I believe those who choose abortion are giving up a right to explore the depths of their own perseverance.
Not being able to produce a child on my own torments me. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t feel inadequate. I am a woman. Historically one job that I shouldn’t fail at is fostering an embryo for nine months. I may not be able to pitch a tent, or run a mile in under five minutes but I am entitled to the rights of childbirth. After the birth of my first child my equipment should have been adequately broken in, paving the course for the second wave. It has been two and half years that we have been trying to conceive our second child.
I felt lucky the first time. In six short months we became pregnant. My regiment consisted of ingesting five pills a day, every day. Tonight at 9pm I will begin my nightly duty. A ritual that I would wish on my enemy, for it makes even the bravest weak. I take out two vile of issued medication, and I call my husband into the room. I mix the poison cocktail. I can’t bear to insert the needle into my stomach so my partner must do it for me. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I have asked my husband to count to three, so I can prepare for the lashing. I clinch my fist until my knuckles turn white. As it begins to sting, tears stream down my face. I finally open my eyes to see the excitement in my husband’s face, hoping that this shot will be the last one.
Every two days I make the two hour pilgrimage to an appointment. I enter into the fertility clinic and join the already crammed waiting room, only to find there is standing room only. You can tell the difference between a new patient and a veteran. The new patient is usually accompanied by their partner all smiles at the prospect of finally getting fixed. The veterans don’t speak, and they rarely make eye contact. They are already defeated. Even though the receptionist greets you with a smile, you are quickly reminded by the “no children allowed policy” posted at the check-in counter of the melancholy surroundings. I try to convince myself to set my sights low in hopes of minimal disappointment. It never fails, as I sit there waiting half naked for the exam, I begin thinking to myself “this may be it.” For the last three months each appointment confirms that I am broken. With each insertion of the giant probe used to measure the circumference of a single follicle located on my ovary, I feel more and more violated. I have had more vaginal exams than you will have in a lifetime. More of my blood will be drawn than a diabetic. Relentlessly I push on. I will achieve the goal. Whether I give birth again or I adopt, I will have a second child. A second chance at exercising my rights.
I will choose to never abort the mission, and those that do are weak.