February 11, 1997. We dropped our son off at day care on our way to the clinic. The day had finally arrived and within a few hours, our lives would be back on track.

This is what we need to do, this is the best thing.

We couldn’t find the clinic. We stopped in the vicinity of where it was and called from a pay phone. “Oh yeah,” the lady said, when I told her where I was. “You’re real close.” We tried to be normal, my husband Bobby and I, but there was nothing normal about this day; this was the day of our abortion; my abortion.

This is what we need to do; this is the best thing.

In the waiting room, we waited. There was a box of tissues next to me. Just in case, I guess. My stomach was in knots and morning sickness did not help me to feel any better. This is alright, I told myself. I do not want another baby. I do not want to get fat again. We cannot afford another baby, we barely make ends meet with the one we have now. It’s my right to choose. We are complete, as a family. A perfect triangle, enveloped in pure love and dedication. We didn’t want to become a square.

This is what we need to do; this is the best thing.

A young girl exited from the big swinging doors with tiny windows, walking very slowly. She was very white and very sad, and walked with the support of a nurse to her mother, who was reading a magazine. I don’t know what it was about that image that caused me to lose it. Was it my pity for this poor, empty-wombed child, or was it fear for my turn, when they would call my name, and I would enter, the big doors swinging closed behind me. I began to sob, burying my head in Bobby’s armpit. Please, I was thinking, please let this be finished. I want to go home.

This is what we need to do; this is the best thing.

My name was called, and I rose, trying to be strong, trying to be normal. What about Bobby- could my husband come with? I really need him with me. “Sure” the nurse smiled. I was only paying the bill; of course he could come. After the $47.00 (my co-pay) was paid, (save the receipt; I could get reimbursed) they sent him to the waiting room. I felt as if my only source of strength had been stolen from my soul. The clinic then provided me with “counseling.” She had an issue of Cosmo on her desk, I guess for flipping in between counseling sessions. She did not give one shit about me, and I knew it, I could see it in her cold eyes, and what pissed me off was that she couldn’t even fake it.“Are you sure about your decision?” I thought for a second “Yes and no” I answered. Was anyone ever entirely sure? Didn’t all women have that feeling of doubt, of sadness, or guilt, that feeling that maybe there’s some other way... She didn’t like my answer, until she realized what I really meant was “Yes, but it hurts.” Instead of asking me why I felt that way, instead of helping me feel better with my decision, or instead of saying “everything will be okay,” she described, in cold step-by-step descriptions, the procedure. “Any questions?” “No.”

This is what we need to do; this is the best thing.