Imagine a pain so intense you have no choice but to bury it deep down inside, denying it any chance of reaching the surface. A chronic wound. A hideous and self inflicted laceration of moral and value. Something that is impossible to rectify. An irreversible and selfish action.
And unforgivable?
On a gloomy day in November of 2008, a friend picked me up in the parking lot of the light house apartments. The sound of the SUV’s roaring tires on the damp and glistening road was soothing. Distracting. I studied the irregular edges of a tiny hole that had developed in the sleeve of my favorite sweater. This defect was small enough to go unnoticed for now, but in time it would grow beyond concealment.
As we approached our destination, I felt nothing; no fear, anxiety, sadness, relief. Flat.
I was dropped off in front while my ride sought parking. A trip in a stale elevator brought me to a front desk and waiting room. After completing the requested paperwork, I pretended to read a magazine until my name was called. A young girl led me to a procedure room with a large window. She pricked my finger and informed me that my blood type was O positive. Shortly after that she brought me in a very large tablet of ibuprofen and told me it would be helpful later if I consumed it now. Another woman then came in and asked me for my credit card information. After completing the purchase I was asked to change into a gown.
While changing I noticed that I had two different types of socks on. Though somewhat embarrassing, I left them on to keep my feet warm and avoid the risk of exposing my unkempt winter toenails. I focused on this predicament for quite some time. I thought about many unimportant things while sitting on the exam table with its paper lining sticking to the back of my naked thighs.
Lost in thought… I was startled when the door swung open. A woman in a white doctor’s coat entered and introduced herself. She informed me that she was still a resident in training but had adequate experience. She was young with a short bob hair cut, chubby cheeks, and a button nose. After answering a few questions, she began preparing me for the procedure.
She preformed an ultrasound and informed me that I was about 5 and a half weeks pregnant. She left me laying on the exam table and informed me that she would return shortly with the proper equipment and some additional people to assist with the procedure.
A few people popped in and out of the room to drop off sterile packaged tools and shinny stainless steel instruments. The doctor then sat down on the stool at my feet and asked me,
Are you sure you want to do this?
Yes.
No sedation or anesthetics. There was difficulty in the procedure from the beginning. My body was very tense and stiff, making everything harder to accomplish. The doctor requested help and brought in a herd of strangers to study my exposed body in its forlorn state. As the procedure progressed I began to feel agonizing pain leak into my body. The nurses attempted in coaching me as my body quivered and convulsed on exam table.
I was left alone while they confirmed that they had completed their task in a separate room. When I tried to get up and dress myself I became very light headed and toppled over; I had lost a lot of blood. The girl that had completed my blood typing discovered me and got me up into a chair. She brought me some juice and gram crackers and told me to stay put.
On the drive back we both acted like nothing had happened.
Homeless, I returned to the light house apartments and slept on my friends hand-me-down blue couch.
I left in the middle of the night and drove to the father’s house 40 minutes away. I found him passed out in the living room covered in his own vomit. I pulled his limp body up the stairs that he would throw me down someday, and changed him into some fresh clothes. I laid him on his side in bed, on a few layers of bath towels- he was still heaving and spitting.
I crawled into bed. The satin sheets caught against the dry skin on my feet. I laid there motionless for an hour before bursting into uncontrollable tears. The sun came up.
The next day we all acted like nothing happened.
We never mentioned it again.
Am I allowed to grieve over this? It was in my control and I caused it. It was selfish. How do I recover from this if I’m not even allowed to talk about it?
Sometimes I think about her. Running up to me in her Christmas dress. Learning her ABCs. Telling me she loves me. She’ll never be able to do those things because I didn’t give her the chance.
I deserve to feel this way.
Damsel in Profess 