By: Reese Scott

The first time I was pregnant I didn’t know until I was almost ten weeks in. The second time I was pregnant I didn’t know until I was 12 weeks pregnant. I can hear the chorus now:

“You idiot.”

“Were you hoping for a miscarriage?”

“Did you not learn how to tell time?”

“Well if one if you dies, it should be you”

What I found most strange about this is that it wasn’t just men. For some reason I would have imagined it would be men thinking this not women. For someone who has a Doctorate in Women Studies, earned a full scholarship to Smith, I realized how wrong I was.

I was doing something wrong. Not once. Not twice. Sadly twice would have been wonderful. Instead of being given a sentence for life, I was naive enough to think that women would understand. For most of my life I was under the belief that there was some unity between women. I was eighteen when I lost my virginity and, unlike most women, I was lucky it was by choice. So when I became pregnant I truly didn’t know. I learned the greatest lesson in my life. Nobody cares enough to care. Eight weeks sounds like a long time. But for someone whose periods appear without any consistency, it wasn’t strange that I hadn’t had my period. In fact the only reason I found out I was pregnant was by mistake. I went to my doctor because had the flu for more than a week. My doctor thought it would be a good idea to get my blood taken just to cross anything out.

The morning I got the call from her office, I was told in a cold voice that the doctor wanted to see me right away. If I were looking backward, I could have put the pieces together and still not understood. When I walked into the doctor’s office, it was 11:15. My appointment wasn’t until 11:30. When I first arrived at her office, I was the only one there. But then, one by one, someone would come in, sit next to me, and then I would watch them go into the doctor’s office. When I finally saw my doctor it was almost four. I remember walking down the hall to her office. It felt like I was walking to my personal execution.

I sat in her office for another forty-five minutes. I could hear my doctor talking outside the room. Quickly the talking turned to laughter, and she was still laughing when she walked into the room. She tried to stop her laughter, which made it only worse. For someone who was told to come in that day it was impossible not to imagine the worst. Cancer ran in my family. A short half-life for most of the women on both sides of my family. The Doctor sat across from me. Instead of talking, she just looked at me. It felt like hours until she finally opened up my paperwork and told me I was pregnant. I had been there for almost five hours and when she told me, I was more concerned about how she was talking to me than what she was saying. When I walked out of her office I knew it was the last time I would see her. Not because it was my choice. No. It was the doctor’s. It’s amazing how people can use the same words and they can have nothing to do with another. Every word that came out of my doctor’s mouth was easily translated to “Idiot,” “Typical,” “Girls today,” “You deserve what you get.”

The one thing I will never be able to forget is she automatically expected me to have an abortion. I remember when she used the word. It was as if the child I was now carrying inside me meant nothing if I were to abort it. I decided to keep my child that day. If I had trusted my heart, I would have walked out of her office, waited till they closed and burned it down. Though that isn’t consistent what my doctorate taught me. When people hear the word “Planned Parenthood” the response is two fold. One is people of weak character, who use abortion as birth control and are any color but white. But in the end we “all do it” for the same reason. We are all selfish.

The next morning when I woke up I knew what I was going to do and where I was going to do it. When I was in the shower I felt like I was trying to be clean. I washed my skin so deeply it looked as though I had taken the skin off. My boyfriend was not coming over. I didn’t have an interview at some foremost college. No. I was getting an abortion.

Walking across town to Planned Parenthood at 6:30 in the morning only took twenty minutes. But that twenty minutes lasted longer than all the memories I had for my entire life. In those twenty minutes I discovered something so strange, so obvious, that it had been staring at me in face. Each magazine article, each rally, each Planned Parenthood sign were lies. They were not there for the reason we thought they would be. I tried to come up with every possible excuse for why they did this. Was it because it would cost too much money? Was it because this message would be too difficult for people to understand? But in the end none of those added up to anything. In the end there was no excuse. The message I am talking about is this: Planned Parenthood by definition means only one thing. “A Women’s Choice.” Three words that could be painted onto any meaning. So what did it truly mean?

“Come to Planned Parenthood we abort for fun.”

Would it be so hard to add what it really means. That every woman who has abortion is not having fun. In fact, unknown to the majority, it does permanent damage to one’s mind and it does permanent damage to one’s body. Because as hard as we try and as intelligent as we wish we were, in the end the difference between what having an abortion does to ones body and mind are not separate. They are the same.

When I walked into the office. I was no longer a person. I was a number. I looked at the walls. They were white. The type of white that one has trouble breathing in. No one looked at anyone. It was if everyone were there alone. And sadly they were even if there was someone there for them. What happened after I got my abortion no longer matters. How can it when abortions themselves don’t mean anything either.

The morning I got the call from her office, I was told in a cold voice that the doctor wanted to see me right away. If I were looking backward, I could have put the pieces together and still not understood.

When I walked into the doctor’s office, it was 11:15. My appointment wasn’t until 11:30. When I first arrived at her office, I was the only one there. But then, one by one, someone would come in, sit next to me, and then I would watch them go into the doctor’s office. When I finally saw my doctor it was almost four. I remember walking down the hall to her office. It felt like I was walking to my personal execution.

I sat in her office for another forty-five minutes. I could hear my doctor talking outside the room. Quickly the talking turned to laughter, and she was still laughing when she walked into the room. She tried to stop her laughter, which made it only worse. For someone who was told to come in that day it was impossible not to imagine the worst. Cancer ran in my family. A short half-life for most of the women on both sides of my family.

The Doctor sat across from me. Instead of talking, she just looked at me. It felt like hours until she finally opened up my paperwork and told me I was pregnant. I had been there for almost five hours and when she told me, I was more concerned about how she was talking to me then what she was saying. When I walked out of her office I knew it was the last time I would see her. Not because it was my choice. No. It was the doctor’s. It’s amazing how people can use the same words and they can have nothing to do with another. Every word that came out of my doctor’s mouth was easily translated to “Idiot,” “Typical,” “Girls today,” “You deserve what you get.”

The one thing I will never be able to forget is she automatically expected me to have an abortion. I remember when she used the word. It was as if the child I was now carrying inside me meant nothing if I were to abort it. I decided to keep my child that day. If I had trusted my heart, I would have walked out of her office, waited till they closed and burned it down. Though that isn’t consistent what my doctorate taught me.

When people hear the word “Planned Parenthood” the response is two fold. One is people of weak character, who use abortion as birth control and are any color but white. But in the end we “all do it” for the same reason. We are all selfish.

The next morning when I woke up I knew what I was going to do and where I was going to do it. When I was in the shower I felt like I was trying to be clean. I washed my skin so deeply it looked as though I had taken the skin off.

My boyfriend was not coming over. I didn’t have an interview at some foremost college. No. I was getting an abortion.

Walking across town to Planned Parenthood at 6:30 in the morning only took twenty minutes. But that twenty minutes lasted longer than all the memories I had for my entire life. In those twenty minutes I discovered something so strange, so obvious, that it had been staring at me in face. Each magazine article, each rally, each Planned Parenthood sign were lies. They were not there for the reason we thought they would be.

I tried to come up with every possible excuse for why they did this. Was it because it would cost too much money? Was it because this message would be too difficult for people to understand? But in the end none of those added up to anything. In the end there was no excuse.

The message I am talking about is this: Planned Parenthood by definition means only one thing. “A Women’s Choice.” Three words that could be painted onto any meaning. So what did it truly mean?

“Come to Planned Parenthood we abort for fun.”

Would it be so hard to add what it really means. That every woman who has abortion is not having fun. In fact, unknown to the majority, it does permanent damage to one’s mind and it does permanent damage to one’s body. Because as hard as we try and as intelligent as we wish we were, in the end the difference between what having an abortion does to ones body and mind are not separate. They are the same.

When I walked into the office. I was no longer a person. I was a number. I looked at the walls. They were white. The type of white that one has trouble breathing in. No one looked at anyone. It was if everyone were there alone. And sadly they were even if there was someone there for them.

What happened after I got my abortion no longer matters. How can it when abortions themselves don’t mean anything either.