“It happens,” she says, when I finally stop crying. “It happens. Now let’s see how far along you are so that we can talk about your options.”
She has to do an ultrasound to determine how far along my pregnancy is. In TV shows and movies, this just involves the doctor rubbing a device over the patient’s stomach, but the nurse practitioner tells me that my pregnancy isn’t far enough along to see this way, and that we have to do a transvaginal ultrasound. So I have to take off my jeans and underwear—though this time I do get to keep my sweater on—and lie back down on the paper-covered table. She takes out this weird penis-shaped device and rolls a condom down over it, then squirts the tip of it with some clear jelly from a bottle that looks just like a mustard container.
“Relax,” she says, and I try, but I see with a jolt in my brain Seth’s vibrator again, another corded device, another rubbery head.
There’s a monitor, like a computer screen, next to my head.
“You don’t have to look at it if you don’t want to,” she says. But I do look.
It’s a black screen with blue lines, and as she maneuvers the probe inside my vagina, I see the inside of myself, my uterus I guess, something I’ve never actually given any thought to.
“There’s the pregnancy,” she says, and she types something with her other hand on the keyboard attached to the screen. Some numbers pop up along the side of the image.
“About five weeks’ gestation,” she says, and she pulls out the probe, strips it of its condom, and puts it away. She hands me some tissues to wipe between my legs. I sit up.
“That’s impossible,” I say. “I’ve only missed one period. How can I be more than a month pregnant?”
“We count the pregnancy from the first day of your last period,” she says. “The embryo has only been developing for three weeks, but we count the two weeks before that, as well.”
That sounds like pretty stupid math to me, but whatever. “So it’s only been growing for three weeks,” I say.
“Yes.”
Then they put me in a room with a counselor to discuss my options.
I have options. I can continue the pregnancy. I can get an abortion.
“I don’t want a baby,” I say. I’m done crying now, and I absolutely know the answer to this question. I know it more surely than any question I’ve ever answered, ever.
“Okay,” says the counselor. “This is California, so you aren’t required to have parental permission to move forward, but we do recommend that you consider having someone with you. It’s not a good idea to process all these feelings on your own. Is there someone safe you could talk to?”
I think about Louise, and how she already knew that Seth had dumped me, even though he never actually said the words. I think about my mother, and all the times she put away her crystal tumbler, all the babies she wanted but couldn’t have.
“I have someone,” I say, though the person who springs to mind surprises me.
The counselor, Angie, tells me about my abortion choices, which is news to me, that there are choices. I’ve seen the old movies, and I’m already prepared to put my feet back in those awful stirrups, I’m ready to let the nurse practitioner crank me open and scrape inside.
“This early in the pregnancy,” Angie says, “you can choose to have either an in-clinic or a medical abortion.”
I’ve been staring at the orange fish she has tattooed on her forearm, counting its scales, but at this I look up. “What’s the difference?”
“An in-clinic abortion requires inserting a speculum into your vagina, injecting numbing medication, and then dilating your cervix. Then the practitioner will insert a tube through your cervix into your uterus. A suction device will be used to empty your uterus. The entire procedure should take about five or ten minutes.”
“What’s the other choice?”
“A medical abortion. This involves taking two medications—one here in the clinic, called Mifepristone, another at home, called Misoprostol, twenty-four hours later. The abortion will begin after you take the first pill. Mifepristone blocks the hormone progesterone, which your body makes to support the pregnancy. Misoprostol causes the uterus to empty.”
“I want to do that one,” I say.
“The medical abortion?”
I nod.
“Okay,” she says, and she pulls a pamphlet out of her desk, handing it to me. It’s all about abortions, of course. “It’s normal if you feel hot after taking the first pill. And we strongly recommend that you have someone to support you for a few hours after you take the second medication. You may have some cramping, and it can be intense. For some women, it’s quite painful. Women who have experienced miscarriages liken this experience to that. You might also have nausea and diarrhea.”
“How much will I bleed?”
“That’s different from woman to woman,” Angie says. “Some women experience heavy bleeding and expel large clots and tissue, and other women report their bleeding to be about the same as the heaviest day of their period.” My periods have always been light and short, with no really painful cramps or anything. I wonder if that means that my abortion will be easy, too. My abortion. Two words I never thought together before.
I flip through the pamphlet. There are images of women consulting with other women in white medical jackets. There’s a white woman, and a black woman, and a Latina. Equal-opportunity abortion.
“Most women abort within four to five hours after taking the second medication,” Angie says. “For some women, it takes longer, up to a few days. And it’s important that you don’t use tampons until your next period, and avoid intercourse for at least a week.”
I laugh, a quick unhappy bark. “No problem there,” I say. Then I look up.
Angie’s face is kind. She’s not smiling or frowning, but her brown hands are resting on the desk side by side, flat and calm. Her short dark hair arches back from her face in a wave. Her eyes are dark, too, and they look straight at me. “Do you have any questions?” she asks.
“No,” I say. Then, almost immediately, “Have you ever had an abortion?”
Jesus. That’s not the kind of question you ask someone.
But Angie doesn’t look offended. “Yes,” she says. “I’m not really supposed to talk about my own experiences, but yes. Twice. Once the kind you’re having, with the Abortion Pill, and once before that, the surgical kind.”
I don’t ask why, but Angie smiles like she knows I’m wondering.
“The first time, I was a little younger than you. My boyfriend and I were sexually active, but the condom we were using broke. I should have come to a place like this and gotten the Morning After Pill, but I didn’t even know it existed. By the time I admitted to myself that my period was never going to come, I was thirteen weeks pregnant. Too far along for the Abortion Pill. The second time was just last year.”
“Oh,” I say. Then, “Were you sorry? Are you sorry?”