That Dreaded "A" Word!

At a recent meeting of spiritually minded professionals, a young business owner asked me what I do for a living. I used to tread slowly, explaining my previous job as a small business owner in the real estate industry. This time, I decided to cut out my back-story and just say it.

“I help women who have had abortions and feel alone or ashamed to feel supported and excited to get out of bed in the morning,” I declared.

I could see this business owner’s eyes pop as she took in my words. “Wow,” she said. “That word really triggers me. I’ve had two abortions and have no regrets. I'm fine with it. But, I'm having a hard time dealing with that word . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Ah, that word! The “A” word. 

This word sparked controversy on a national level this week as well. In its thirty year history, there has never been a TED talk on abortion. If we can't talk about it publicly or privately, how will we ever come to terms with that word?

I am awed by women who are so sure of themselves and their own self-worth that they can make this choice and go on to talk about it. A stunning example to me is New York Times best-selling author Cheryl Strayed. In her poignant and riveting memoir, Wild, Cheryl reveals her personal abortion story. Her disclosure is short and sweet with no further mention of it or of any consequences. Aspects of the book that make it such a compelling read is her deep insight and transparency about this subject and her life. Maybe she has more baggage from her abortion than she lets on, but having seen her speak in person, I believe she authentically shares her biggest struggles in her book and that those struggles are resolved.

Based on my experience, Cheryl Strayed’s togetherness is unusual. I have found that most women were raised with a code of values that fostered judgment and shame, as I was, as they struggled in dealing with their choice. Despite all of their self-talk, daily they muster up the courage to remind themselves they did what they had to do and they try to be at peace with their decision.

It is for these women that I write this blog. Insomnia and deep feelings of loneliness or numbness may go on for months or years. These women cannot find it in themselves to talk to their partners, closest friends, or family. They feel unsafe or fearful and are biding their time until the day they miraculously no longer feel guilty. For some of these women, anti-depressants may be the preferred method of coping.

These are my people. I relate to them because of the "A" word that people do not want to talk about, either face to face or in public venues.  It is that "A" word that connects us. Without it, the clarity gained by mutual understanding and experience, does not exist.

 

“Abortion” is the clearest and most descriptive word there is for our experience. Webster's has no other synonyms for it. My sweet and beautiful grandmother couldn't use the word ten years ago when she shared her experience with me. Isn't it time we got real with each other?

For those who feel secure and safe in their choice, I hold no judgment. I applaud them and hope that together we can make a difference, create a caring community, and offer some hope to those who have not yet made peace  with their decision.

 Abortion defines the experience that we had, but it does not define who we are.  We are one-third of American women under the age of 45. As we become more comfortable with this word, we not only heal ourselves, but we can heal the world.

 

Namaste.

Why I Write About Abortion - My Inspiration, My Confession

I was pregnant with my youngest child in the summer of 2004 when my grandmother died.

The hard, personal truth she revealed the last time I saw her changed the course of my life completely.

 

I doubt either of us knew how those few moments laid the foundation for who I am and what I do now. We shared a moment of grace that I did not recognize at the time, but which now gives me great strength of purpose.

Mor-Mor, Swedish for mother of mother, was 93 years old that summer when she fell, knocked unconscious. When we heard about this fall, my sister and I - the East Coast contingent of our family -  drove the five or so hours from Massachusetts to New Jersey as quickly as possible.  

We must have been a sight to behold waddling in to her hospital room to visit her. My sister and I were both pregnant, her second child, my third, and due with our babies in just a few months.

The news was good: Mor-Mor was resting comfortably.  She looked well, spoke clearly and intelligently. As relief settled in, we began playing gin rummy and chatted.

As I sat on the bed snuggling with her, my grandmother started to rub my pregnant belly. My baby boy did not disappoint. He gave little kicks here and there to let us know he was indeed present.

Without a change in tone or demeanor, Mor-Mor then shared with us a story I had never heard from her before.


"I want to tell you girls something," she began, still stroking my tight belly. "It was a long time ago, before your mother was born. It was after your aunt was born, and I found myself pregnant. Times were hard. It was the Depression, you know. Your aunt was sick a lot, and well, I had to make a choice.. . . . . " Her eyes were dimmed as her voice faded and she stared into the corner of the room. She seemed distant, removed, alone.

I did not know what to say. I felt her sadness, fear and anxiety. I did my best not to show the surprise I was feeling. I snuggled tighter and tried to reassure her. "It's okay Mor-Mor, it's okay." I hoped my words made a difference for her these seventy years later. I knew she needed to tell her story as she prepared for the end of her life. It never crossed my mind to share with her my own experience - I was still stuck in my own shame and fear. And then, I never had the chance to.
 

My grandmother died three weeks later. That hospital visit was the last time I saw her.
 

 
Years later, I would realize that moment changed my life.

My grandmother was probably reaching out for assurance in part because she was afraid of death, afraid of what awaited her on the other side now that she was so close to being there. And I, rather than tell her about my abortion, rather than tell her she was not alone, had chosen to hold tight to my truth and merely mumbled words that at the time, I myself did not believe. How was having an abortion ever okay? Still deep in denial about the truth of my own experience, I failed miserably at helping a woman I dearly treasured.

How did my life change? I do everything I can to let other women know what I never told my grandmother, what I wished I had told her. I shared my story in the anthology Pebbles on the Pond Wave 2 (http://pebblesinthepondbook.com). I write this blog. I want to let women know they are not alone. There are millions of us who, for different reasons and at different ages in our lives, have had abortions. As we grow older and review our lives, we may have new questions, as I suspect my grandmother had. Did I make the right choice? What will happen to me when I die? Can I be at peace with the choice I made?

I write about living well after abortion to honor my grandmother and to remind women that one moment from our past does not define who we are and what our life means. My grandmother lived a hard life, but she showed strength and courage in living it and loving those around her. Her sharing that painful part of her past only deepened my love for this woman I will always cherish.

Why do I write about abortion? Mor-Mor.

 

Namaste.