My Body, My Choice.

In 1983, I had the first of two abortions.

I was fifteen years old and at that time, smart enough to know better. Yet, I became pregnant anyway. I can't tell you why. I don't know. We used a condom. Perhaps it broke. Perhaps it fell off. Perhaps we got careless.

By my own account, it was immaculate conception.

I remember going with my then boyfriend, Andy Smith and my then best friend, Carrie Liebman, to the abortion clinic in Coram, New York. There were protesters out front. I defiantly gave them the finger as I walked to the building. One woman shouted...

"Don't kill your baby!"

I shouted back: "Will YOU raise it if I don't?"

She didn't answer.

I kept walking.

After the procedure was over, I was back to being a teenager again. We went to McDonalds. I had cramps. I was bleeding. I just wanted to go to sleep. I never wanted to think of it ever again. It didn't prevent me from having sex with Andy again some six weeks later. Actually, it had very little impact on me as a teenager. As an adult, I can't help counting backwards and realizing that I would have a 23 year old son or daughter right now. The fifteen year old me couldn't comprehend that. Couldn't wrap my teenage mind around it. All I knew was I had plans. I was going to college. I was going to be an attorney. No way I was being tied down to a baby.

Although, in a diary entry dated 9/29/1984, I did write the following:

"...and while I don't think I love Steve anymore, I know that if I ever got pregnant again, I would have it. I'll never have another abortion."

Steve? I thought it was Andy. Hm. What a difference a year makes.

Regardless, I think I had it pretty straight in my mind that I would never terminate another pregnancy. It's not that I didn't agree with the right to choose. I certainly did. I just knew that the next choice I made would be the choice to be a mother, whether planned or not. And so, I was careful. Careful with my body. Careful with my mind. Careful with who I entrusted them to.

In 1986, the Mets won the World Series. It was a time to rejoice! It was a drunken night! Beer glasses clinking everywhere! Strangers kissing strangers in absolute elation. The Mets won! New York celebrated...and so did I, by finally sleeping with my boyfriend of a year.

2 months later, I'm vomiting. I'm pregnant.

Our first time, and I am pregnant. It was also our last time. I broke up with him shortly after baseball season ended. Apparently, at 20 years old, I wasn't savvy enough to know that antibiotics can kill the effects of your birth control pills. I had had an upper respiratory infection during that time. No condoms were used. This was my boyfriend of a year, for goodness sake. And of course, AIDS was a million miles away from my 20 year old invincible mind.

I toyed with the idea of terminating my pregnancy. I toyed with the idea until it was no longer feasible for me to do so. I toyed with the idea of adoption. I toyed with it until the first time I felt the baby kick. I toyed with the idea of being a mother.

It scared the living shit out of me.

In July, 1987, I gave birth to my daughter. She literally saved my life. She put things in perspective for me. She reminded me of what my priorities were and that I could no longer be selfless or selfish. Sure, she put my law school plans on hold, but what she gave me in return was pure, unadulterated joy. She gave me unconditional love. She reminded me that there were other things more important in life than your next fix, the next guy you are going to conquer or the what the hottest new club is that week. And while my 21st birthday came, the one where you look forward to drinking legally, finally...I stayed at home, nursing my infant daughter.

She was the only one who was drinking legally that night.

My life continued and brought me my sons. Well thought out, well planned little boys. It also brought me face to face with the reality of losing a child. One child lived, the other one died. In the midst of mixed emotion, I tried to celebrate the life of one while mourning the death of the other. In the back of my mind, I thought about 15 year old me and the abortion I had.

Was this karma? Retribution for a juvenile error in judgment?

I poo-poo'ed the thought. No. My God was loving. If He were truly angry with me, He would have taken both my sons from me. And while my surviving son dangled dangerously close to the precipice of life and death...he survived and with that, allowed me to pack up 15 year old me and put her away again. She has been absolved. She can go back to being a little girl who made a mistake.

Fast foward to the year 2000. I had been dating the man who would become the future "hotband" for nearly a year. In the interim, I had been receiving harsh medical treatments for a condition I had at the time. I was sick constantly. I had toxic drugs pumped into my system. I was gaunt. I was fighting for my life. I was depressed.

And, once again, I was pregnant. Another cruel joke. Another decision between life and death. Mine...or the fetus in my womb who could one day be my child.

In this final pregnancy, there were no choices. We were advised by doctors to terminate this pregnancy.

"Birth defects," they told me matter of factly.

"My sons had birth defects," the defiant 15 year old shouted from within me, silencing the 33 year old confused woman she had become.

"Low survival rate," the nurses whispered in comforting, hushed tones.

"Your body is too weak," the future hotband said. "Please don't, baby."

"You could die," said my best friend.

Again. My body. My choice.

Over the years, I had chosen to abort a child. I had chosen to have a child as the result of an unwanted pregnancy. I chose to have my boys, fully knowing that they may die at birth and had the amazing fortune of keeping one of them in my life, while the other resides in my heart. And now, this time...I have the ability to save my own life. I have two existing, viable children who are alive and well. They needed me. I was all they both had in the entire world. I can't take a chance on losing my life and destroying theirs in the process.

Hand in hand, the future hotband and I walked into the hospital. We talked. We kissed. We cried. We loved one another.

We said goodbye to our baby.

Three years later, he had a vasectomy and I felt free for the first time in my reproductive life.

Is this commentary pro-abortion? No. What it is is a woman's story of choice, the ability to make decisions that affect my body and my life. A decision made that could have potentially left my children without their mother. A decision between what is, and what is yet to be.

It is about choice. My choice. And the ability for my daughter to be able to make those choices for herself one day, without animosity, shame or guilt. It is about self-preservation. It is about being responsible despite your dalliance with irresponsibility. It is about forgiving yourself. About letting go. About realizing that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes, we have to take fate into our own hands.

I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a sister. I am a daughter. I am a friend. I made three different choices with three different outcomes. Same woman. Same life.

I am a woman with a body, a mind and a soul. I own all three.

I should have the ability to use all three without burden, without peril, without fear. I should have the right to choose what develops within me, be it my thoughts or my child. And while I know that I will never have to face these decisions ever again, I love the fact that once upon a time, I could. They were my decisions to make. They were my choices. And I am willing to live with them.


Can't you?