My thoughts are racing and images flit by my closed eyes. The protesters at the abortion clinic, stunned to silence at my pregnant belly. Laying down on the table, the doctor taking my hand in his. “I am so so sorry,” he said to me. The counselor asked if I had any pets.
“I have a cat,” I told her, smiling faintly, “When are you going to start?”
“It’s over,” she said. And Molly was dead.
It must have happened yesterday; it’s been more than two years.
And still I am damaged. Those moments are branded into my skin, especially since I took my story public in support of Planned Parenthood. In my small town–the people here will never let me forget.
“Get out,” says my therapist, “There nothing here for you now.”
It’s 2.15 am, I wait until I can take my next dosage of meds. My appointment is later today and my jitters have superseded my sleeping pills. I feel dizzy at the the thought of getting pregnant again –could I survive another termination? This question has preyed upon my consciousness for two years–two years of basal body temping and ovulation prediction strips and blank pregnancy tests and miscarriage. I’ve grown older and lost my innocence. I’ve grown bitter and hard.