During my third year of medical school, I got pregnant. It was not the time for my partner and me to have children, so we chose to proceed with an abortion. My menses had been irregular, I was not showing, and I  didn’t have any common signs or symptoms of pregnancy, so I did not find out I was pregnant until I was 11 weeks along, when I took a pregnancy test on a whim. The state I was in at the time had a Planned Parenthood close by, and I sought care there (thank you college town!). The staff was supportive, and although I had to walk through protestors carrying signs with images of fetuses, I felt safe and attended my appointment alone (my partner was finishing a clinical rotation out of state). I was also blessed to have financial resources to afford the abortion, as I did not feel comfortable telling my family about the procedure. In the waiting room, I read stories others had shared before their procedures and some of them broke my heart. They shared shame, guilt, and stigma associated with the procedure. They shared grief, sadness, joy for the services and for friends, and the real economic challenges associated with bringing a child into this world. It was humbling.

The procedure itself was unremarkable, however, the practitioner kept telling me to “hold still” and “stop moving,” as if I were in control of that at the time. I asked a nurse to hold my hand during the painful parts and she did, through my death grip and all. They gave me medications, but I think the adrenaline negated it all. At the end of the procedure, I spent a few minutes in the room with others who were finished, eating crackers and drinking 7 Up. No one spoke. I was supposed to get a ride home, but my ride had a childcare emergency so I ended up taking my own car home.

To this day, many years later, I am beyond grateful for the services provided, the dedication of Planned Parenthood to remain an advocate for the choices of individuals, and to my body for going through this and still feeling loved and honored.