Blog for Choice Day, 2007

(I'm having trouble making the link to Bush v. Choice, sponsors of Blog for Choice day, to work. So it is here.)

In case you don't know, I live in the Washington DC metropolitan area. And this day is the "March for Life" day. They are all over, babies bussed in with their nuns from parochial schools. But whatever deity they believe in must have a hell of a sense of humor, causing Roe v. Wade to be decided in January. Today the high was in the 20s with a layer of ice over snow on everything. It does my heart good.

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Choice is essential for a lot of reasons that are essayworthy, but the one closest to my heart is that it is my body, my mother's body, my daughter's body. I am old enough to know a time when abortion wasn't legal, when women died with some regularity obtaining what we call back-alley abortions. They are called that because somebody knew somebody who knew somebody who worked in a room in the lousy part of town. A pregnant woman went alone, no support and no help. The fee might have been small but was most likely equivalent to a month's rent, not easy to come up with. Yet women went. Some survived, knowing not to breathe a word to anybody except the next women who whispered "Do you know ..."

To many it seems long ago and far away. To me, it was yesterday.

I've never told anyone this story. Most of you don't know my gender, marital status, or anything much about me. But it is way past time to say what matters. I was one of the lucky ones. I was married with children and terrified of another pregnancy. Three children under five was enough to make any woman terrified of another pregnancy. I was a regular and loyal user of sometimes unreliable birth control.

And I was late. One day, two days. There were no over-the-counter tests. Three days. Four days. At which point I discovered that my decision had already been made, one of those things I didn't know about myself until it was tested. Remember, abortion was illegal unless the life of the mother was in danger. I asked everybody I knew. And I found that if two psychiatrists testified that I would commit suicide if forced to carry a child to term, I could obtain a legal abortion.

Seven days, eight days. Through very good friends and with no disclosure to my then husband I lined up one psychiatrist. And had an appointment with a second. Day 12, my flow began. Maybe it was one of those little miscarriages or just a quirk in my system.

That day in 1973 when Roe v Wade was decided I knew I'd never go through that again. Nor would anyone else. I'd do almost anything to keep it that way.