeries, no more hormone medications (they destroyed me), I’d accepted my fate as a Person With Endometriosis Who Can’t Get Pregnant.
Frustratingly, this was largely a result of extreme anger towards a Smug New Endo Specialist who placed my inherent value as a person within my womb in February 2020 when she said:
“Put a baby in it, or take it out!” re: my uterus.
(I’m paraphrasing).
Yes, I let her break me, for a while.
I let the world make me think I had to use it or lose it.
I had The Kid Conversation with my ex, and it was okay (until it wasn’t).
People always say things like:
“You’re never ready for kids, but you get ready real fast!” (cue maniacal laughter and an ask to babysit).
“You’ll change your mind one day, you’ll see!” or,
“People like you are the ones we need bringing children into the world!”
Sorry, Karen. I’m not interested in entering The Pregnancy Experiment just to find out if I will in fact become Ready when one super sperm makes it through my angry vagina because society tells me I should and it ‘might’ cure my CHRONIC, incurable illness.
Because if it doesn’t — cure the pain, that is — and I do endure a pregnancy, what then?
Will you come and feed the child I had out of pressure when I’m up to vomit at 5 a.m.? Or perhaps when I’m so constipated that blood is pouring out of my asshole but no fucking poop is? Or when the pain in my chest from thoracic endo makes it hard to breathe, let alone hold a child or attempt to breastfeed?
No?
Then shut the fuck up.
What if I just want it to be mine? My womb, my uterus that won’t grow and nurture the biological product of two people within it, but that is still a valuable and treasured part of my identity, of a person’s identity.
(Yes, even when it causes us pain).
Endo made me believe it wasn’t possible.
And I was okay.
Maybe I took for granted that something deep inside, a primordial pull, still lingered.
Maybe it was chemistry, maybe biology, maybe — as some have tried to convince me — it was a miracle.
Maybe it’s any of these things.
But it happened.
And now I had a choice.
A choice not to listen to constant misinformation that says pregnancy is a cure for my illness. (It’s not).
A choice not to endure what I knew could be excruciating for a life I already knew I didn’t want. (Why is it so hard for society to accept that some people just don’t want to be mothers?)
A choice not to “give it up for adoption because so many ‘women like me’ would kill to be pregnant,” because I am empathetic towards, but not responsible for, the tragedies of others.
A choice that I made to protect my body, my life from more pain and suffering.
A choice that I made because my body is my own.
A choice that is carved on my heart for the rest of my life.
A choice that carries profound shame in a world that values a clump of cells more than a living, breathing human being.
A choice weighed down by guilt in a community so driven by the yearning to feel that clump of cells, hold on.
A choice that strands you out at sea, no one in the distance, no one coming to help you, utterly alone because everyone else who’s made this choice is stranded too.
Our choice is valid.
Our choice is real.
And we are not alone.
When a friend offered to post anonymously in an endometriosis support group on my behalf because I was too afraid of how people would react to my asking what to expect, there was a wide range from it being excruciating and traumatizing, to not even as bad as a pain flare-up.
Later, when I mustered the courage to share my experience in the same group, the amount of support I got and the people who had been through it shocked me. There were no nasty comments, no pro-life accolades (I credit that to excellent Facebook Group Moderating).
It didn’t matter how long ago or how recent, or what the reasons were behind any of these choices I was bearing witness to after sharing my own.
It was fucking powerful.
I’d spent the week leading up to my procedure fiercely Googling:
- risks of abortion when you have endometriosis
- endometriosis and abortion risks
- side effects of abortion when you have endometriosis
- anyone with endometriosis who has had an abortion? anyone??
Nothing.
At least, nothing that made me feel like I wasn’t a monster, or selfish, or a horrible person.
Realizing that I was not a monster for having endo and wanting an abortion, and that (with great care) this was a conversation lurking in the underbelly, was a shocking discovery. Like you’re not a part of this club until you’re part of this club.
And it was a relief.
It gave me a sense of peace going into the procedure that I desperately needed.
I chose to have a surgical abortion (also known as a dilation and curettage), even though I was early enough in the pregnancy for a medical abortion (the “abortion pill”). This is an incredibly personal choice for everyone who makes it, but it was the best choice for me after consulting with clinicians and doing my own research based on my body. I cannot stress this enough. I’m also incredibly fortunate to live in Canada, and specifically in a province with health care that covers abortions and post-abortion counseling.
If you have access to post-abortion counseling — TAKE ADVANTAGE OF IT!!!
As a Person with Endo who’s been through the wringer when it comes to physical procedures and pain and bodily shit, I found the emotional aspect of the entire process the most challenging. And I don’t doubt that it will continue to be. I was incredibly fortunate to have unconditional love and support from the few people I did choose to share this with at the time, and I ache for the people who don’t have that — there are too many to count.
This needs to change.
I will never regret my abortion. At no point did I doubt that it was the right choice for me.
That’s not the case for everyone.
There will always be questions:
What will my family think?
What about colleagues, friends, and lovers — past, present, and future?
Will I lose respect from people I love?
What about People With Endo, and others who struggle to conceive, people I know and love more than they probably realize who I’ve watched suffer blow after blow of infertility and loss?
Will they reject me for this decision?
What about the People With Endo like me, who feel so alone going through an experience that millions of people have had, but so few talk about?
What about anyone who’s gone through this experience and felt alone, unsafe, afraid?
We grow up learning that our bodies are private, not fit for human consumption unless they follow a very specific set of rules, expectations, beliefs.
The secrets we hide, the shame that keeps us quiet, the stigma that makes us feel broken — they aren’t for us to bear alone.
